June First: Part 2 – Chapter 19

It’s June’s eighteenth birthday.

The last nine months have blown by like a tumbleweed in the desert, leaving me burned out and sucked dry. We’ve gotten back into a semi-old routine, with June none-the-wiser toward the insidious feelings that have attached themselves to me like a leech.

She’s my Junebug again.

And that’s because there’s no other option.

There’s no other way.

“Yo, Luigi!” Theo hollers, storming in through the back patio, already on his third beer. “Peach wants cake. Hurry it up, or I’m gonna start calling you Toadstool.”

My lips pucker as I crane my neck to glance at him in the kitchen. “Why?”

“Toads are slow.”

An amused grin pulls into place, and I multitask with the final layer of fondant, while revealing the truth to Theo. “You might want to be sitting down for this, but I have some news. Toadstool is a mushroom—not a toad.”

“What the hell?”

“Don’t tell me you never knew this. He looks exactly like a mushroom.”

Theo taps the half empty beer bottle against his thigh, running a hand through his slightly grown-out sandy hair. “I always thought he was a weird ass looking toad. Why is his name Toadstool, then?”

“Because… it’s a type of mushroom,” I say, unable to hold back my laughter.

“Shit. Shut up. Are you saying my whole life has been a lie?”

“Told you to sit down.”

“Fucking hell, Brant.”

Theo storms back out the way he came, his voice evaporating as he rambles off this new revelation to the guests outside.

Sorry about that, Mario.

June pokes her head inside a few moments later, her own laughter spilling into the kitchen, shooting straight to my heart. “Theo is losing his mind out there. How could you?” She breezes through the entryway, closing the door behind her, her smile wide and real.

I spare her a glance, popping the candles into the cake as my laughter meets hers. “The truth hurts sometimes.” When my gaze dips to the way her stunning birthday dress hugs her curves, and when the scent of her sweet vanilla body mist floats over to me, smelling like the cake that sits under my nose, my statement hits a little too close to home.

Luckily, I’ve mastered the art of disguise, so June is oblivious as she skips over to me perched at the counter, the hem of her shell-pink dress kissing her knees.

She hugs me.

She wraps her arms around my middle, her chin resting on my bicep as she gazes up at me with an innocent, charmed smile. “Mmm. You smell good.”

I nearly choke, my hand starting to tremble as I insert the final candle.

Eighteen.

Eighteen.

“Um, thanks.” I’m not sure what else to say. She smells good, too, but I’m certain I’d sound a lot creepier if I returned the compliment. “I showered. Works wonders.”

June giggles a little, hugging me tighter. “Ivory soap. It’s one of my favorite smells because it reminds me of you.”

This is innocent. This is completely innocent.

I force myself not to voice aloud all of her wondrous smells that are practically ingrained into me. Lilacs, mostly, fused into the flowery notes of her shampoo. Her citrus body wash, like lemon drops. Vanilla cake when it’s her birthday, but only on her birthday, and sometimes Samantha’s fancy department store perfume when we go out for a nice family dinner.

Clearing my throat, I force a quick smile and only hold her eyes for a second. “Ready for cake?”

June only wanted a small family gathering for her birthday celebration this year—she’s past the age of pony rides, bounce houses, and even giggle-infused get-togethers with her girlfriends.

She wanted something intimate, just her and her favorite people.

She nods, grinning as she speeds ahead of me. “I was born ready for cake.”

As night falls, only me, Theo, and June remain on the patio, reminiscing around the firepit. Theo and I are sipping on beer, while June nurses her bottled iced tea. She pulls a lawn chair right beside mine, and Theo sits across from us, his features amused as he stares into the ambient orange flames.

“That did not happen,” June squeals, wrought with giggles, almost as if she’s as buzzed as Theo. “Take it back, Theo. You’re a liar.”

“I’m not a liar. I swear to God—you can even ask Mom. You thought this complete random stranger at the swimming pool was Dad. You tried to go home with him. Only, he was covered in chest hair. The hairiest fuckin’ guy I’ve ever seen. And you take his hand and look up at him all innocent-eyed, and you say, ‘Why did the water turn you into an ape, Daddy?’”

She turns beet red, hiding her face behind her hand and curtain of long hair. “Lies. A web of lies.” June shakes her head back and forth, insisting through an embarrassed laugh, “I’d recognize my own father.”

A smile blooms on my face. “Are you sure it wasn’t him?” I question Theo, an eyebrow arching.

Here it comes.

He frowns. “Obviously.”

I almost don’t get the words out. “I mean, he could’ve been a toad… or he could’ve been a mushroom.”

June snorts, nearly spitting out her drink.

