June, age 17
My lungs tighten, my chest achy and sore. Nearly bruised.
I take a quick break from the routine, turning to face the wall, then lean over, hands to my knees as I catch my breath. I’ve been falling winded more often, especially today, after learning the rigorous choreography for a contemporary ballet performance I’m participating in this fall.
Sweat dots my brow, my lungs wheezing.
“Everything okay, June?”
Regrouping, I straighten my spine, stretch, and take a giant swig of water once the boulder on my chest releases. Pivoting with a smile, I nod at my instructor, Camilla. “Perfect,” I chirp as I tug at my ponytail. Camilla blinks, studying me for a moment before continuing with the routine.
When the class is over, I sweep back the rogue hairs that slipped loose from my hair tie, damp with sweat, and close my eyes to center my breathing.
“You really nailed it today, June. I’m impressed.” Camilla comes up behind me, a light hand sweeping down my back. “You sure you’re okay, though?”
“Absolutely,” I say without hesitation, despite the way my lungs still squeeze. “I’m excited about this choreography. It’s so modern, yet elegant.”
“It’s grueling. Took me months to fine-tune, but I think we’re really going to stand out.”
The water bottle crinkles in my grip as I twist the cap back on, ignoring the hum of warning that prickles my skin. I’ve been losing my breath more often, to the point where it’s getting harder to disguise. Episodes have come and gone over the last few years, ramping up in frequency and urgency since summer training began.
I’ve brushed it off, thinking I’ve simply been overdoing it, and too afraid to see a doctor due to the off-chance that it could be something serious—something that could hinder my dance career.
I want to perform on Broadway.
New York City.
I want the bright lights, the costumes, the treasure trove of opportunity.
And I’m so close. I’ve been practicing for years, mastering my craft to the point in which there’s no other option for me.
Only dance.
Having just entered my final year of high school, the future is on my mind a lot lately. Mom says I need to narrow down my college selections, having already been accepted into three—Columbia, being my top contender—but… the truth is, I’m not sure I want to go to college. Celeste managed to secure a one-way ticket to New York after graduation, and will be staying with her aunt while she gets a jumpstart on her career with a company who hires on background dancers.
I want that, too.
I’m just not sure how I’m going to do it yet.
My arms lift into a stretch as I respond, sweat still sheening my skin. “I can’t wait. I’m going to spend every waking moment practicing,” I tell her.
Camilla’s mocha eyes twinkle, her dark brows lifting as her smile grows. She has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. “No doubt in my mind you’ll be the star,” she says. “You truly have a gift, June.”
A shot of conviction floods me.
I want this so bad.
“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”
“I only speak the truth. Just don’t overdo it, you hear?” Camilla sends me a smile that teeters the line of worry and warmth. “See you next week.”
I watch her go as my fellow teammates chat idly, sifting through their duffel bags for outfit changes. Celeste makes a beeline toward me after Camilla disappears, her golden hair swept up into a big knot. She’s grown so much taller than me, by nearly a foot, and while her body is all athletic trim and defined muscle, I’m more soft curves and petite bone structure, needing to work extra hard to maintain my lithe physique.
My ample breasts, especially, are a huge deterrent in the world of dance, acting as more of an inconvenience than an asset—despite what all my girlfriends say.
“Starbucks?” Celeste suggests, throwing her bag over her shoulder. A cropped jersey hangs low off her fit frame, showcasing a black sports bra underneath. “I need my Saturday frappé fix. And maybe a lemon loaf. God, I haven’t had carbs all week.”
I toss the towel draped around my neck into the hamper, then pull a pair of leggings up over my leotard. “Can’t. My brother is picking me up for some bonding time.”
“Ooh.” Her eyebrows waggle suggestively. “I’d kill for some bonding time with that man.”
“What? Gross,” I laugh, a little awkwardly, reaching for my own duffel. “Theo has a girlfriend, but I’ll pass along the compliment.”
“No, girl, I was talking about Brant,” she chuckles, linking her arm with mine and leading me toward the front exit. “I mean, Theo is cute, but he’s more “all American” cute. Brant is… oof. The other kind of cute, you know? The dirty thoughts kind.”
Flush creeps into my ears. When someone comments about “my brother,” my brain automatically assumes they’re talking about Theo. I suppose I have two brothers, technically, even though one of them likes to reject the idea.
