Tell Me Our Story

Jonathan kept three feet between them. Tradition called for any two people passing through at the same time to kiss, the town’s equivalent of mistletoe but permanent all year round.

Unlike O’Hara.

He tightened his fists against the roar inside.

“Pass me your keys, Jonathan.”

“You are not destroying public property.”

O’Hara reached for his pocket; Jonathan pivoted, and pivoted again at another laughing lunge. He stepped back and shadow fell over his face. His shoulder hit the inside of the arch.

O’Hara made for his pocket once more and halted abruptly when shadow passed over his face too. He glanced up at the underside of the arch and rocked back on his heels, hitting the frame on the other side.

Jonathan should move. Quickly. He should.

O’Hara shifted nervously. He swallowed. His eyes shot to Jonathan’s face, like he was afraid.

“Nothing bad will happen if we don’t.” Jonathan’s voice was raw, gravelly.

O’Hara frowned. His teeth scraped over his bottom lip, leaving a slight sheen. He kicked off his side of the arch and cut the two small steps between them. “We dance closer than this. I know what it’s like to have your hands twist and twirl me, your right side against mine. Every point of contact, but . . .” His gaze left shivers over Jonathan’s lips.

“Your first kiss . . .” Mine.

Take it. Let me give it to you. Let me have yours.

Come back.

Words waked against his skin, feathered over the seam of his lips. He closed his eyes, letting the currents cascade over him.

Under the ghostly touch of their lips, Jonathan wrenched himself aside. Sunset blinded him, his lips pulsed where O’Hara’s had pressed for half a second.

O’Hara’s expression was shaded, impossible to read with the light blotching his vision.

“Wait until it means something.”

“Until it means something,” O’Hara echoed, a catch in his voice.

“That’s what you said you wanted.”

“I . . . right. I did.”

Jonathan was breathing hard, like he’d swum from shore to the island after a half-day dance session. His muscles shook. Their lips had barely touched and still, they burned. Disappointment tugged all his energy out his feet.

O’Hara stared at him. Stared at him like he was waiting for something. “I’m going soon. Possibly for a long time. Is there anything you want to say to me?”

He couldn’t . . . control the roar inside him. It wracked his body and he suffered through it. But it was impossible to speak.

A laugh. Tinny and high. “Right. Okay.” O’Hara stepped into the light and passed him, eyes on the far side of the square.

Jonathan turned and watched his body shrink into the distance. He sucked in a hard, loud breath. “Come back.”

His voice drifted toward the golds and reds of sunset blurring through unshed tears.

He shut his eyes to a ticklish ghost sliding down his cheeks. When he reopened them other golds and reds filled his vision: flame licking at logs in Jacquie’s hearth.

A warm, comfortable home. Stable. Jonathan trusted she’d always be there.

Slowly, he looked up at her, stomach twisting hard.

When he’d arrived home then, O’Hara’s things had been gone, along with O’Hara. His parents had said they’d tried to stop him. Savvy had cried the tears Jonathan suppressed.

His voice croaked, “He didn’t come back, Jacquie.”

She hugged his arm tight and kissed his shoulder, breathing the words into his t-shirt. “Until now.”

Chapter Fifteen

Social Challenge 9: Fools in Love

Until now.

The words flickered with hope. They warmed him all the way home, all night, all day until it was Saturday afternoon—time to pick O’Hara up from the airport once again.

He paced the area before the gate, clenching and unclenching his hands, breathing deeply. At last passengers flooded towards the open arms of loved ones and the scent of coffee.

Where was—

There.

He came a stretch behind the others, chatting with the flight attendant. He was all smiles and easy laughter, the lines of his body relaxed, comfortable. He readjusted his bag and scanned the room.

Their gazes slid together and O’Hara bounced on his heel and . . . checked himself. He crossed to Jonathan sedately, whipping the bangs out of his eyes with a flick of his head, and stopped.

“Hm.”

“What?”

Jonathan planted palms on O’Hara’s shoulders, over the soft knit of his cardigan, and steered him round. “We’re going to try that again.”

“What?”

“You failed to achieve the necessary momentum.”

“For?”

Jonathan said in O’Hara’s ear, “Flinging yourself into my arms.”

His peal of laughter trembled at the edges. Jonathan marched him a few steps, took his backpack so there was no other excuse, and retreated to his original position. He inclined his head.

O’Hara’s chin tipped up in another laugh, this one . . . dazzling. He rushed towards Jonathan, arms wide, and Jonathan caught him at the waist.

Arms locked around his back, he spun squirming weight and laughter, and propped flushed cheeks, a shyly shallow dimple, and sparkling eyes on his feet, pointed in the direction of the parking lot.