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A quiet, freckled guy, who kept biting his lip between words, spoke up. “I think there are different types of love. The sexual kind, and the more emotional kind. Both are at turns strong and weak, stronger when requited. So requited love is superior.”
“Superior, or more satisfying?” O’Hara asked. “Don’t you learn more lessons from unrequited love? Doesn’t each fall make you wiser, stronger? Better, for the next time?”
Hope-soaked.
Jonathan couldn’t . . .
Giant George waved a massive hand in dismissal. “Why does love have to only be about people? I reckon you can find it everywhere. In nature and art—hell, in technology. These things make us smile and maybe love is just finding a reason to smile.”
O’Hara dimpled, like he was quietly grateful for the slight reprieve, and turned when the other Sapphire twin spoke, “That’s beauty, not love.”
“Shouldn’t love be beautiful?” O’Hara queried.
A frown. “Yes, but . . . it’s more—” His brother elbowed him.
“Don’t say it.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll sound ridiculous.”
“I’m not ridiculous, Mr Love-Is-Strength.”
A scowl and folded arms. “Fine. Make a fool of yourself.”
A pause, and a raised chin. “Soulmates.”
A collective, “. . .”
“What? There’s only one true match for everyone. Finding and keeping it is the most important thing in your life!”
His twin groaned. “We’re not related.”
“Shut up.”
A thoughtful, amused laugh shook O’Hara’s shoulders, and his gaze flitted over the room. “I certainly like the idea.”
Mira gathered her hair, twisted it into a loop and pinned it up. “Love is a fragile seed that needs a lot of nurturing to grow and blossom.”
“It does take work.” O’Hara hummed as if he were thinking through the metaphor. “Persistence. The ability to weather storms. It changes from something immature to mature and beautiful.”
Jonathan pictured O’Hara toiling in the earth, a green shoot growing in the shelter of his body. What would that blossom look like? His mind procured the image of a black rose, the exact shade of his hair, leaves like his eyes, but perhaps when the bud opened it’d be golden, bright like the sun against a warm blue sky . . .
He stared into his glass. Good God, he was already drunk.
The freckled guy spoke up again. “You grade all our ideas, O’Hara, but what’s your opinion?”
O’Hara paced, quiet, and then laughed. “I have no clue.”
Jonathan rose from his armchair. “I don’t believe you.”
A dozen heads swivelled his way, surprised. Only O’Hara didn’t jump. He lifted his eyes slowly, as if aware Jonathan had been there all along. As if unsurprised at his interruption.
His stare hit Jonathan like another drink, and he balled his fist against the wooziness.
Giant George boomed with a laugh. “You know, Hart’s right. You’re the one with the most love-struck fans. The one who flirts furiously with anything that so much as smiles at you. You must have thoughts on the topic. . . .”
Jonathan suddenly felt a little . . . disoriented. Off balance. He found himself at the bar again, ordering another port.
O’Hara pressed up against his side, flagging for a drink of his own. “Why did you come back down?” he asked quietly.
Jonathan couldn’t look at him. He downed his drink. “Why do you care that I did?”
“Easy.” O’Hara leaned in close to his ear. “I want you to like me again.”
Someone was pounding at his door in time with the pounding against his skull. “What?”
Air whooshed around him as he yanked the door open, and then whooshed out of him at the sight of O’Hara, bed-rumpled but ready to go.
“Oh. You’re already dressed.”
“Of course I am.”
O’Hara scrutinised him a moment, waiting. “You don’t have any thoughts on last—never mind, let’s go.”
Jonathan raised a questioning brow; O’Hara ignored it and pushed into the room. “It’s quite late. You’ve missed breakfast.” He rummaged around on the table and lifted two muesli bars. “Good thing you packed snacks.”
Jonathan caught the flying bar against his chest.
“Right then. Time to do some signing.”
“I’m not participating. My brand isn’t big enough yet.”
“Then help me manage my table.”
Jonathan rubbed the muesli bar against his throbbing head. “Not exactly the most promising antidote.”
O’Hara tugged him out of the room, down the hallway, and despite Jonathan’s sudden rigidity, into the elevator. Jonathan clenched his fist the entire way down. O’Hara stayed close, as if ready to steady him.
As they made their way through throngs of attendees towards the conference rooms, Jonathan’s nape prickled. “Why are all these people grinning at me?”
O’Hara patted his arm. “Turns out you get very friendly when you’re drunk.”
Jonathan whisked around to face him, halting. “What did I do?”
O’Hara waved that away and walked on. “The next Social Challenge announcement’s in a few minutes.”
What had he done? He searched his mind for clues, but he only had flashes. Sitting in the U, O’Hara’s ceaselessly smiling face, the hazy impression of Giant George grinning at him from above.
