Brant, age 22
“That motherfucker is dead. Stone cold dead.”
Theo’s hands ball at his sides as we march through the sand together, the smell of summer bonfire mingling with marijuana and citronella.
Volatile waves radiate off the man beside me, and I know there’s nothing I can do to talk him down, but I still try. “You worked hard to get your badge, Theo. Don’t lose it over a scumbag like Wyatt.”
Wyatt Nippersink—I really hate that name.
He scoffs at me, as expected. “I appreciate the effort, but I plan on losing my badge tonight. I’m going to shove it down his fucking throat until he chokes.”
Well, shit.
I’ll be honest, my own blood is boiling, but I’ve spent years practicing how to temper the heat to ensure that I don’t burn anybody.
Theo is the opposite. He’s all venom and vitriol.
And when it comes to June?
Watch. Out.
Wendy spilled the beans to me that Wyatt was going to a party on the beach at Celeste’s family’s property, and that she overheard June’s name come up while he was talking with a friend.
Illegal substances, underage drinking, and sixteen-year-old girls—sounded like the perfect party for a cop to drop into.
Flames flicker a few yards away, and laughter floats over to us on a muggy, mid-August draft.
Her laughter.
Junebug.
“Don’t worry, Peach… I’ll save you,” Theo hollers, cupping his hands around his mouth.
June is a silhouette of peachy sundress and long brown hair tumbling over both shoulders as she jumps up from a hand-carved bench. She shoves a beer bottle behind her back to Celeste, who rises beside her in an attempt to be inconspicuous.
Even though Theo bristles to my left, emanating hot-blooded fury, June’s eyes are fixed on me as we approach the fire. Her full lips part, as if wanting to explain herself, yet realizing there’s nothing she can say that we don’t already know.
Wyatt stands lazily, flicking cigarette ashes into the flames. The orangey undertones in his hair are more striking when reflected off the blaze of the fire, and the smirk on his face is instant and organic. I wonder if it ever goes away—I’m almost positive it’s permanent. “Nice of you to join us, fellas,” he croons. He then turns to June and says, loud enough for us to hear, “Why don’t you be a doll and grab our guests a beer?”
“You’re a dead man, Wyatt,” Theo spits through his teeth, kicking up sand and grit when we reach the firepit. He wastes no time in grabbing Wyatt by the shirt collar and fisting hard, dragging him forward until they’re nose-to-nose. “Why are you here with my goddamn sister?”
Wyatt shoves himself free with a caustic laugh, then runs a hand through his coarse mop of shoulder-length hair. “Violent threats, police brutality…” He sticks a finger in the air and finishes, “Hold up, I should write this shit down.”
“You won’t have a hand to write with in about two fucking seconds. Then you can lick your wounds in a jail cell tonight.”
“What’s the offense?” He sniffs, looking pointedly at Celeste. “Not my booze. Not my bud. Not my property.”
Celeste cowers guiltily.
I hold my arm out in front of Theo, to keep him from jumping the asshole, while my eyes trail back over to June. Her arms are crossed over her chest, covering the low-cut neckline of her dress. My anger bubbles, knowing she wore a skimpy dress for the son-of-a-bitch I’m trying to prevent Theo from bludgeoning to death. I grit my teeth. “Consider this a warning, Wyatt,” I bite out, returning my attention to the man still smirking, his arrogance thick and heady.
Theo pushes through my arm barrier. “What the fuck, Brant? No. Absolutely fucking not—he’s not getting off that easy.”
Wyatt’s grin stretches as he steals a glance at June. “Not anymore, thanks to the party crashers.”
I let Theo go, and he flies.
“Theo!” June finally speaks, dashing over to the brawl. “Stop, damn you!”
I grab her by the arm, pulling her back before a flying fist accidentally clips her. “Get in the car,” I tell her, watching as the ambient orange flames light up her doe-eyed expression. “Now, June.”
She blinks, hesitating briefly, then tugs her arm free of my hold. Her features morph from contrition to contempt as she paces backward through the sand.
One of Wyatt’s friends separates the two men before I can jump in, severing the escalating altercation. Wyatt swipes a smattering of blood from his lip, laughing through his weighty breaths. “I think you broke the law, officer,” he sneers.
“And here I was, trying to break your face.”