My thoughts scatter as we dally in the front lobby, waiting for our rides. Brant has been on my mind a lot lately, ever since the emotional night we shared together almost a month ago—the night I startled awake from a nightmare, and instinct pulled me to his bedroom for solace. I know I’m not a little girl anymore, but grown girls still have nightmares. Grown girls still crave childhood comforts, such as precious stuffed elephants, rainbow lullabies, and strong arms attached to white knights.
He told me once, in a hospital bed as I struggled through deadly pneumonia, that he’d brought me Aggie for comfort, and my custom pink sword for courage.
Little did he know, I already had both.
I had him.
And up until that night last month, I thought I still had him—but something happened, something shifted, and it’s something I haven’t been able to unravel just yet. Brant has been distant and moody, far from the easygoing man who suffocated me with bear hugs and didn’t shy away from piggy-back rides, even though I’m far too old.
He doesn’t touch me anymore.
He looks at me differently, almost as if I’m a stranger.
He shuns me from his bedroom if I dare step foot inside.
Our tender, thoughtful conversations have transformed into superficial chit-chat about nothing at all, and the moment I try to delve deeper, he pulls away. He claims to be tired, or too busy, or he simply says, “Not now, June.”
June.
That, right there, has been the biggest red flag.
He hasn’t called me Junebug.
He hasn’t called me Junebug in twenty-six days.
I feel all alone without his smiles and jokes. Mom and Dad are home often, both only working part time now. My friends are abundant, and Yoshi is a sweet old companion, but everything seems to pale in comparison to time spent with Brant.
I’ve replayed that night over and over in my mind.
A nightmare had spooked me. I’d dreamed of floating down a river of red, approaching a cave of horrors. It was a black night with cackling winds and crowing trees, a sense of foreboding hanging heavy in the air. Brant had been on the raft with me, and we were traveling along a rainbow stream, happily content. I’m not sure what happened, but I think it was lightning—a sinister strike had brightened the sky, and Brant had looked at me in that moment, right as everything flashed, something strange glittering in his earthy eyes. He’d reached for me. He’d reached for my hand across the buoyant raft, as if he needed to, as if our very lives depended on it, and the moment we touched, everything changed.
He was gone. I was alone.
Only a dark cave loomed ahead, and as vultures swooped above me, laughing at my loneliness, I’d awoken in a cold sweat, desperately searching for Brant.
I found him in his bed, uneager to see me. My dream swirled through me like a toxin, blackening my relief, soiling my comfort that all was well, that it was just a terrible nightmare.
He hated me.
But then he reached for me with that same look in his eyes. The dream look, filled with hopeless desperation. He reached across the mattress and clasped my wrist, tracing gentle designs onto my skin and apologizing for being cold. And then he confessed a grisly secret.
A grisly, beautiful secret.
“I took you that night.”
I listened through my tears, trying to be his anchor through whatever storm he was fighting. Trying to be the rainbow on the other side.
Our foreheads melded together with affection as I held his neck between my palms, clinging tight to every word. Clinging tight to him.
My best friend.
And then I fell asleep in his arms, my dreams molding into images far less frightening.
Only, when I woke up, a new nightmare began.
I was all alone in his bed when the sun came up, his car vacant from its usual spot in the driveway when I’d glanced out the window. Confusion blanketed me. Worry sunk its teeth into me. A tickle of trepidation swept through me.
Brant was gone.
And the worst part… ?
He never really came back.
“Yo.” I nearly jolt to the ceiling when two fingers snap in front of my face. “Earth to Peach.”
My hand shoots to my heart, my head popping up to discover Theo standing over me in his police uniform. I inhale a jittery breath, then let it out slowly. “Sorry. You scared me.”
“I have that effect on people when I’m dressed like this,” he shrugs with a smirk. “Thought it would have the opposite effect, but turns out, everyone’s got something to hide these days.” Theo frowns when I just kind of stare at him, my eyes glazed over. “You should be immune, though. Did I interrupt some intense daydreaming or something?”
I shake away the thoughts, laughing through my idiocy. “Sort of. I guess.” Reaching for my duffel, I sling it over my shoulder and rise to my feet. “Practice was challenging today. I’ll be recovering all week.”
