Tell Me Our Story

Three steps onto the causeway, Jonathan halted, causing O’Hara to stumble. He steadied him quickly.

“What’s going on?” O’Hara sing-songed, unworried.

Jonathan’s grip tightened.

Ahead of them, crossing from the other side, was O’Hara’s dad. The sleeves of his checked flannel shirt were rolled to the elbow, and he gripped the legs of four-year-old Ben on his back. Dark locks, green eyes, bright cheeks. They both took after their dad.

Jonathan didn’t often bump into Mr O’Hara, but every time he taught Ben, or read to him at the library, Mr O’Hara was never far from his mind. How long until he gives up on this boy too? Until Ben is left as lost as David?

Mr O’Hara glanced toward them and hurriedly away again.

Jonathan clenched his jaw, chest rioting. How dare he pretend not to recognize his own son!

Another light laugh near his ear. “Why are we stopping?”

Jonathan turned them around before Ben saw him and called out. He’d cut this part of the video. O’Hara didn’t bring a laptop, so Jonathan would be doing the work on his. He could edit it without O’Hara ever having to know.

“Jonathan?”

“This bridge is too full.” He cleared the husk out of his voice. “One false move and we’ll end up in the stream.”

“What? You don’t want to get wet with me?”

“. . .” Jonathan’s gaze snapped upward, hitting Savvy who was backtracking with the camera, an odd look on their face.

He ushered O’Hara to the second, narrower bridge downstream. A nervous shiver entered his step as the shadows of the stone arch they passed under tried to suck him into a memory, but Jonathan suppressed it.

O’Hara stopped moving, smile fading. He pulled away from Jonathan, feeling for the rail and then down the latticed spokes where hundreds of couples had locked their padlocks.

“We’re on Courtship Crossover.”

“Yes.”

Air crackled and O’Hara folded himself into a hug, rubbing his arms. He leaned against the rail, turning his face toward the sunshine, black fabric as tight as ever around his eyes.

Jonathan side-eyed Savvy, who’d stopped before the arch, their eyes swinging from him to O’Hara and back again in confusion.

He cleared his throat. “It was . . . the best way over.”

O’Hara was quiet a few moments, and then he kicked off the rail and stepped in the direction of Jonathan’s voice. “Did we pass through the arch at the same time?”

“I went first and pulled you after.”

O’Hara paused.

Jonathan tasted the edges of the unbidden memory pushing at his restraints. He steeled himself against it.

A warm palm skated over his bicep, his forearm, paused over the watch. If you need assurance.

Each breath stung through his tight throat.

Their palms grazed and fingers linked loosely through his. O’Hara’s head jerked toward the other side of the bridge; his clutch tightened. “Do you hear that?”

In the distance, violin music shivered through the air.

Jonathan straightened. Breezes pushed more of the melody over them and his fingers became hooks around O’Hara’s as he dragged him hurriedly towards it.

A crowd had gathered around the large paved area in front of the amphitheatre, where brave couples waltzed to the music of a small orchestra. Violins and bass. It thrummed through Jonathan, pulling and pulling until the ache that had begun on the crossover consumed him.

This piece.

Johann Strauss.

The couple in red and black became his parents, moving elegantly, in perfect harmony with the music.

He was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen again, at the side-lines, watching them mesmerise judges, catching the glint in their eyes as they contra checked and shared a quiet smile . . .

A gentle rub came to his arm, and Jonathan softened the choking hold he had around O’Hara’s other hand.

He looked at O’Hara blindfolded next to him, lips tugged down at one side. He knew. He understood.

After three years, the pain wasn’t always there. Not every day, not anymore. But this music had the power to heighten the loss of that unconditional love.

“I’m sorry,” O’Hara murmured.

Jonathan shut his eyes and he saw . . . not just his parents. He saw O’Hara’s dad and the half-brother he barely knew. Jonathan’s parents were gone, but O’Hara’s family were too. What did a heartbeat matter when it didn’t beat for you anymore?

The music culminated and applause warmed the air. Those few who’d dared to dance left the floor laughing. The musicians rested their instruments and the crowd started to disperse—

Jonathan’s heart jumped right into his throat. He pulled O’Hara onto the floor and called out. “One more. Please.”

His impassioned outburst drew the attention of those surrounding the dancefloor, and most of all O’Hara. Fingers squeezed his watch. But that only made the ticking louder and his desperation grew. He shook.

“My parents loved to waltz. Please. One more.”

They looked at one another, smiled sadly, and picked up their instruments.

“Jonathan?” O’Hara whispered. “What are you doing?”

“You still remember how, don’t you?”