Wyatt releases an unamused chuckle, then rolls his neck, pinning his attention on me. His grin curls. “Little Juney’s all grown up now, huh?” Sweeping his gaze over my shoulder to where June retreats, he taunts, pitching his voice so she hears him, “She’s got some real porn star titties on her.”
My blood pressure instantly spikes, my muscles locking. I feel fury swimming through my veins, and I know Theo can sense my unraveling, because he quickly throws his own arm up to block me from pouncing. I swallow. “What did you just say?”
“I said your sister has nice tits.”
Everything inside me screams at me to react.
Defend June.
Keep June safe.
Protect June at all costs.
My eyes lock with Wyatt’s, and he just stares at me, waiting, begging for me to make the first move. He wants me to. I’m his target, and he knows my weakness.
I step forward, endorphins rippling with the prospect of a fight.
But Theo blocks me again. “Don’t, brother… this fuckhead isn’t worth it.” Wyatt whistles under his breath, while Theo shoves me backward, slapping one hand on my chest, the other gripping my bicep. He knows I don’t let my anger loose—he knows my history, my childhood promise. He’s protecting me in the same innate way that I’m protecting June. “Get Peach out of here. I’ll handle him.”
My gaze flicks to Theo, my jaw tense, my throat tight. I nod slightly and move away. “She’s not my sister,” I mutter to Wyatt, pivoting around until I’m stalking toward June, who stands idly in the sand, a few feet away.
Wyatt laughs with icy disdain, calling out, “Yeah, you wish she wasn’t your sister.”
I freeze, eyes meeting with June’s as the cords in my neck pulse and thrum. Her chest heaves with every swift breath, her cheeks flushed pink.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Choosing to ignore the barb, I press forward, shifting my attention to my car parked at the edge of the beach. I don’t look at June as I move past her, repeating, “Get in the car.”
She follows, reluctantly dragging behind.
I yank open the door to my beat-up Corolla, which has somehow managed to survive five brutal Midwest winters. I’ve been saving up for a more reliable vehicle, something with four-wheel-drive. Maybe a Highlander. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t moved out of the Baileys’ residence yet. While I scored a decent job in the kitchen at a popular restaurant outside of town last year, and I could probably afford to get my own place, I haven’t quite committed yet.
Because of finances.
Yeah, that’s part of it, sure. It’s hard to make it in this state with the high cost of living and outrageous property taxes. I should make sure I’m one-hundred-percent prepared to be fully independent. It’s the smart move.
But when June opens the passenger’s side door and plops down into the seat, using an unnecessary amount of force to pull her seatbelt into place… I know that’s not the only reason.
It’s not even the primary reason.
A prolonged sigh leaves me, and I falter as I go to stick the key into the ignition. Silence hums around us, as dense as the humidity dampening our skin.
I look over at her. She’s still breathing heavily, her cheeks now rosy red, arms crossed in a defensive stance. The scent of lilacs and lemon drops wafts around me, and hell… it’s ridiculous how gorgeous she is.
When I was sixteen, I was awkward and gangly, and she’s a vision of beauty and grace, smelling like spring and citrus, and looking like a radiant woman instead of the little girl with a crooked grin and golden ringlets I can recall so fondly.
I knew I would lose it when men started noticing her, but I had no idea it would be this difficult.
June sweeps a hand through her hair, letting it fall over to one side. The dark tresses are tinged with autumn and honey lights, bringing a gentle warmth to the blue ice glittering in her eyes when she finally snaps her head in my direction. “What did he mean by that?”
My brows crease, not expecting the question. It trips me up for a second. “Nothing. I don’t know.” Feeling ruffled, I avert my eyes to the wheel and pop in the key. The car roars to life, sounding as rattled as I am. “He’s a damn creep.”
I feel her staring at me as I shift into reverse. June fidgets in her seat, adjusting the spaghetti strap of her dress as the tires begin to roll. “You always talk like that. I don’t understand it.”
“Talk like what?”
“You refer to Theo as my brother. Mom and Dad are my parents,” she explains, her voice a little strained, a little breathy. “You say I’m not your sister.”
My jaw tics. “Technically, you’re not.”
“Why do you feel that way? Have I not made a big enough impact on your life?” she wonders. There is no anger there, no bitterness. Only a stark vulnerability. “Do you not care enough?”