“Gotcha. Good thing we’re jumpstarting the recovery process with ice cream cones down by the riverwalk. You can eat those, right?” He jabs my belly with his index finger. “I know the word ‘sugar’ is occasionally considered a mild offense amongst teenaged girls.”
Swatting his hand away, I push forward toward the exit. “Yes, Theo, I can have those. I’ll have two, now, just to be a brat.”
“’Atta girl.”
We make our way outside and into the September sun, hopping into Theo’s cruiser and driving the short distance to the downtown riverwalk lined with pizza joints, cutesy boutiques, and ice cream shops. I let my hair down and it dances through the open window as we parallel park along the bustling street. Jumping out of the car, I prop my sunglasses on my nose. “I thought you were off today,” I muse, strolling over to the sidewalk. “Did you get called in?”
Theo adjusts his holster, joining me in front of our favorite ice cream parlor. He sighs, whipping off his own sunglasses and securing them on his head. “Sure did—there always seems to be bad guys to defeat, people to save.” A grin curls in my direction as he gives me a gentle slug on the shoulder. “I’m making it sound a lot cooler than it is. It’s mostly traffic violations and petty citations.”
I return the smile. “Well, I’m glad you were still able to squeeze me in.”
“Anything for you, Peach. And anything for cookie dough.”
The little bell chimes overhead as we saunter into the shop, the scent of raspberry cream and warm vanilla sugar swirling around us. I purchase a few chunks of homemade fudge for Mom and Dad, as well as a sack of salt water taffy for Brant. He’s always had a sweet tooth—he told me once that desserts remind him of his late mother.
As the employee scoops the taffies into a bag, I tell her, “No purple ones, please.”
She glances at me. “Pardon?”
“No purple. All the others are fine.”
Apparently, it’s a strange request, because I get a long, baffled look before she painstakingly removes the purple candies, returning them to the case.
I take the treats with a big smile. “Thank you so much.”
Theo and I order our respective ice cream cones, and Theo ends up paying for the whole purchase. I thank him repeatedly because I’m only making ten-dollars-an-hour at the dance studio, assisting the instructors with the miniature ballerinas. Money is tight, going mostly to my cell phone bill and chipping in with gas when Mom lets me drive the minivan.
While we wait for the cones, the young girl scooping out ice cream keeps looking up at me, her dark eyes glinting with curiosity. When she hands me my cone, she nibbles her lip and finally says, “I’ve seen you at Bistro Marino.”
“Oh! Yes, I’ve stopped by a few times,” I tell her, bobbing my head, then licking the melty ice cream dribbling over the side of the cone. “Good memory.”
“Your boyfriend is awesome. He’s so talented.”
I pause, nearly choking on the bite I just took. Blinking up at her, my eyebrows lift. “What?”
“I work part-time as a hostess there. Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’ve seen you stop in from time to time with his lunch or something—anyway, I wasn’t trying to be nosy, but I wanted you to know that you’re lucky. My boyfriend can’t even microwave a Lean Cuisine without messing it up.” She laughs, bending to make Theo’s cone. “You two are adorable together.”
I’m speechless for a moment, braving a glance at Theo, who has a single eyebrow raised in confusion. “I-I’m sorry, you must be thinking of someone else…”
She pops her head back up, her ponytail swishing behind her. “Brant. The head chef.”
“Brant is my brother. He’s not my boyfriend.”
A moment of silence passes. A terribly awkward moment. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” The girl hands Theo his order, swiping her hands along her apron. “The way you two interacted with each other, I just thought… wow, okay. I’m sorry.”
She blushes, mortified.
I do the same because I’m equally mortified.
The clerk clears her throat, scratching at her neck as she addresses Theo. “You must be her boyfriend. I apologize for the misunderstanding.”
“Also her brother.”
Her eyes pop. “Wow. Great, that’s… great.” She gives us a little wave and moves to make a hasty retreat. “I’ll go die now.”
Stepping away from the counter, Theo follows behind me and we exit through the glass door, the little bell signaling our departure and sounding far less cheerful on the way out. When I take a bite of my ice cream cone, it tastes like shame.
“That was mildly cringey.” Theo falls into stride beside me as we turn onto the riverwalk, where ducks float along the water, hopeful for starchy snacks from passersby. “Your face is as pink as your leotard, Peach.”
