Tell Me Our Story

Jonathan swallowed and picked it up.

He thumbed the worn wooden frame. It wasn’t recent. It was one from then, a rare moment where Jonathan had smiled. He was in the dinghy, Soulmate Island over his shoulder. This had been captured just days before O’Hara had left. That Jonathan hadn’t known what was coming . . .

All the same backstory: parents didn’t want us.

Jonathan’s chest ached.

His thumbs whitened on the frame.

O’Hara’s . . . friend—best friend? More?—was boiling water for more tea.

He should . . . He set the photo aside, braced his elbows on his thighs and scrubbed his face. Part of him was afraid to know the rest, but most of him . . .

He met Nash and his cane in the kitchen.

Nash glanced at him and opened the pantry, not quite quickly enough to hide a smile. “David is always helping people live. He didn’t just give us a roof, he helped us all to laugh again. Like that was his number one goal in life. When I moved in, he was teaching ballroom down the road—he taught some of us to dance, too.”

Dance had kept a roof over his head. This roof.

In a way, something Jonathan had taught him had helped him.

“He was always busy,” Nash continued, “University papers, dance, helping the others apply to colleges or teaching them to read.” Biscuits came out of the pantry. “Everyone online thinks he’s just a flirt, no real substance. None of them know.”

Jonathan knew.

“He never brings anyone home.”

That part landed unsteadily in his chest. He saw O’Hara and Jacquie in the tree. Not a flirt, he’d said. Playful.

Nash poured a fresh cup of tea, and then pushed it towards him. “You look like you need this more than I do. Am I saying too much?”

Jonathan stared at the surface; it rippled like the shivers under his skin. He shook his head. “Was he . . . is he happy?”

“I don’t know. There was a time that was bad—just before he started his Picstar account a few years ago. He didn’t smile at all the month beforehand. David always smiles. He always finds a way to draw the fun from a fire, but . . . not that month. He’d got some news; someone he cared about from home had died.”

Jonathan’s breath left him, ragged. He clutched the edge of the counter, knocking the cup; tea lurched over the lip.

A cloth landed over the spill. “I don’t know who it was—he never said, just that he had to get to the funeral.”

Jonathan shut his eyes.

That shadowy figure at the back of the church . . . he’d thought he’d imagined . . . And the day after, Johann Strauss playing in an empty ballroom . . .

“He was struggling with money then. The landlord had raised all our rents but David wouldn’t ditch any of us. We gave him cash if we could, but it was tight. We made meals communal to keep costs down. He thought about quitting university, saving costs there but none of us could let him do it. When he needed to fly to New Zealand . . .”

Jonathan blinked back the haze in his eyes and watched Nash stare into the middle distance.

“He asked Giant George for a loan. Then when he got back, George helped him set up his platform.” Nash refocused on Jonathan. “He knew it had to involve Greek mythology. I thought because he studied it, but he said ‘because he’d like it.’”

He’d like it?

Nash made himself another tea and moved around Jonathan’s frozen form. “My knee is . . . let’s sit.”

Somehow Jonathan made it to the couch.

“Another game?” Nash offered.

Jonathan had no focus to spare for games. He needed to hear more. Needed to drink in every detail until the hiccuppy feelings in him settled. “He started online hoping he’d make it as an influencer. For you?”

“David is always setting himself these impossible goals. Support five homeless teens. Become an influencer to fund us. Win the Social Challenge.”

Nash sipped his tea. “It took him a year, but he managed to grow his platform enough that now he has regular companies sponsoring him. Tens of thousands a pop. He found jobs for all of us.”

The shy young residents who passed him on the steps outside; Nash in his cardigan and bunny slippers. . . .

God, O’Hara . . .

“No matter how impossible, he always finds a way.” A shrewd, tight look. Jonathan felt like he was being measured. Like he might be a threat. “He didn’t win the Challenge last year,” Nash said slowly, clearly, “but he’s trying to this year . . .”

Jonathan inclined his head. “I’ve seen that it’s important to him.”

“More than important. We all lose our homes if he doesn’t.”

Whispered, “What?”

“The landlord wants to sell, and these old walls are estimated to go for three million. He needs a down payment.”