I slam the brakes, stalling in the middle of the semi-vacant lot as I shift back into park. Ripping off my baseball cap, I run my fingers through my hair and lean back into the seat. “That’s not it at all,” I tell her. When I return my attention to June, she’s watching me with wide, glossy eyes, sliding a hand up and down her arm as if she’s chilled. “You know how much I care, Junebug.”
“Then why—”
“You wouldn’t understand. It has nothing to do with you.”
I realize we’ve never broached the details of my past before—not really. She knows the basics, of course. She knows that my father strangled my mother to death with his work tie after he lost his temper and snapped, then shot himself in the head. She knows I was in therapy throughout most of my childhood, and she knows I don’t like talking about it, especially with her.
I never wanted to be that black cloud in her rainbow sky.
June learned most of what happened that night through schoolyard gossip and internet news reports. Possibly from her parents, too. I’m not sure how much they shared with her as she got older.
But she doesn’t know the psychological toll it took on me.
She doesn’t know that it altered inherent parts of me.
She doesn’t know that I made a wish that day, standing in my front lawn, begging the cotton candy clouds for a baby sister.
And then, I got one.
I got June, in exchange for my parents, and in the mind of a small, damaged child, it felt like I had caused it. My wish had come true at a terrible price.
It was all my fault.
So, I refused to ever see her as my sister. I refused to see the Baileys as my true family because that would make me guilty. That would have given me the darkest, heaviest burden imaginable, and it likely would have snapped me in two.
As I got older, I came to realize that it was simply a tragedy, and there is no logic in tragedy—tragedies just happen—and how we get through them, what we do after, is our only true power over them. But that was how I chose to cope at the time, and even though I understand it now, those feelings have been hard-wired into me. There’s no going back.
Curling my fingers around the steering wheel, I veer the subject away from my haunted past, and focus on the whole damn reason we’re sitting in my junky car at eleven P.M. on a Friday night. “What the hell were you doing there, June? Why… Wyatt?” I shake my head, the disappointment in my voice so tangible, it almost feels like a third passenger listening eagerly from the backseat. “He’s bad news, and you know that. He’s a delinquent. A deadbeat.”
Two blue eyes float over to me, brimming with something like regret. Maybe an apology. “I don’t know, I just… I thought it would be fun. Celeste’s older brother was going to come, too, but he had to work, so—”
“Do you have any fucking idea how much I worry about you?”
She flinches.
Our gazes lock tight, as a virile need to defend her simmers in my bloodstream. Just imagining her getting involved with Wyatt, the lowest of the low, has my heart hammering, my hands curling into fists. She’s still just a kid, despite her curves and air of maturity. She’s only sixteen. A question gnaws at me, and I blurt it before I think on it. “Did you sleep with him?”
She gasps, her eyes going wide.
“Did he put his mouth on you? Touch you?”
“Brant, please…”
“I know I can’t keep you from men, or sex, or getting your heart broken, but I swear to God, if Wyatt Nippersink is your first—”
“No!” she says in a burst of appalled breath, her face stained with blush. “God, Brant, please don’t ask me things like that. It’s humiliating.”
She sinks back into her seat, swiveling away from me, her arms folding over her chest once again. I sigh, defeated, and put the car back into drive. “Yeah,” I murmur, tires squealing as I turn out of the parking lot. “Sorry.”
My anger drains as we make the drive home in silence, and I hate that I allowed Wyatt to get under my skin. I feel like a traitor in my own body.
How did my father feel when he made the decision to murder my mother?
What drove him to wrapping that silk purple tie around her neck?
Was it something she said? Did? Threatened?
Or had he just gone mad?
The unknowns of that night have followed me around my whole life like parasitic hitchhikers. Uninvited, unwanted, but clinging tight, determined to come along for the ride.
And I know the “whys” don’t matter because “whys” would give way to excuses, and there are no excuses for what he did.
But that doesn’t stop me from wondering why.
We pull into the driveway, and the engine hasn’t even been killed when June pushes the door open with her sandals and hops out, leaving only the scent of her flowery shampoo behind.
It lingers. She lingers.
I pull the key out of the ignition, exhaling a deep breath, and just sit there, watching her disappear into the house.
