June First: Part 3 – Chapter 27

Part 3 – The Third Tragedy

My tires roll to a stop in front of the chic nightclub on the other side of town called The Black Box. Brant is standing outside the main doors, leaning back against the iron-gray bricks, laughing with a cute blonde with cat-eye glasses and an impressive figure. The woman looks like she’s laughing so hard she can’t catch her breath, doubling over with her palms clasped around black leather-clad knees.

I bite my lip.

Pauly Marino opened the posh club a few months ago, determined to bring an air of decadence to our northwest Chicago suburbs—the club features renowned DJs, a magenta-lit bar, upscale appetizers made from scratch, and well… my brother, the lead bartender.

While Brant still works full-time at Bistro Marino as head chef, he offered to help Pauly out on the weekends slinging drinks and partaking in a semblance of a social life for once. I was surprised when he volunteered for the position, since Brant is all about food. But apparently, cocktails and culinary cuisine aren’t too far off. Brant says it’s all about nailing the flavor fusions, and if you can do one, you can do the other.

This has been good for him.

He’s been happier lately; smiling more, joking with me. His touches and hugs aren’t filled with doubt and disintegration like they were in those dreary autumn and winter months, as we fought to get back on track to who we used to be.

It feels like we’re finally “us” again, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.

So, I’m not sure why seeing him so happy and carefree right now, lost in laughter with one of his co-workers, is causing my stomach to twist with knots.

I’m being foolish.

Shaking the weirdness away, I turn the car off and hop out, finally catching Brant’s attention.

His eyes glitter at me beneath the bar lights. “June.”

I feel as drab as can be in my baggy hoodie and leggings, my hair pulled up into a messy bun, and hardly any makeup painting my face. I look like a troll compared to the blonde who spins around, gifting me with a flash of perfect white teeth and an adorable, crinkled nose.

“Oh, hey! Are you Brant’s sister?” She shakes off the remnants of her laughter as her light blonde hair is swept up in a sharp breeze. “He’s told me so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope?” I laugh lightly.

She taps her index finger to her chin. “Define good.”

Brant gives her a gentle nudge with his elbow, chuckling under his breath. “C’mon, Neville.”

She giggles, ramming him right back with double the force.

I blink.

“Ack, sorry,” she blurts, skipping forward and extending her hand. “I’m such a spaz. I’m Sydney. Brant’s favorite co-worker.”

“My favorite pain in the ass,” he corrects in jest.

Chewing on my cheek, I return the handshake and force a smile. My eyes skip between them as a stab of jealousy punctures me—Brant looks so happy right now.

But it’s not me who’s putting that smile on his face or adding that bounce to his step. He’s not laughing over a joke I told, or partaking in affectionate banter with me.

And I have no idea why that stings.

You’re being ridiculous, June. You should be happy that he’s happy. Period.

Clearing the senseless emotion from my throat, I wring my hands together and fidget in place. “Well, I’m ready when you are,” I say to Brant, sending him another tiny smile that took far too much effort to produce. Brant’s Highlander is in the shop until Monday after the alternator died, so I offered to be his chauffeur for the weekend.

He studies me for a moment, the sienna flecks in his eyes darkening to umber, as if he can sense something off about me. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Sydney pipes in, waving her arms back and forth. “I’m going to take off, too. I have a date with a riveting book of smut and my vibr—” She wheezes a little, catching herself. “Vibrant imagination.”

Brant laughs.

And I can’t help it—I laugh, too.

“Have fun with that,” I chuckle, pacing backward. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Likewise.” She waves us off with a toothy grin, then wanders toward the parking lot.

Brant’s smile lingers as he pivots to face me, his hair looking darker than ever. Almost black. But his eyes have a light I wasn’t sure I’d ever see again.

Tipping my head to my car parked behind me, I gesture him to it. “Ready?”

He nods, and we both pile into the dated sedan that Mom and Dad bought me for my nineteenth birthday. The mileage is high, and it smells like Sharpies, but I’m grateful for my own set of wheels—mostly because I don’t have anywhere close to the funds I’d need to purchase one on my own. It’s embarrassing, really, but my dreams of becoming a Broadway dancer shriveled up and died last year, and leaving to go off to college was too painful to even consider.

