Tell Me Our Story

He was met with a breathless, “Jonathan?”

“O’Hara.” He paused at a voice in the background. It sounded suspiciously familiar. “Where are you?”

“Where are you?”

Jonathan shot to his feet. “Is that Savvy? Are you at my place?”

Laughter, quiet and . . . surprised.

“It’s Thursday.” O’Hara only ever came Fridays, sometimes Saturdays when he was busy. Jonathan had been so sure . . .

Savvy took over the line, gleeful. “This is hilarious.”

Not quite what he’d call it.

O’Hara’s voice returned, warm with amusement. “How do you like my place?”

“The front porch has a lot of character.”

More soft laughter. “Buzz Nash Treatise, he has a spare key.” A pause. “Why did you do it?”

The unspoken question: why now, but not then?

Or a year after, or even two.

“Seemed only fair I reciprocate the effort to travel.”

O’Hara hummed, like he saw the stiff answer for the lie it was. If he did, he let it go, voice bubbling once again. “Make yourself at home, Jonathan.”

“My return trip is Sunday midday.”

“My bed won’t turn into a pumpkin after one night.”

“What about our challenges?”

“I’ll fly back on Saturday morning,” O’Hara said. Almost as if, now that he had Jonathan’s cottage to himself, he wanted to stay as long as possible. Investigate every cranny, discover all Jonathan’s secrets.

His breath snagged. “Put everything back where it belongs, after.”

A chuckle. “First, Savvy, Jacquie and I will indulge in some Gloomhaven. Then I’ll get up to mischief.”

“Of course.”

“And if you don’t mind . . .”

“Don’t mind, what?”

“Can Savvy stay here with me?”

The flat was small, the furniture as rich, dark, and warm as O’Hara himself. Patterned cushions, tapestries, and in the entryway, a wall crowded with hundreds of framed photos.

Those frames magnetised Jonathan. So many faces—people O’Hara had met, had adventured with. Friends Jonathan didn’t know about. Friends he did. The Sapphire twins, kayaking down rapids. Mira in red at this year’s conference. Giant George dwarfing a cottage in the woods.

The doorbell chimed.

The youthful neighbour he’d retrieved O’Hara’s spare key from stood braced on his cane at the door. Cream cardigan, bunny slippers, and a wide, genuine smile under dark eyes. “All confirmed.”

“I appreciate your trust.”

“Yes, well. I was fairly sure you wouldn’t nick off with anything. I do follow you two on Picstar, you know.” Nash caned his way into the flat and Jonathan stepped aside to let him. “Make us some tea, would you? Milk. One sugar.”

With two steaming mugs, Jonathan returned to Nash cosying on an armchair.

“Sit down, then.” Nash waited.

There was something about the man—the attitude, perhaps—that reminded him of Mr Cranky.

A side table held a chessboard, and Nash set it between them. “Do you play?”

“Does O’Hara?”

“I taught him. Between you and me he’s . . .”

“Impatient yet surprisingly brilliant?”

A huffed laugh. “You know our David.”

David.

The name rippled through him with an ache.

Nash stepped the white king’s pawn forward two squares.

How many years have they been drinking sugared tea over this chessboard? What sorts of conversations have they shared? When had he trusted Nash with his given name?

Had they ever . . .

“You’re thinking too hard,” Nash said.

Jonathan moved a pawn to meet his. “Not hard enough.”

Nash checkmated in nine moves, and they reset the board. “You have lots to learn.”

Jonathan gripped a knight, the contours of the horse’s head rolling over his thumb. “Tell me.”

“You need to claim the middle board—”

“Not about chess.”

Nash’s dark eyes drank him in slowly, a pregnant pause stretching between them.

“I just need to know—” Jonathan looked toward the crammed bookshelves. He laughed bitterly “—everything.”

Nash sipped his tea.

“Anything.” Jonathan leaned forward on his knees, pleading. Every second ticked loudly against his wrist, then echoed harder in his chest. “He wanted to find his mum . . .”

“He did.” Nash’s lips twisted tightly. “She didn’t want anything to do with him.”

Jonathan shut his eyes as Nash laid out O’Hara’s story. He’d come here from New Zealand and found this place abandoned. The owner let him live here cheap, but he wasn’t alone in the terrace for long. He’d met school-age Nash, homeless and hunkered outside the bar O’Hara’s birth mother worked at, after she’d ushered him out. Nash had overheard the whole thing. They’d connected, and O’Hara had the space, so—

Jonathan looked at Nash. “He paid for your—”

“Pays. Not just mine. Everyone’s. He sort of collected us, one by one. All the same backstory: parents didn’t want us.”

Jonathan’s careful composure . . . didn’t feel all that careful.

He stood abruptly, insides heaving. “Excuse me.”

He retreated to the bedroom, collapsed onto the double bed. It squealed under him and the sound gave weight to the room. This was O’Hara’s space. He’d slept here the better part of seven years. No doubt half the pillows atop the gorgeous Greek-themed bedspread landed nightly on the floor.

The rest of the room was simple. A chest of drawers, a gilded mirror, a single side table that held a lamp, a book, and . . . a photo.