The last two years have been a complicated whirlwind of change, muddled dynamics, and ever-shifting tides. Hormones are a vicious, unpredictable beast, and ever since the night I reamed June out for kissing a boy behind our mulberry tree, I caught the unfortunate brunt of them. There were days she hated me—literally despised me. Those were the days that twisted me up inside, like brittle rope and barbed wire. All I’ve ever tried to do was protect her, but it seemed like the more I pushed, the more she pulled back.
The more she slipped away from me.
Samantha told me it was common; she, herself, was a menace at that age, and she had taken those destructive, confusing feelings out on the people she’d loved most.
It was natural. Normal.
It didn’t make it any easier, though. Explanations and rationales didn’t change the fact that the little girl who adored me with her whole heart, who lived for lullabies and piggy-back rides, was quickly morphing into a moody, complex woman with fire in her blood and venom on her tongue.
“I hate you, Brant! When will you move out, already? You’re ruining my life!”
Then there were days she loved me like she used to.
She’d sneak into my bedroom and sit cross-legged on the bed, hungry for advice or comfort, eager to share details about her day at school. She’d choose to spend a Sunday afternoon with me, playing video games, going for bike rides, walking down to the beach for swimming and sunshine. She’d choose me instead of window-shopping with her girlfriends at the mall, or going to the movies with some boy I secretly wanted to pummel.
“Forgive me, Brant. I didn’t mean it. You know I love you, right?”
Those were the days I lived for.
Those are the days I still live for—and luckily, they’ve been more frequent lately. While fifteen was the age of the devil, sixteen has already been so much sweeter, bringing about a mellower dynamic between us.
More tenderness, less toxicity.
More hugs, less hatred.
Until tonight, apparently, when I spoiled her plans of doing God-knows-what with the vile Wyatt Nippersink.
Squeezing my car keys in my fist, I finally exit the vehicle and make my way inside, grateful that the Baileys are already in bed. The house is dimmed, the lights all turned down aside from a few of those scented plug-ins, Yoshi’s glowing eyes as he watches me with a wagging tail from his dog bed, and moonlight from the cracked drapes. June must’ve gone straight to her room, desperate to get away from me and any potential further interrogation.
I trudge up the staircase, turning left into my bedroom, not bothering to flip on the light switch. I’m exhausted, prepared to fall face-first onto my mattress and pass the hell out. Reaching behind my back, I pull my t-shirt over my head, then move toward my dresser to discard my wallet and car keys.
“I never mean to worry you, you know.”
Her soft voice stops me in my tracks. I spin around and discover June sitting on the edge of my full-sized bed, her shadowy silhouette barely visible in the darkened room. “June?” I approach slowly, blinking through the hazy wall between us. “What are you doing in here?”
She doesn’t respond right away, and I can’t see what she’s doing, or what she’s focused on. “I just wanted to apologize,” she mutters quietly.
I take another step forward, watching as she takes shape before me, still clad in her peach sundress. “You don’t need to. I understand you’re sixteen, and you’re going to get into trouble and rebel, and—”
“I wanted to apologize for more than tonight,” she cuts in. “I wanted to apologize for every time I’ve made you angry, made you sad, or scared, made you question how much I love you, and how much I always have.”
I stare at her, and I notice her gaze drop to my bare chest, mildly illuminated by the soft window light. She fiddles with a loose string on my comforter, averting her eyes to the floor.
“You don’t have to do that, either.” My voice sounds so raw, so naked in this quiet room. Taking a few more paces toward the bed, I sit down beside her, the mattress squeaking beneath the added weight. I clasp my knees with my palms, then glance at her in the dark. My eyes have adjusted, and I can see the mascara streaks smudged beneath her eyes. She’s been crying. “Junebug. It’s okay.”
She sniffs a little. “Sometimes I think about how fragile life is, you know? I go mad, wondering the last thing I said to you before you drove off to work, or before I left for school. Was it cruel? Were we arguing? What if it was something wicked and it was the last thing I ever said to you?”
I’m not sure where this is coming from. A frown furls between my eyes as I sit there, shoulder to shoulder with her, lost for words.
“What was the last thing your parents ever said to you?” she asks suddenly.
