Tell Me Our Story

The momentum from their spin swirled inside him; he nodded sharply, keeping it together, picked up O’Hara’s bag and strode to the car. “You brought your dance shoes?”

“As requested.”

“Good.”

Thirty minutes later, they headed into the crisp quiet of an empty ballroom studio. O’Hara kept glancing at his reflection in the mirrored walls. He chatted, laughed, but under everything Jonathan sensed him quivering.

He sat on a bench along the back wall and removed his boots. He was still fiddling with the laces of his ballroom shoes when Jonathan had finished tying his own. He knelt before O’Hara and took over, plucking at a stubborn knot. O’Hara’s chuckle shook over his bowed head.

Jonathan paused and looked up at wide eyes. Shaky hands caught his cheeks. “What will you do with me?”

He’d asked the same thing at the conference, when Jonathan had taken his poster. He’d been flippant, playful and curious, then. There was still curiosity, but now it was laden with a raspy fear, a heavier hope.

“Right now, we have a dance lesson.” He finished tying O’Hara’s laces and stood. The sound system crackled to life and Jonathan started the music.

He’d heard this piece a million times, but his mind supplied the image of David, blindfold billowing around his head as they danced; his heart supplied the moment he’d walked into this studio, empty, each mirrored wall reflecting how alone he was, only Strauss filling his ears to warm him, keep him company.

O’Hara stilled. His side of the same memories played over his expression.

Jonathan adjusted the volume. Not quite all consuming. He stared at the old black box full of dials, O’Hara in his peripheral vision. “Thank you. For . . .” Coming, then. The funeral. “You kept your key.”

A few beats passed. His Adam’s apple moved up and down. “I saw you, and slipped out. I didn’t have time to turn off . . . I didn’t want to confuse . . .”

Feelings. Yes.

The music threaded through them, tightening, tightening.

O’Hara lurched to his feet. “Lesson?” A light laugh. “Who’s teaching whom, exactly?”

With perfect timing, knocks thunked against the door.

“We’re both teaching.”

Jonathan opened the door. Cheerfully grinning Ben and his flushed mum stepped inside.

Ben grabbed hold of Jonathan’s waist and squeezed him with a hug. Jonathan petted his soft, unruly hair as his mum spoke quietly.

“Thank you for this,” Jonathan murmured back.

She swallowed. “I’ve been hoping . . . I’ve been wishing for a while that they might . . . When I overhead you . . .”

“Was he angry?”

“Ambivalent. He’ll . . . come around, eventually.”

Ben tugged his sleeve and pointed at O’Hara, who’d frozen against the mirrored wall, pale. “Who’s that?”

Jonathan’s chest twisted sharply on an ache.

Ben’s mum crouched down and kissed his cheek. “That’s David. You and he share a dad. That makes you brothers.”

He peered over her shoulder at O’Hara and ducked his head shyly.

Jonathan watched O’Hara watching Ben. He still hadn’t moved, like he was unable. Had Jonathan made a mistake?

Ben shifted his attention to Jonathan. “I’ve been practicing!”

His mum got to her feet and nodded. “I’ll be . . . just outside today. If you need . . .” She left it hanging and closed the door behind her.

He helped Ben to find something he loved in the playlist, and more classical music poured life into the large space. Ben tugged Jonathan back to the middle of the room and showed him the steps he’d practiced. He held his head up, little chin raised high, arms poised in the air. One-two-three. One-two-three.

Jonathan tapped an elbow. “Up.” He glanced across the room in time to see O’Hara swipe the back of a hand over a glistening cheek.

Their eyes caught and held. With a swallow, he pushed off the mirror, streaking it with fingerprints. He strode to the middle of the room, grinning. Ben stopped and tucked himself close to Jonathan.

“You’re very good,” O’Hara said, crouching.

“He teached me.”

Jonathan touched his head. “Taught.”

“He taught me.”

“You’re very lucky, then,” O’Hara said, gaze lifting from Ben to Jonathan. “He’s the best teacher in the world.”

“How do you know?”

“He teached me too.”

A smile touched Jonathan’s lips as he shook his head. “Taught.”

O’Hara made a funny face and Ben giggled, looking at Jonathan inquisitively. “Is he good at dancing?”

“Would you like to see?”

Ben nodded and sat on the bench. Jonathan skipped to the next track and turned to a dazed O’Hara. “Shall we?”

Their hands clasped, another beat thumping between them, and they melted into the dance.

“So when I asked what you’d do with me . . .”

“I thought you’d like . . .”

Fingers slipped at Jonathan’s shoulder and gripped again. A pulse galloped under fingertips. “You’ve been here for him.” The whisper twirled with them. “You’ve taught him the things I wish I could have.”

Jonathan dipped O’Hara over his arm. “O’Hara—”

“David, please, goddammit.” Eyes met his. “I thought I’d only ever glimpse him in crowds. You gave me my brother.”