Tell Me Our Story

Something. He needed to do something.

He reopened the hallway door and called, “Savvy, send it to me right now.”

They looked up from their phone at the front door. “Already messaged it to O’Hara.”

“Ohh, we have work to do, Bastet. Come, you can curl up in my lap.”

Jonathan stared and, when O’Hara caught his eye, moved swiftly for his laptop.

He seated himself at the table.

He wrote.

He didn’t know what.

His attention kept being stolen by . . . “Bastet”. The wee cat kept stretching up and tapping O’Hara’s wristband, sometimes pulling his phone down a few inches. O’Hara chastised gently and resumed his reading, knowing very well Gingernut would attack again.

After the third time, O’Hara took off the band and gave it to her. She rolled around the couch with it while O’Hara’s eyes quietly soaked in Savvy’s assignment. He paused every so often to tap on his screen, then continued on.

Jonathan looked at his laptop and deleted a page of empty space.

He shut the lid, pinched his nose, and stood.

O’Hara didn’t look over, but he said very softly, “Bed time? At eight thirty?”

Jonathan pressed his lips together. “I need a drink.”

The bar was full; karaoke and a cheerfully drunk crowd livened the country-themed space. Jonathan sat at the bar, two drinks down, a third pinched between his fingers.

O’Hara hadn’t followed him out. Not right away. But, as expected, now he was here; Jonathan could feel it like a lick of frost curling around his nape.

O’Hara seated himself at the barstool to his right, waved the bartender over and whispered his order in their ear.

Only when his drink came did he turn to Jonathan. “I sent back Savvy’s assignment with comments. It was generally excellent.”

“They excel at school.”

“Like you did.”

Like we did. “What was the assignment?”

“Analysis of a Greek myth. Eros and Psyche.”

A reluctant nod.

“Once they’ve revised it you should read over it too.”

Jonathan looked into his glass and downed its contents, waiting for it to loosen his limbs. Unknot the tension in his shoulders.

O’Hara’s gaze shot to his, a long, measuring look, and—three drinks hit his empty stomach hard. It was too crowded in here. Too warm. He peeled open his jacket zipper.

O’Hara tipped his drink over and scurried for a napkin to mop it up.

Jonathan took over, batting O’Hara’s hand away.

“What did I do? The last time I was drunk?”

O’Hara glanced away. “Forgotten now.”

“Liar.”

O’Hara cupped his chin and gazed at him. “What do you think you did?”

Jonathan soaked up the last of the spilled drink, closing his eyes briefly.

Gentle laughter. “You didn’t do anything embarrassing.”

He’d done something though. Or O’Hara wouldn’t keep brushing it aside like this.

“Well. Not too embarrassing.”

“Just tell me, O’Hara.”

An uncertain gaze.

“. . . I’m waiting.”

“Not while you’re drunk.”

“I’m not . . .” But he was. Not as drunk, true. But enough that he wasn’t fully in control.

A flash of ginger caught his eye, and not the cuteness of the neighbour’s cat. Hannah. He gritted out, “Your fan is eying you.”

Her red hair cascaded around her shoulders and over her blue dress. She waved. O’Hara slipped off his chair and melted toward her with a laugh and another hug. Two sets of sparkling, happy eyes drifted in his direction.

Jonathan didn’t look away. He’d come here for this reunion.

Hannah’s head tilted and her smile sparkled as she laughed. A new song started, and immediately O’Hara twisted her to its beat . . .

Jonathan slipped out of the bar.

Done. He’d cemented the lines.

It was raining outside. Hard, lashing rain. He tipped his face into it, letting it run down his neck under his jacket. His hands were balled tight at his sides, blunt nails biting into him. His steps ate up the pavement, furious and frustrated.

An unexpected yell from behind him. The urgency of it . . .

Jonathan glanced over his shoulder.

O’Hara caught up to him with a splash in a puddle that arced dirty water over their legs. Furrowed brow and dangerously glittering eyes bored into his. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

O’Hara stepped closer, jaw clicking. Rain smattered over his eyes, his cheeks. He wasn’t wearing a jacket.

A dizzy wave rolled over Jonathan, and he angled his back towards the worst of the rain. “Go back to your fan.”

“She’s not my fan.”

“. . .”

“We were talking about you. She waved me over because she was nervous. She only invited me in the hopes you’d come along too.”

“Me.”

“Yes, Jonathan Hart. You have fans.”

“. . .”

“That’s a good thing, you know.”

His vision swam and something acidic shot up his tight throat as he strode past. Something . . . heavy was lurking in his belly. “You wanted to set me up with her?”

“Nonononono.” O’Hara chased him, more puddles exploding underfoot. Jonathan stared at him, hard, and lengthened his gait.

O’Hara caught up to him, grabbed his wrist. “I was just . . . checking—”