So, I enrolled in a few community college courses to keep myself busy until I fully decide on what I want to do with my life, while waiting tables four days a week at Barnaby’s diner.

Truly pathetic.

I’ve considered picking up more shifts at the diner and moving in with Genevieve, who also decided to stay local and shack up with her stepbrother right after high school. But he’s entering the military, so she asked me if I’d be interested in taking his place and splitting the rent.

I am. I really am.

But my paychecks are going entirely to car insurance, gas, and my cell phone bill, and I have pennies left to spare.

Sighing, I close the car door and sit quietly for a minute, fiddling with my keys. A cloud of Ivory soap and spearmint fill the small space, causing me to gnaw at my lip as I lift my gaze to Brant. He’s already looking at me. Probably wondering why I seem so glum after spending a fun, exciting day at the beach with him just two days ago.

Before he can interrogate me, I twist a piece of loose hair around my finger and blurt, “You should go out with her.”

He frowns, his neck craning back slightly with bewilderment. “What? Who?”

“Your co-worker. Sydney.”

I’m not sure why I say it.

Queasiness claims me the moment the words tumble from my lips.

Brant swallows, facing forward for a moment before looking back to me. “Why?”

Yes, June, why?

“Because… you haven’t gone out with anyone since Wendy. You must be lonely, right?”

He fidgets in his seat. “I’m fine. I keep busy.”

“Well, you deserve to have fun and be happy. You’re young, and goodhearted, and sexy, and…” I stutter over my words, wondering why I chose one of them.

Sexy.

I gulp.

… Sexy?!

He blinks at me because I’ve clearly gone mad. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as his gaze dips to my mouth for the briefest second. “You think I’m sexy?”

I flush with embarrassment, shoving the key into the ignition until the vehicle roars to life. “I just meant… she thinks you are. Surely.”

“Why would you assume that?”

Flustered, all I can think to do is twist the rearview mirror in his direction until he’s staring at his own reflection. Then I put the car into drive and take off, wishing I could leave my humiliation behind to choke on the exhaust fumes.

A burst of laughter escapes him as he clips his seatbelt into place beside me. I’m certain he’s about to probe and tease me, but all he does is prop a foot up on the dashboard and change the subject. “So, did you decide if you’re moving in with Gen or not?” he asks as I turn on the radio, allowing an ambient song to drown out my lingering shame. “Might be good for you to get out of your parents’ place. Get a taste of independence, you know?”

I spare him a quick glance as we pull out onto the main road. We had talked about my desire to become more independent at the beach this past week as we sprawled out on beach blankets and counted the clouds. “I’m not sure if now is the right time. I don’t have a steady paycheck.”

“Smart. You’re still young.”

“Young and goalless, sure.”

“You could start dancing again.” Brant removes his attention from the passenger window and looks over at me. “I wish you would.”

My chest aches with nostalgia. With disappointment. With regret for giving up on something I cherished so dearly and worked so hard for.

Swallowing, I nod my head. “Maybe one day. My asthma makes it tricky.”

“A lot of people with asthma have labor-intensive jobs. You just need to be careful. Aware.”

“I suppose.”

“Think about it, Junebug. Please.”

The sound of my special nickname sends a tickle to my heart. Brant doesn’t say it as often as he used to, and I’m confident it’s because of our reckless kiss. He associates the name with innocence, and what happened between us was anything but.

Lord, that kiss.

It’s been a year since it happened, but it still haunts me.

Still clings.

Brant hasn’t brought it up since his text messages to me shortly after he moved out, and I haven’t brought it up, either. I think that was the point—we were going to move past it. Acknowledge that it happened, and put it behind us.

And we have.

Things are better now. Good, even.

Brant comes over and cooks us family dinners at least once a week, and we often spend one-on-one time together grabbing coffee, riding our bikes at the forest preserve, or lounging on the beach. Kip joins us for family barbecues on occasion, having formed a deep bond with my parents, and even he is none the wiser that our lips have locked; that our tongues have tasted.

