Tell Me Our Story

In an instant, Jonathan was running. He pushed through people, dropping the water so he could move faster.

Still blindfolded, O’Hara stood and turned towards his dad.

Jonathan’s feet pounded over pavement, sending shocks through his body. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing; what he should be doing. But he called out to catch O’Hara’s attention. Pull it towards him.

The worst thing . . . the worst thing would be for O’Hara to reach out to his dad and be ignored . . .

Mr O’Hara jerked his head up at Jonathan’s approach and his expression tightened. He hooked a hand around Ben’s nape and steered him quickly toward the market stalls.

Jonathan’s feet hit the steps with solid smacks; sympathy wrenched through him as O’Hara bowed his head.

He stumbled back toward the bench, but missed and fell on his arse. The momentum was sharp and his head whacked against a wooden post.

Jonathan leapt up the stairs and half scooped O’Hara into his arms, cataloguing every inch of him. No blood, no head wound. Just sniffing, still wearing the damn blindfold. Jonathan’s heart pounded with something tender and sad. O’Hara had put his trust in him . . .

Heaviness filled his gut.

“Jonathan?”

“I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to know he was here.”

“He sounds just the same.”

Jonathan lifted gentle fingers to those high cheekbones. O’Hara’s breath stuttered.

He pinched at the scarf to roll it over his eyes—

“Don’t. Just . . . not here.”

Silk slid over his skin as he drew back his fingers. He exhaled slowly, and O’Hara’s lips quirked at one edge. “Could you maybe tell Savvy to stop filming?”

Savvy! Jonathan swung around, guilty that he could so easily forget—

They were gone.

Jonathan scanned the crowds and . . . there, jogging over the central causeway, moving with purpose. No doubt they’d spotted Nate. He closed his eyes on that emotional quicksand and pursued the more complicated onslaught invading his chest as he looked at O’Hara.

“Let’s get you home,” he said.

He stood and helped O’Hara to his feet, whereby he immediately buckled against Jonathan’s side.

Jonathan braced his waist. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” A laugh. “I think I might have bruised my leg in a few places trying to find the bench.”

“Where exactly?”

“My thigh and a bit higher. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Hm. It will be.” Jonathan slipped an arm under O’Hara’s knees and shoulders and hefted him.

“Jonathan!” Shocked laughter. “What are you doing?”

“. . .”

“You can’t seriously carry me home!”

Jonathan moved.

“Oh my God.” O’Hara wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling himself close, easing the load.

Jonathan trained hard to be strong, athletic, and he tested those limits as he strode through the market and down two curving streets toward his cottage.

“Thank you for rescuing me.”

“I shouldn’t have left you.”

A shrug. “I would’ve run into him sooner or later.”

He readjusted O’Hara into a more secure hold and continued his striding onward progress.

O’Hara was quiet for all of a minute, and then he ducked his face against Jonathan’s neck. “I’m sorry.”

“Shh. No more talking.”

His muscles were shaking with effort, but he carried O’Hara up the path, over the threshold, and to the living room couch.

O’Hara lay back against a cushion breathing hard, like he’d been the one exerting himself, to which Jonathan shook his head. “Sorry that was so strenuous.”

O’Hara swatted at him and missed.

“Blindfold off.”

Again, O’Hara hesitated. “It’s just, my eyes will be all swollen.”

“A minute. I’ll bring a wash cloth.” Jonathan warmed one in the bathroom, wrung it out and returned. His last step faltered. Blindfold creases marked the bridge of O’Hara’s nose and along his brow, but that wasn’t what arrested Jonathan’s attention.

O’Hara’s eyes were swollen—and not the kind that came from fabric irritation.

He’d been crying.

Water dripped onto the floor as Jonathan’s fingers tightened on the cloth.

O’Hara smiled sheepishly. “I didn’t want the town to see.”

Jonathan sat on the edge of the couch and carefully wiped over the bridge of his nose, his brow . . . “Your father doesn’t deserve your tears.”

O’Hara let him clean his face, but his eyelashes had lowered over his reddened eyes. “They weren’t for him.”

The washcloth stilled on a flushed cheek.

Jonathan drew back.

O’Hara swallowed thickly, still not looking at him. “Your mum and dad were always so nice to me. They performed in Sydney a few years ago. It was shortly before . . . They didn’t hate me like they should have. They took me out to lunch. They told me everything about you. They said they hoped maybe one day . . . I’d come back and visit.”

The wet cloth rested on Jonathan’s leg, seeping damply into his pants.

“I know.”

O’Hara looked up, frowning.

“They told me. They told me everything they’d learned about you, too.” A thick, morose quiet settled between them. “They were sitting right here. I was staring out the window at the fretwork trimming the veranda.” Jonathan pushed to his feet.