Tell Me Our Story
Page 45
“Just like that?”
He’d suppressed the memory so long that at first it was hazy, like shifting smoke around him. Then colour streaked through and solidified . . .
He’d been sitting in the willow on a warm summer’s evening after dance practice, when O’Hara parted the thick green curtains. “Knew I’d find you here.”
“I texted you.”
“It sounded more serendipitous the way I said it.”
Over his phone, Jonathan raised a brow.
O’Hara slung himself up into the tree next to him, loose limbed and eager. “What are you scrolling?”
“I downloaded some preliminary readings for my first semester courses.” Jonathan hesitated. He’d asked many times over the last weeks and been rebuffed every time. It made anxiety curl in his stomach. “Have you decided what you’re doing yet?”
The mood deflated along with O’Hara’s smile. He stared at his swaying legs. “I . . . actually, I’m thinking of going away for a while.”
Jonathan squeezed his phone so hard the screen went black.
“Going away? What do you mean?”
“I, um, I mean . . . I want to find my mum.”
His chest lifted and fell on waves.
Sombre green eyes met his. “Do you think that’s stupid?”
Jonathan swallowed. “No.”
O’Hara let out a long breath. “She’s somewhere in Sydney, last anyone knew, so I thought I’d go there for the rest of the summer.”
“And if you find her?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far yet. I just . . .”
Jonathan nodded. He stared at his own reflection in his screen, strict, blond, icy eyes. No one would tell he’d started bleeding inside. “Will you come back?”
“That . . . depends.”
His limbs stiffened. Every part of him grew cold, as if he’d been doused in mid-winter seawater. “You’re always welcome to stay with us.”
“I’ve been staying with you for over a month already . . .”
“You can stay as long as you want, David.”
O’Hara gazed at him. His lips parted; he shifted forward as if to say something important and then closed them again, looked away, threaded a hand through his hair. Laughed. “Living with you is . . .”
“What?”
“Difficult.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
He did. “Our functional family. It’s painful seeing us happy.”
O’Hara rubbed his hands over his face.
“My parents love you,” Jonathan said softly.
O’Hara side-eyed him and sighed. “I love your family too.”
Hope squirrelled into his stomach. “What would make you come back?”
O’Hara didn’t answer. He rubbed the tree branches either side of him, bark peeling off and falling to the ground below. The evening was bright, but inside their cave light fell like lace, thin, pretty threads that shifted over them.
Conversation pivoted, and O’Hara transformed with laughter. Jonathan beheld him, mesmerised, aching. Would he come back? He had to come back. Jonathan should ask him to come back.
O’Hara caught him watching and his laughter settled. He twisted on the branch, toward Jonathan, away again. He compromised on the middle distance, smiling softly, humming. “Jonathan?”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever . . . kissed anyone?”
His pulse raced violently. A ticklish sickness lurched from his belly to his throat. “Why?”
“I wonder what it feels like.”
“You’ve kissed girls before.”
O’Hara’s head whipped toward him, frowning. “When?”
“You must have.”
“I’ve been out with a few but . . .”
Jonathan stuffed his phone into his pocket, staring anywhere but at the young man across from him.
O’Hara said, “Is it so hard to believe I’m waiting until it means something?”
“You learned to dance to flirt with girls.”
“And boys, if I recall.”
“You were thirteen!”
O’Hara’s dimple made a brief appearance. “And I flirted. Your point?”
“Don’t tell me you haven’t kissed anyone.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Why?”
“Look at you.”
“Look at me?”
“Perfection!”
O’Hara stilled.
Jonathan hurried on, “You can’t be eighteen and never kissed.”
“I’m eighteen and I can.”
“But you . . .” He paused and swallowed the instinct to deny it again. “Never?”
“Never.” Eyes flashed to his. “But I want to.” Looked away again. “Just not with anyone I’ve dated yet.”
The information settled oddly in Jonathan’s chest, and he could only whisper, “Okay.”
A soft puff of air came from O’Hara, thickening the warmth between them, and Jonathan sweated, at his lower back, his nape, the palms lightly resting on his jeans.
“I left my dance shoes at the studio!” He scrambled down the tree.
O’Hara looked down at him then jumped off the branch, landing heavily before him, splicing the warm air with a current. “I’ll come with you. We can dance a round.”
“. . .”
“Come.” O’Hara grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the green curtains. The willow clung to him three steps before letting go. Groups of friends clumped together along the stream edge and filled the gazebo, and a brawl was happening on the central causeway. O’Hara bypassed that mess and they turned onto Courtship Crossover.
Their steps slowed. Evening sun bathed the railings and stone arch in burnt reds and gold; O’Hara tipped his face to the sky and it poured over him too. He stopped under the arch to study the stones on one side. They were covered with the initials of lovers. A large LOVE had been carved crookedly.