“Shush.”
I feel him watching me as we walk, and my legs inadvertently pick up the pace as if I’m trying to lose his stare. “What was that all about?”
“How would I know?” I wince when my inner sass lashes out—that’s not like me anymore. I’ve evolved from a bratty teenager into a polite and eloquent lady, for the most part, thanks to that one time my mom recorded me in the midst of a hormonal hurricane when I was fifteen. She replayed it back for me once I’d calmed down, and I was so humiliated by my behavior, I turned my attitude around fast. It’s heightened my awareness of how other people perceive me, so I make a great effort to always put my best foot forward. Quickly correcting myself, I shoot Theo a small smile. “Sorry.”
My brother doesn’t seem to take offense, but that’s no surprise. Over the years, I’ve discovered that only two things in this world truly offend him—one of them being people who get offended.
The other: people who have the potential to put me in harm’s way.
This includes, primarily, any person of the male variety who looks at me, talks to me, God forbid, touches me, and occasionally, breathes the same air as me. Apparently, that last one depends on their face—if it looks like the face of someone who might participate in the previous list of offenses, they’re toast.
Theo doesn’t reply for a few beats, licking his ice cream cone until it molds into a perfect point. Then he murmurs, “I wonder why she thought that.”
Heat blooms on my cheeks again, and not even the cold ice cream can counteract it. “Weird, huh?”
“Definitely weird. She said something about the way you two interacted with each other… what the hell does that mean?”
“I have no idea. She obviously needs a lesson in social cues.”
“I’d say so.” He’s quiet again, so I assume this humiliating conversation is finally over. “How do you interact? Like, hugging or some shit? Or do you—”
“Theo, this is awkward. He’s my brother, and we act how we always act. Can we please talk about something else?”
I feel Theo’s eyes on me again. Gallant blue eyes. A sigh falls out of him as we travel beside the river’s edge, and when I peek up at him, he’s already popping the last bite of cone into his mouth, his attention on the water. “It’s a good day to save someone,” he says.
I laugh. He always said that when he still lived at home, right before he’d leave for his shift. “It’s always a good day to save someone.”
“I save a lot less people than I thought I would going into this gig. Where’s the damsels in distress? The princesses trapped inside the haunted castles?” Theo’s sandy-colored hair parts when the wind blows through, and as his smile grows, his spattering of freckles seems to multiply. “I rescued a litter of kittens from a sewer last week.”
Another laugh spills out of me. “That absolutely counts,” I say, licking up the melted ice cream that drips down my hand. “But seriously, I know you’ll get your big save one of these days. You were born to do this, Theo.”
He throws an arm around me, pulling me close as we stroll down the riverwalk. Giving me a little squeeze, he says, “As long as you believe in me, Peach.”
Theo dropped me off at Celeste’s house after our ice cream date, and we spent a few hours practicing our dance routine, gossiping, and making plans for the following weekend—Celeste’s brother is going to a party, and she wanted us both to tag along.
I’m not much of a partier, mostly because I have a deep-rooted fear that my brothers will materialize from the walls if I even glance in the direction of an alcoholic beverage, then carry me out upside down after securing me with a chastity belt and pulverizing every boy who had the audacity to be under the same roof as me.
Also, beer tastes like wet cardboard after a dog peed on it.
I agreed, though, because I’ve spent every waking weekend hour devoted to dancing, and I could use the social break. I’m not planning to stay long. It’s not easy staying out late with Brant still living at home—I swear he refuses to sleep until I’m home safe, always checking to make sure I’m unscathed the moment I walk through the door.
Well, he used to, anyway.
The sun is just beginning to dip behind the horizon as I walk the short trek home from Celeste’s house and traipse into the house.
Dad is just finishing up dinner, while Mom clears the table. My father swivels in his chair, sending me a hello from across the way as I set my duffel in the foyer. “June Balloon, my darling daughter,” he bellows, but it’s a charming bellow. He never sounds angry despite the rough baritone of his voice. “Hurry and gobble up some of this gumbo before your mother eats it all.”
“Very funny, Andrew,” Mom murmurs from around the kitchen corner. “You’re like a rabid animal with gumbo, foaming at the mouth when I try to take a single serving.”