It was just a blip in our ever-complicated history.

In terms of outward appearances, at least.

We may have put it behind us, sure… but it followed me.

It nibbles at my ankles every now and then when Brant looks at me a certain way, his eyes hooded and kindled, or when he holds me for a beat too long as he hugs me goodbye, or when his knuckles graze my own while we walk side by side, his soapy scent enveloping me in a heady smog.

A sigh leaves me, and it must tremor slightly, because Brant notices.

“You okay?” he wonders, reaching across the center console and cradling my unoccupied hand that has balled up in my lap. “You seem on edge.”

“I’m good.” My tone is strained, despite my attempt to sound perky, and my hand pulses with warmth inside his grasp. “Just thinking about my dismal future, as usual.”

He hesitates for a moment. “You know, you could…” His voice trails off.

Turning onto the familiar street that houses his apartment complex, I shoot him a quick look. “I could what?”

“Never mind. Not a good idea.”

I frown. “Brant, tell me. You must.”

“I just…” He resituates in his seat, blowing out a hard breath. Another few beats go by before he finishes, “You could move in with me… if you want.”

My heart stops.

A strangled sensation inches its way up my chest and into my throat.

“Like I said—bad idea,” he tries to recover. “I just figured… a year’s gone by, we’re in a better place, and you deserve a taste of independence. But maybe—”

“No, you’re right.” Swallowing, I start nodding my head. “I’ll think about it. If you’re sure.”

Move in with… Brant?

Brant… as my roommate?

I’m not sure if the idea is preposterous or strangely compelling.

We lived together under one roof for most of our lives, so this wouldn’t be much different.

He has two separate bedrooms.

Plus, he works almost every day of the week, so we’d hardly even see each other.

My hand that grips the steering wheel goes white-knuckled as the invitation slithers through me. Brant lets go of my other hand, scratching at the back of his head and murmuring, “Yeah, I’m sure.”

I don’t say anything as I pull into the complex’s parking lot and stall the car. The air feels thick and heavy, hardly enough to breathe off of, so I roll down my window and drink in a few deep breaths as the evening breeze filters through.

I’m about to say my goodnights when Brant speaks first. “Do you want to come inside?”

That lump returns to my throat as I glance at him. I’m unable to pinpoint the sentiment gleaming back at me, but it feels different. It feels… charged.

His hazel eyes are glowing in the muted moonlight, earthy and electric.

I’m tempted to say yes; so, so tempted.

But I have plans already.

Shaking my head, I smile with apology. “I can’t. I have a date tonight.”

Brant stiffens. Everything about him goes rigid as he looks away from me, the cords in his neck dilating as his muscles tic. He stares out the windshield in silence.

No reply.

Desperate for some kind of response, I begin to stammer, “I-I’m free tomorrow from—”

“I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but the thought of another man putting his hands on you makes me borderline murderous.”

I almost choke.

Canting my head in his direction, I watch as he rakes his gaze over me, his jaw twitching, before his eyes slide back up to mine. I heave in a precarious breath and squeak out, “Another?”

A beat passes. “What?”

“You said another man. Did you mean, someone other than… you?”

Oh my God.

I can’t believe I just asked him that.

What the hell is wrong with me tonight?

Delete! Delete!

My cheeks flame with mortification as I quickly look away, ducking my chin to my chest, wondering if I should start chanting in Latin, and maybe the ground will open up and swallow me whole.

The silence is horrifying as I sit there, squeezing my eyes shut and biting my lip. Waiting for him to scold me, or laugh at me, or tell me I’m being a silly girl.

When the silence becomes too much to bear, I press my palms to my heated cheeks, inhaling a shuddery breath. “God, I’m sorry. That was really—”

“Yes.” His voice is low and husky. He stares at me as my head pops back up, his eyes alight with wild embers. “That’s what I meant.”