My next breath lodges in my throat. The room seems to dim darker, my skin prickling with razor-edged memories. “June, don’t…”
“Please, Brant. I want to know about your past, about why you’ve never seen me as a sister. I feel like it’s all related somehow, and I want to understand. I want to understand you.” June reaches out, taking my hand in hers and grazing her thumb along my knuckles. I tense a little, startled by the gesture. Unsteadied by the way my heart skips at the contact. “I miss how close we used to be, and I hate that I’ve caused distance. It truly kills me.”
“You’re growing up, Junebug,” I tell her. “It’s natural. Lullabies and bedtime stories don’t last forever.”
She smiles softly, almost sadly. “Growing up isn’t the same as outgrowing. I’ll never be too old for the rainbow song.”
My heart continues to skip its strange, unfamiliar beats, and I swallow through my nod.
“Can I lie down with you?”
“What?” I shake my head, pulling my hand away. “You’re too old for that.”
Vivid recollections spill into my mind as I reminisce the innocent days of little June crawling into bed with me after a nightmare, or falling asleep in my arms after reading her favorite book.
But those years have slipped away, traded for social propriety and seemliness.
“How so?” she ponders, and it’s almost as if her innocence was never lost. “You’re still Brant, and I’m still June, right?”
I glance at her, gnawing on my cheek. “You’re right.”
“So, what’s age got to do with it?”
“It’s just not appropriate anymore. I’m a man now, and you’re still a girl.”
“But we’re still the same people.”
Blowing out a breath, I look away, tenting my hands. I’m having trouble countering her logic, considering there’s nothing unsavory about her proposal. Lying back on the bed, I scoot over to the far wall, making room for her. “Okay, then.”
I see her smile brighten, even in the dark. June takes her place beside me, leaving a small gap between us, and we both lie on our backs, gazing up at the popcorn ceiling. We stay like that for a while, drinking in the silence, savoring the connection.
Shifting onto my side, I prop my head up with my palm, fixating on her profile as she rests with her eyes open, fingers interlaced over her belly. “I want to answer your question.”
Her head cocks to the side, finding me through the darkness, her sheaths of brown hair spilled across my pillowcase like wild waves. She doesn’t reply. She just waits.
I close my eyes, fighting against the urge to pull back. To run from the hard questions and painful memories. It’s been sixteen years, but it still feels fresh.
My mother’s face forms in my mind, from the short sweep of her nose, to the bronzy highlights in her hair. She smelled of sugar and caramel crème. I see her hovering over me like an angel, tucking me into bed, sitting beside my legs as I snuggled Bubbles to my chest.
I feel her lips against my hairline. Her hand sweeping along my forehead.
I hear the sound of her voice.
“I’ll always protect you,” I say, my eyes still closed. “She said… ‘I’ll always protect you.’”
I’m drenched in a shot of resentment, knowing my mother’s words were nothing but kindling in the wind. Knowing she never should have made a promise she couldn’t keep.
June moves toward me on the mattress, closing the gap between us. Her breath tickles my bare skin as she whispers, “And your father?”
I don’t think about him. I don’t imagine the sound of his voice, or his hickory smell, or the gray flecks in his eyes. “Cover your ears.” My tone is jagged, my voice rusty. “That was the last thing he said to me.”
“One more thing, Brant… Cover your ears.”
Perspiration dots my skin, my airways tightening.
Panic inches its way inside me.
I feel lost. I feel scared. I feel abandoned.
I told June I’d always protect her, but how could I promise such a thing, knowing how easily those words can come back to haunt? To terrorize?
She curls into me then, the top of her head tucked right beneath my chin, the wetness of her tears tickling my chest. She hums the tune of Over the Rainbow, soothing my nerves. Her hands slide around my middle, stroking up and down my shoulder blades, calming the tremors that have settled in. June comforts me until my breathing steadies and my mind clears.
She’s my rainbow after the storm.
My arms wrap around her on instinct, and as we lie together, more entangled than I should allow, I can’t help but wonder…
Who’s protecting who?
When I awoke the next morning, June had already slipped from the covers and disappeared into her own bedroom, leaving her scent on my pillow and her tearstains on my skin. We didn’t talk about that night again, but our dynamic changed once again. We grew closer.
In a lot of ways, too close.
And I’m not sure why.
I’ll never know why.
But I got out of bed that Sunday, threw on a clean t-shirt, drank my morning coffee, and hopped into my car.
I drove to Wendy’s apartment, and I broke up with her.
For the very last time.
