Tell Me Our Story

When the roses were back in the quiver, mostly intact, O’Hara eyed their horses, happily munching grass. “I know when you fall off the horse, you . . .” Get back on it.

Jonathan’s chest lurched painfully. Breezes bent the grass, turning the landscape into an ocean of shifting greens.

O’Hara’s shiny black horse munched on long tufts. Jonathan saw his wariness as he gazed at the animal. There was a subtle shift in his weight, from one boot to the other. He looked uncomfortable as he strapped the quiver to his back.

Jonathan understood the urge to retreat—

O’Hara’s lips twisted into a determined smile.

Lungs constricted on a tight breath, and Jonathan was shaking as he glided a hand down O’Hara’s arm.

“Jonathan?”

Shivers tortured him under his skin.

O’Hara let out a slow whisper that teased his jaw, “Why are you—”

“I’ll take yours,” he croaked, leading O’Hara to his silver bay. “She’s steady. Ride her back.”

He cupped his hands for O’Hara’s foot and boosted him up and into the saddle, moving back only when O’Hara’s toes were in the stirrups and his hands were steady on the reins.

Jonathan caught their easily-spooked friend and mounted. Again, when he looked over, O’Hara’s eyes were riveted on him in open fascination.

“What?”

O’Hara came up beside him. “You look good on top of all that wild grace.”

Jonathan side-eyed his costumed, dimpling Eros and a small, frustrated laugh rippled free. “Impossible.”

“Seriously, though. I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

O’Hara kept running his gaze from his helmet to his boot. “That you’re good at riding.”

“I forgot too,” Jonathan said.

“Forgot what?”

Jonathan threw him a look. “That you aren’t.”

O’Hara at Nelson airport terminal grinning around a coffee cup with HEART scrawled on its side. He jiggles the cup, leather wristband slipping out from behind his sleeve.

Made it through another round! Now it’s back to Oz until the next challenge. I can’t wait! Oh, and to a special someone: Thanks for letting me finish your coffee! Best one I’ve ever had.

Chapter Twelve

Social Challenge 7: Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

Jonathan had been restless since Sunday evening. He worked his shifts at the library, ran his dance lessons, rowed three times around Soulmate Island . . . and still burned with energy. It needed an outlet.

He held Bastet—Gingernut!—and petted her soft head as he paced his living room. Savvy looked up from the television and threw him a questioning look. “Kinda hard to concentrate when you’re so . . . distracted.”

He perched on the arm of the couch.

Three minutes later, he was pacing again.

“Why don’t you just book a flight? Spend the weekend in Sydney this time?”

Jonathan spun sharply; Gingernut’s purring intensified under firmer strokes.

Savvy paused their show and picked up their phone.

“Jacquie? Can you crash at our place for like, four days? Until Sunday night? Jonathan needs to go to Sydney.”

He sucked in a breath. He couldn’t just run off on a whim. Couldn’t leave Savvy here.

A flat no teetered on the tip of his tongue—

His chest seized. He . . . couldn’t let it fall.

Jacquie let out an excited squee. “Anytime! Thank God he’s doing something!”

Amidst giggles, Jonathan stole the phone and faced his ex. “I . . . can’t ask you for this.” The hope in his voice, though. It was a visceral thing, reflected back in the small square at the bottom of the screen: the twitching curve of one side of his lips. He schooled it quickly. “I need your help for the semi-finals, should we make it so far.”

Jacquie’s dark eyes softened. “This challenge is eight weekends. Let me be there for you.”

It came out a breath. “Yes.”

Jonathan had kept O’Hara’s luggage tag with his home address, and he used it to taxi his way across a bright, sprawling Sydney. He’d expected O’Hara to live somewhere fashionable; he was surprised when he passed rundown buildings and his driver told him the area was on the cusp of gentrification.

Jonathan stepped out of the taxi with his carry-on bag and took in a derelict Victorian terrace. It was large, three storeys, and judging by the letterboxes held a half dozen homes. He took a steadying breath and rang the doorbell.

In his imagination, O’Hara would hear it and answer, curious. He would buzz him inside and a chuckle would lure Jonathan to the right flat. When O’Hara saw him, laughter would rattle the bones of the house—and perhaps his own—and . . .

O’Hara wasn’t in.

Jonathan pulled out his phone and told Savvy he’d arrived safely. Then he sat on his suitcase to wait.

Over the next hour a couple of residents passed, looking at him askance, like he was familiar but they couldn’t be sure why. They were in their twenties, younger than Jonathan. With shy smiles and one “Hi”, they hurried inside.

Another half hour passed, and the surprise had run its course. Time to be practical. He called O’Hara.