My throat feels tight and full of grit. I’m not sure what to say, or what to do. How to react. Luckily, Brant breaks the tension with a heavy sigh and glances away, rubbing at his chin. “Well, goodnight,” he mutters, unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching for the door handle. “Come by this week. I’ll cook for us.”

I nod swiftly. “Okay. Sure.”

I’m this-close to becoming a statue as I sit there with both hands curled around the steering wheel, my spine straight, my chest stacked with weights. Brant’s shoes crunch along the gravel as he gets out of the car and moves around the rear, stopping at the driver’s side. I see him in my peripheral; hesitating, debating his next move.

And then he sweeps over to me in a quick blink and leans in through the open window, his hand extending, cupping my face until I turn my head and we’re eye-to-eye. “My offer still stands. About moving in with me,” he says gently, his thumb grazing my jaw. A smile whispers on his lips, and his eyes twinkle with genuine affection. With love. “Be safe tonight. I worry about you.”

Before I can respond with more than a pathetic little whimper, he pulls back and walks away.

He disappears into the apartments, and I’m left clutching my chest, wishing I hadn’t been so vague. Wishing he wasn’t worrying.

The truth is, he doesn’t need to worry—

My date is with the dead.

The following Saturday, I’m pacing around my bedroom with packed bags and an anxious heart.

We had plans tonight.

I told Brant I wanted to talk to him about something, so we decided to grab a late dinner after he got off work at the nightclub.

I wasn’t expecting his latest text message.

Brant: Hey Junebug, I’m sorry to do this. Sydney’s sister had an emergency come up and had to bail on her, so I offered to drive Syd home tonight. Can we reschedule our dinner? You don’t need to wait up for me.

As I scanned it, my insides instantly pitched with a horrible, ugly feeling.

You don’t need to wait up for me.

That’s code for he’s staying the night.

That’s code for sex.

And hell, I told him to do it.

I told him to go out with her.

So, I have absolutely no right to feel like my organs are suffocating and withering to dust right now. It’s embarrassing. It’s weak and pitiful.

And for what?

Why do I even feel this way?

Brant deserves to find happiness with someone. I have no claim over him, even though it feels like he’s tethered to me in the most profound, all-consuming way. I love him more than I love breathing. He knows every dent and divot in my heart, and he knows how each one got there. He’s tasted my tears and silenced my fears.

But he’s not mine.

I have no reason to feel jealous.

And yet, hot tears slice at my eyes as I shove my cell phone into my back pocket.

I’m a hypocrite, too, because I kissed a man over Christmas break when Celeste came into town to visit her family. She hosted a holiday party, and I made out with her cousin Aaron in the upstairs bathroom.

It wasn’t enjoyable.

His tongue was sloppy, his hands clumsy.

He smelled like fried fish.

And the moment he tried to sneak his fingers into my underwear, I shoved him away, lying about being on my period.

The truth was, I just wasn’t into it. I tried to be, but ever since the Prom, my body hasn’t responded to men in the same way that it used to; my sensuality has dwindled into ash.

I’m broken.

A knock sounds on my bedroom door, startling me. I swipe the remnants of tears off my cheeks and move to open it.

Mom stands on the other side, donning her typical messy bun with a pen stuck inside and white robe. Her eyes pan to my overnight bags that are brimful in the center of the room. “Where are you going?”

“I, um…” I fluster, sweeping my hair over to one side. “Remember how I told you I was thinking about rooming with someone?”

She frowns. “Yes. You told me Genevieve asked you to move in with her, but you couldn’t afford it.”

“Right. I can’t… so, someone else offered.”

Her ‘Mom Eyebrow’ raises.

I bite my lip. “Brant offered.”

“Brant?” Mom tugs the ties of her robe, then crosses her arms, leaning against the doorjamb. Her blue eyes flicker with confusion. “When did this happen? Why are your bags already packed, and I’m just now hearing about it?”

Because I’m being dramatic and impulsive. “I’m just going to stay for a couple of nights to see if it’s a smooth transition. I was going to talk to you before I left.”

My mother has always had that uncanny sense of something not being right. She calls it a motherly intuition, while I tend to lean more toward the voodoo or witchcraft angle.