Theo’s head whips toward me, the wound clearly still fresh. “Yes, Brant, I’m sure. And by the way, fuck you, and fuck mushrooms.” His flash of teeth and burst of laughter softens his words. “I don’t even like mushrooms. Now I’m pissed I always picked him in Mario Kart.”

“Fuck mushrooms,” June echoes, doubling over with laughter. She tips sideways, her temple falling to my shoulder as her hand cups her mouth.

“Seriously,” he says. “Fuck a lot of things, but fuck mushrooms the most.”

“Oh my God… that’s our new catch phrase, Theo.” Her shoulders are shaking, her nails digging into my forearm as she holds herself up. “When we absolutely hate something, we’ll say ‘fuck mushrooms.’” She can’t breathe through her fit of giggles. My frame is literally keeping her from toppling to the patio pavers.

Theo isn’t faring any better. He’s hunched forward across from us, beer bottle dangling between his knees, his head down. His whole body vibrates with silent belly laughter. “Jesus, Peach.” He finally lifts his head with a sigh, tears shimmering in his eyes. “That’s gold right there.”

I laugh with them, partly because it’s funny, but also because June has tears trickling over her cheekbones as she comes down from the high, hiccupping, with the side of her face smashed against my arm. “You good?” I grin down at her, nudging her with my elbow.

Nodding, she swipes at the tears tinged with mascara and sucks in a deep breath. She meets my eyes, hers still twinkling. “I think I’m good. Whew.” June then reaches over me and flicks her thumb across the corner of my mouth, her face mere inches from mine. Vanilla crème invades me. I inhale a sharp breath, noting the sweet smile still curving her lips. “You had a little dab of frosting,” she says softly, her nose crinkling.

My mouth tingles from her touch.

Get a grip, Brant. Get a fucking grip.

“Thanks.” I take a swig of my beer and look away, trying to ignore the feel of her shoulder still glued firmly to mine, as if she’s cold. As if it isn’t seventy-degrees out, with a crackling fire sitting a foot away.

I sigh, lowering my beer.

When I glance up, Theo is staring at me. Watching me carefully.

Studying me.

His eyebrows are pinched together, the easy humor gone, his hand fisting the nozzle of his beer bottle in a tight grip.

What does he see right now?

Is there a spotlight on my heart?

Did I give myself away when my eyes dipped to June’s mouth for the swiftest second?

I send him a small smile, tapping the side of my beer with my index finger. Theo hesitates for a moment, like he’s lost somewhere in his mind, then blinks himself from the haze. He smiles back, but it doesn’t feel as genuine.

Unless I’m imagining it all.

Maybe Theo is simply daydreaming about sports, or an inside joke with Kip, or what he wants to do to his girlfriend later.

Maybe I’m going mad, making up wild scenarios that hold no weight.

And that’s the terrifying thing about keeping a secret that can rip your whole world apart. Sometimes you hold on too tight and spring a leak. Bits and pieces start to spill out, little by little, and before you know it, all your ugly, shameful truths have been exposed.

There’s no going back once there’s a leak. All you can do is mop up the spillage, and pray the damage isn’t more than you can bear.

Theo slaps a hand to his thigh and rises to his feet, taking a final chug from his bottle and tossing it into the nearby recycling bin. “I’m gonna take off. I’ve got a shift bright and early, and you,” he says, pointing at June, “have your last week of senior year starting tomorrow.”

“God, I don’t want to go. It’s going to drag. I just want to fast-forward to Prom.”

“Don’t blame you; school is the worst. Hated every second of it.” He leans into June, giving her a big hug, then whispers fondly, “Fuck mushrooms.”

June laughs into the crook of his shoulder. “Do not get me started again. I almost peed myself.”

“Don’t want that. You’re officially an adult now—can’t have you regressing already.”

She swats at him. “Thank you for coming today.”

“Anything for you, Peach. Happy birthday.”

I stand from my chair, disposing of my own empty beer bottle. “Need a ride?” I offer.

Theo seems to falter a little. His eyes slide up to me in a slow pull, narrowing when our gazes meet.

My insides pitch with warning.

But then I convince myself I’m imagining things, because his subsequent smile is easy and light. Like nothing could possibly be wrong. “Nah, I’ll walk. Thanks, though. You still chaperoning Peach’s dance thingy next weekend?”

“It’s called Prom,” she sighs.

I nod. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Cool. Kip and I are on duty that night—maybe we’ll stop by and make sure the princess isn’t getting herself into any trouble.” He looks pointedly at June, then winks.

She pales. “Absolutely not. That’s humiliating.”