“I wasn’t foaming, dear. It was a subtle froth.” He shoots me a pronounced eye roll, then mouths, “Dramatic.”
My dad is a goof. He wears platypus slippers, makes up funny words, and is always rhyming my name with something random. June the Goon when I’m acting silly. June the Typhoon when I’m a grouch. June Balloon, June Lagoon, June Harpoon—the rhymes are endless. Infuriating at times, when I want him to take me seriously, but mostly, I’ve come to treasure them.
Pulling the treats I accrued from the ice cream shop out of my bag, I stroll through the living room and into the kitchen, where exotic spices and cumin sweep under my nose. I hand my father the packaged fudge. “For you and Mom.”
His eyes light up as he coughs into his fist, slurring, “Favorite child alert.”
“Technically, Theo bought it.”
He coughs again, “Second favorite child alert.”
Smacking him on the shoulder, I share a smile with my mother, who’s placing dirty bowls into the dishwasher. The sack of taffies are clutched in my opposite hand, and I assume Brant is in his room since his Highlander was in the driveway when I got home. “Is Brant upstairs? I got him something, too.”
“He is,” Mom says. “It’s his weekend off. He went up right before you walked in.”
My father adds, “He’s in a mood. It’s good you’ll come bearing gifts.”
“A mood?”
He shrugs. “Not sure, really. He didn’t say much at dinner. But hey, while you’re up there, go give your brother a big hug.” Dad winks, the precursor to a joke. “A June cocoon.”
Good Lord.
I groan, then saunter away from the kitchen to the flight of stairs.
When I move into the open doorway of Brant’s bedroom, he’s standing by the window, looking out at the dusky sky. Swallowing, I take a few soft steps forward. “Hey.”
He hears me because he responds right away. “Hey.” He doesn’t turn around, though. Brant just stands there with his back to me, arms at his sides, his reflection subtle in the window pane.
I lick my lips and continue to pace toward him, until I’m flush with his back, his body heat diffusing into me. The scent of Ivory soap invades me, mingled with a slight trace of spearmint from his favorite chewing gum.
Then I wrap my arms around his middle, pressing my cheek to his spine.
He stiffens.
It’s a devastating reaction.
Brant always welcomes my arms, my hugs, my tender touches. He always reacts with equal affection, often upping the ante and picking me up, or tickling me, or squeezing me until I nearly pop. He never tenses up. He never hesitates.
He never stiffens.
“Brant, please,” I murmur into the warm cotton of his shirt. “Hug me back, will you?”
It takes a moment; a long, worrisome moment, but he eventually lifts his palm and places it atop my hands that have linked around his torso. It’s not much, but it’s something.
Brant’s head dips when his fingers graze the little plastic baggie, tied with piece of twine, that I’m still holding onto. “What’s this?”
“Salt water taffy. I picked it up for you today.”
“Why?”
Why? What a ridiculous question. Unraveling my arms, I wait for him to turn around and face me. He does—he does right away, his features firm and taut. The radiant rainforest in his eyes, lush greens and rich soil, looks more like a dying swamp. “Because I love you, that’s why.”
His frown pulls tighter.
“I even had them remove the purple pieces.” Taking his hand in mine, I set the little bag inside his palm, closing his fingers around it. “I thought maybe you needed something sweet.”
Brant’s eyes close for a moment, his fist clenching the gift. His dark silence penetrates me, a blunt dagger right through the heart.
Something’s wrong, but I don’t know what. Something happened, but he won’t tell me.
I can’t help him if he won’t tell me.
I have to help him.
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can get a word out, Brant snatches my face between his hands and looks me right in the eyes. They flash with something. I’m reeled back into my nightmare, and we’re swimming on that raft, the sky going dark, the river turning red.
Flash.
Brant moves forward like lightning and plants a hard kiss to my forehead, his thumbs bruising my jaw as he grips me tight. So tight, it almost hurts. Then he says in a ragged, broken voice, “I’ll always protect you, June.”
He lets go, and I nearly stumble back from the loss of him.
My breaths come quick and unsteady, my legs growing shaky as I listen to him storm down the staircase to the lower level. The front door slams shut, and I still stand in the center of his room, my hand to my heart, and my forehead still tingling from the weight of his kiss.
June.
Not Junebug.
He said he’d always protect me… but he has no clue that he’s the one striking me down.