She has a lot of crystals, and her favorite movie is Practical Magic.

When I kissed Marty Buchanan by the mulberry tree, she knew. Instantly. After releasing my wrath upon Brant, I stalked inside—she twisted around on the couch, raised that infamous eyebrow, and told me I was too young to be kissing boys.

When I fell through the ice, she knew. She said the moment it happened, her skin chilled and her blood froze. She obsessively called my father, insisting something terrible had happened.

The night of Prom… she knew.

Mom told me there was a pang in her chest all night, from the moment we stepped out the front door. She couldn’t stomach dinner. She couldn’t concentrate on her crochet work.

She sat on the couch with her cell phone in her lap all evening, until she got that call from Brant. The one that informed her I was in the hospital after collapsing at the dance from an asthma attack.

She never expected Theo, though.

She just knew something was wrong.

Like right now.

Something.

Her lips purse with concentration, as if she’s trying to pull brainwaves out of my mind and pick them apart with her sorcery.

Good luck, Mom. I don’t even know what I’m thinking.

Unable to get a read on me, she sighs heavily. “You seem flustered. What are you not telling me?”

I hope she’s not shining a light on my inner psyche with her laser beam eyes, because I’m currently replaying that kiss over and over, detail for detail. My cheeks redden like traitors. “Nothing, Mom. I was on my way down to talk to you, and I was nervous. I thought you wouldn’t approve.”

“Why wouldn’t I approve? He’s your brother.”

I falter. I don’t have an answer for her that doesn’t implicate our indiscretion, so I focus on the situation itself, instead of Brant. “I didn’t want you to feel abandoned. If I leave, it would just be you and Dad, and it hurts my heart to think of you both all alone in this quiet house.”

Tears blanket my eyes as my own words sink into me.

My mother lifts up from the doorframe with a sympathetic smile, stepping toward me and curling my hair behind my ear. Her own hair shimmers with a sprinkling of silver threads beneath the artificial hall light. “All birds have to leave the nest eventually, June. There’s no good time, or right time. They simply fly when their wings are ready.”

I shift my gaze to the bluebird canvas above my dresser, sniffling through a nod.

“Take a few days to feel out the situation, and if it’s a good fit, I’ll talk to Dad, and we can help move your things over.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Mom lowers her arm, her smile still in place. “If you’re going to stay with anybody, I’m glad it’s Brant. He’s always had your best interest in mind.”

My hand slips into the pocket of my hoodie where one of the spare keys to Brant’s apartment rests. Mom and Dad have the other.

I send my mother a strained smile, gripping the key in a tight fist. “Okay… thank you,” I tell her, stepping backward and bending down for my two bags, jam-packed with clothes and toiletries. “When Dad gets home from trivia night, can you fill him in for me? I’ll stop by and talk to him tomorrow.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“I love you.”

She returns the sentiment and leaves me to finish gathering my belongings. Before I retreat from the room, I hesitate briefly, my eyes skating up to the bluebird painting.

I worry my lip between my teeth.

Then, I snatch it off the wall and stuff it into one of the bags.

Two hours.

I’m sitting on the bright blue sofa in Brant’s living room for two hours before the sound of jingling keys pulls me up straight and sends a colony of butterflies to my belly.

Will he be mad?

Will he be happy to see me?

He doesn’t know I’ve decided to move in with him yet. That was the purpose of our dinner meeting tonight.

I watch nervously as he pushes through the threshold with a weary sigh, tossing his car keys to the countertop and kicking off his shoes. He doesn’t notice me at first—he has no reason to think his sister would be standing in his living room after returning home from a one-night stand.

My palms start to sweat.

Brant falters in the entryway for a beat, tousling his dark hair that’s clipped shorter on the sides but wild and untamed on top. Slightly curly. He looks tired as he stands there, just staring down at the small patch of ivory tiles that house two pairs of shoes.

I clear my throat.

His head shoots up, eyes squinting through the dim lighting, then widening when he registers my presence. He sucks in a breath, and we stare.

We stare at each other in silence, my heart in my throat.