“Why? One brother is going, why not two?”

His eyes glide back to me. Subtle, so subtle, but damnit, I swear there’s something there.

Brother.

Brother, brother, brother.

Theo looks back at June, his smile returning.

June crosses her arms, acting pouty. “Principal Seymour personally asked Brant to be there. It wasn’t my choice.”

It’s true. My old principal always had a soft spot for me, ever since he found me crying in a bathroom stall one day after Wyatt had tortured me on the playground with his schoolmates.

Asshole.

Principal Seymour transferred over to our town’s high school when I was in sixth grade, so he was a part of my life for the majority of my education. He was well aware of my story and frequently checked in on me, making sure I was okay, while sneaking lollipops into my backpack in my younger years.

I’d accepted the invitation to chaperone June’s Prom, and while I’m looking forward to seeing my old teachers and staff members, it wasn’t the main reason I’d jumped at the chance.

June has a date.

A kid named Ryker.

And I plan to keep a close eye on this kid named Ryker, because anyone who has a name like Ryker probably also has a motorcycle, bad intentions, illegal drugs, and an executive suite booked at The Sunnyside Inn under his Mom and Dad’s credit card.

Hell no.

Ryker can ride off into the sunset on his motorcycle all alone after the dance, while June comes home with me, safe and sound.

Theo stuffs his hands into his pockets with a sniff, shrugging his shoulders. “We’ll see how the night goes. Promise we won’t embarrass you if we make a quick patrol.”

“You better not,” she says, her pout twisting into a farewell grin.

He smiles warmly, then gives me a short nod before heading back inside the house.

June turns to me as I’m watching Theo retreat, telling myself everything is fine. She gives my arm a little pinch. “Hey. There’s something else I want for my birthday this year.”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

“It’s something you might not like.”

My curiosity piques as I twist to fully face her. I fold my arms, my brows furrowing with confusion.

June smiles. She reaches out and squeezes my hand, her thumb grazing over my knuckles as the light of the fire dances in her eyes, causing them to glimmer with an orangey glow. “Let’s go for a drive.”

My feet stop at the gate, a deep-rooted sense of panic sluicing my blood.

A cemetery looms before us.

“June, I can’t.”

Moonlight casts its milky glow on shadowy headstones, spotlighting my pain. June stands beside me in a navy blue jumper, her hair piled up in a high bun, her shoulder pressed against mine. She slides our hands together, interlacing our fingers until I’m squeezing tight. So tight, I’m afraid I might break her fragile bones.

Two big, round eyes draw up to me. “You can, Brant. I know you can.”

I shake my head. “You shouldn’t have brought me here. This isn’t your decision.”

“Sometimes we need a little push from the people who love us.” June squeezes my hand just as hard, telling me I won’t break her. She’ll be as strong as I need her to be. “You just need to be brave that first time, then all the other times come easy.”

My own words echo back at me.

I know I’ve been a hypocrite.

I’m twenty-four years old, and I haven’t visited my mother’s gravestone. Not once. When I was just a little boy, I was convinced she’d come alive, bust through the dirt and soil, and grab me with her skeleton hand. Foolish fairytales, of course. Childlike excuses to get out of doing that hard thing. And the older I got, the harder it became—with every passing year, it felt like a greater distance grew between my mother and me. She slipped further away.

Maybe there was a tinge of resentment there.

She promised me she’d always protect me. Those were her last words, and I believed them.

But where was she?

She was six-feet underground. She was dead, and I was still here.

Somehow, visiting her gravesite would feel like a cruel reminder of that. A cold, bitter reminder of her broken promise.

“I don’t think I can.”

“I promise you can—”

“I don’t want to!” I spin to look at her, my chest heavy with the weight of my buried grief. I’m white as a ghost, and feel just as lost. “I don’t want to.”

If I startled her, she doesn’t show it. June lifts her hand to my face, resting it against my cheek. My eyes close. “Yes, you do.”

I swallow, nuzzling into her palm. It’s an involuntary reaction to her touch. She touches me, and I melt. I sink. Inhaling a shuddering breath, my eyes still closed, I freeze when I feel the sensation of warm lips grazing the side of my jaw.

“For comfort,” she murmurs. Her lips slide to the opposite side of my face, where she presses a second kiss. “For courage.”

My eyes flutter open, and I know it’s a mistake. It’s a mistake to look at her when she’s standing on her tiptoes, one hand in mine, the other holding my shoulder for leverage, and the feel of her sweet kisses still burning my skin. But I do my best to quell the urge to take more than she’s given—more than she’ll ever give—and simply nod my head. “Okay.”