My heart in his hands.

“June?”

Brant poses my name like a question, as if it could be anyone else but me. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says softly. He shakes himself from the daze, taking slow steps forward and ruffling his hair again. “What, uh… what are you doing here?”

He wipes at his mouth.

My stomach pitches, envisioning that mouth on hers. “My answer is yes.”

“Your answer?” Another step forward. “To what?”

“Moving in with you.”

Dipping his gaze lower and to the left, he finally spots my overnight bags, still zipped and full. Still waiting for permission. He swallows, glancing back up at me. “Okay. Right.”

“Okay?” I nibble my lip, my fingernails leaving tiny crescents on my palms. “You’re not mad that I just showed up unannounced?”

“You’re always welcome.”

My throat feels like I swallowed needles as I take a few tentative steps toward him. “This was what I wanted to talk to you about,” I say. “At dinner.”

A flash of guilt lights up his eyes, and he ducks his head. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to stand you up, I just felt obligated to give her a ride home, and—”

“Did you have sex with her?” I blurt.

The air leaves the room as my cheeks flood with heat.

My knees are quivery, hardly stable.

My chest hums with prickling anxiety.

Brant is silent as the question echoes off the unfurnished plaster walls, his chin lifting back up as his eyes settle on me. It takes an eternity for him to reply. “No. It didn’t go that far.”

“You… you stopped it?”

I’m beyond pitiful. His sexual conquests are not my concern.

He’s. My. Brother.

He pulls his lips between his teeth, shaking his head. “She did.”

Jealousy thunders through me—the most loathsome, most venomous, of all the human emotions. Tears rush to my eyes as my hands curl into fists.

“June…” He descends on me, concern radiating from his worried eyes. “June, talk to me. You look like I just ripped your heart out.”

My bottom lip trembles, so I chomp down on it, flicking my head back and forth.

“I don’t understand,” Brant murmurs, moving in until we’re toe to toe. His hand raises, his knuckles skimming my flushed cheek. “You told me to. You said I should go out with her.”

“I-I know… you should. I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what to say or how to explain away this ridiculous reaction. All I can think to do is run from it. “I should go. I didn’t mean to just show up like this. It was rude and presumptuous.”

Pulling away from his touch, I sweep around him and march my way to the front door. I don’t grab my bags, but I’ll come back for them. It’s fine.

I just need to go.

When I reach the door, I twist the brass knob and tug it open, prepared to dart into the hallway and escape this mess of confusion.

Only, I’m stopped short when a hand plants against the door right above my head, slamming it shut. I draw in a sharp breath. He’s right behind me, his chest whispering along my back as he cages me in. Swallowing hard, I squeak out, “Brant…”

Electricity hisses all around us.

My hand squeezes the doorknob, more for balance than for reprieve.

Brant leans in, his lips caressing my ear and sending a shiver up my spine. “Tell me why the thought of me having sex with someone else bothers you.”

I inhale another choppy breath.

He remains flush against me, his warmth causing me to overheat.

“Else?” I mutter, licking my lips. The word comes out shaky. Everything is shaky. “Did you mean, someone other than… me?”

A sigh leaves him. A sigh that sounds like want and yearning.

A sigh that sounds like I should go.

“Yes,” he whispers, his head drawing up. Another few seconds pass before he moves back over me, resting his forehead to the crown of my head. “That’s what I meant.”

We remain in that position for a long time, his hand pressed to the wood door above me, his body leaning forward, blanketing me with his hard frame and spearmint scent. His breaths tickle the nape of my neck, causing my hair to flitter and dance.

His command hangs in the air, but I don’t have an answer for it.

Only the sad truth: I don’t know.

Brant finally moves away, pulling his hand from the door and taking a step back. My palm is still fisted around the doorknob, clammy and trembling.

He sighs again, this time with an air of defeat. “Stay.”

The word reverberates through me.

Leaves me conflicted.

Leaves me rattled.

Leaves me dropping my hand from the knob and saying the one word I probably shouldn’t say: “Okay.”

I stay.

And I wonder if I’ll ever leave.