June flattens her feet, a sigh of relief leaving her as she lowers to the ground. A smile stretches, a proud, thankful smile, and she leads me through the gate, our hands still entwined.

I stare at the grass as we wind through headstones, focusing on my swiftly moving feet.

Focusing on her hand, tucked warm inside of mine.

Focusing on the cicadas singing to the ghosts.

I keep my mind busy until she slows down toward the middle of the cemetery, a shiny stone plaque moving into my vision. Significant, yet unfamiliar.

Precious, yet frighteningly intimidating.

Her words thunder through me:

“I’ll always protect you.”

Something inside me breaks like a dam. My hands ball into fists, and my throat tightens. My heart hurts.

It hurts.

I pull at my hair, spin in a circle, and stare up at the starry sky. “Where are you?!” I shout, sounding like a madman, like an unhinged beast. “Where are you, huh? You said you’d always protect me, but Where. Are. You?”

Silence answers me, as it always does, so I kick at the grass, at the mud, and I fall to my knees, growling my desperate pleas into my hands. “You lied.” My voice cracks, quivers. “I trusted you, and you lied…”

“Brant.” I’m falling apart, right along with the bodies and bones, when June wraps her arms around me, crouched beside me in the grass. “She kept her promise.”

I shake my head, tears spilling from my eyes. I’m crying. I’m fucking crying, and I can’t remember the last time I cried. “She didn’t.”

“Shh… she did. She did.” June strokes my hair, kisses my forehead, whispers her soft coos of solace into my ear. “She gave you to us, Brant.” Her own tears get the better of her, and she chokes out, “She gave you to me.”

My heart stutters.

My breath hitches, realization dawning on me.

Oh my God.

All this time…

All this time, I’d been angry and bitter, thinking my mother had broken her promise. She’d whispered hopeful words into a little boy’s ear that she couldn’t possibly keep.

But June is right.

My God, June is right.

My mother never broke her promise.

She said she’d always protect me, and she did.

Even in death.

She’d written me into her will. She’d written the Baileys into her will. Mom made sure I had a safe, loving home to go to if anything were to ever happen to her—and I think, maybe, deep down, she knew. She knew what my father was capable of, so she took the proper precautions to protect me, long after she’d left.

By sending me to live with Samantha and Andrew Bailey, my mother protected me from the legal system, foster homes, temporary families, and so many terrifying unknowns I can’t even begin to imagine. How different my life would be right now if she hadn’t done what she did. How frightening.

How lonely.

My mother’s last wishes were all about protecting me, and I can’t believe I never saw it.

Fresh tears flood me, and I collapse against June, her arms enveloping me as I bury my face into her neck. She holds me. She holds me so tight, keeping all my broken pieces from scattering.

“Thank you,” I croak out, my throat raspy and raw. My voice tired, but strong. My heart bruised, but free of the heavy weights. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

June pulls back, her hands clasped around my neck. Her own tears shine back at me. She feels my pain in the same way I feel it, and I’m not sure what that means. “You might not notice, but I always spritz myself with vanilla-scented body mist on my birthday,” she tells me.

I notice.

I hate that I notice.

She continues, pressing her forehead to mine. “I picked it up at a bath and body shop years ago, and the bottle is still practically full. I only use it once a year. It’s called Sweet Desserts.” Her thumbs massage just below my ears, and her breath kisses my mouth as she speaks. “I bought it because you used to tell me that your mom smelled like desserts. I know my birthday is the same day she…” She swallows; glances up at me. “Well, you know. I wanted to give you a reminder of her every June first—a happy reminder. A sweet memory hidden in the sadness.”

A sound falls out of me that I can’t take back.

A choking, painful sound.

And if she’d listened close enough, if she’d just strained her ear, she would have heard exactly what that sound said.

I’m hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you, June Bailey.

The desperate, aching kind of love.

The kind there’s no coming back from.

The kind there’s no way out of.

The kind that’s going to be the death of me one day.

I fall more in love with June than I ever thought possible as we clutch each other in a moonlit graveyard on her eighteenth birthday, with my mother on my mind, and the scent of sweet desserts dancing in the air.

That night still stands out in my mind all these years later.

Maybe it was because of the closure I felt with my mother’s memory, or the way June held me while I purged my ghosts. Maybe it was the vanilla breeze and singing cicadas, or maybe it was the profound knowledge that my heart would never come back from loving June.

But… maybe it was something else.

It was an end. A final chapter.

A swan song, of sorts.

You see, everything changed shortly after that night. Everything fell apart. Life, as we knew it, was forever altered.

I’m going to tell you about the second time Samantha Bailey ever cried.

It started with a kiss…