June, age 21
My face feels stiff from the costume makeup as I tuck stray strands of hair back into my bobby pins. I feel lighter without the enormous animal prop secured around me, but the bright lights and cramped space always have my chest squeezing during intermission.
Delicious nerves sweep down my spine and tickle my tummy as my reflection stares back at me. I look different these days. I’m a dancer, now—a Broadway dancer, living my dream—and aside from the elaborate makeup caked all over my face, the real difference is in my eyes.
I’ve grown up.
Beatrice bumps into me, curling her fingers into cat claws as she winks. “Where’s Celeste?” she wonders. She fans herself with one of the programs as dark strands of hair stick to her forehead.
“Smoking,” I reply, smiling at her as I collapse into a chair and roll up to the vanity counter. Illuminated mirrors line the walls, decorated with those vintage Hollywood lightbulbs and scattered photographs from the performers.
I only have one photo taped to my personal mirror space—the Prom picture of me, Brant, and Theo.
It brings me good luck and placates my nerves.
I spoke to Brant before the show today, but he sounded busy. Distracted. Static and background noise stole most of our conversation, as if he were taking a walk or out in public. I wondered if he was with someone, and my call was putting a damper on his plans.
He told me he had a present for me, though, so curiosity has prickled me all afternoon and into the evening. What could it be? As much as I want to know what it is, what I want even more is for him to deliver it in person.
The distance is hard.
It gets harder every day, and even though my life is exciting, and my career is thriving, I will never truly feel fulfilled. I’ll always be missing a giant piece.
I’ll always be missing him.
“She’s smoking without me? Wench.” Beatrice pushes through a wall of dancers that are all chatting loudly and sucking down water bottles as they regroup from the arduous first half of the show.
Time to focus.
As I’m reapplying setting spray, I hear my name echoing through the sea of people.
“June!”
My head snaps up, and I glance around, trying to pinpoint where Celeste’s voice is coming from. I’m surrounded by hyenas and lions.
“Holy shit, girl, look what the cat dragged in… literally!”
Celeste is a lioness. Leaning back in my chair, I crane my neck and spot her beelining toward me. “What? What are you…”
I trail off, then rise from my seat like I’m being yanked up in slow motion by an invisible force.
It can’t be.
My heart starts to race with recognition and coursing adrenaline.
I nearly choke on a stunned sob.
Celeste’s fingers are curled around Brant’s wrist as she tugs him forward, zigzagging through the crowd. “I’m not sure if he’s technically allowed in here, but I had to borrow him for a minute,” she says to me, her grin wide, her teeth looking even whiter against the dark orange face paint. “Surprise?”
Sweat dots my brow, and my lungs feel tight.
Brant.
Brant is here.
He’s here in New York City, standing in the middle of my backstage dressing room, staring at me in glazed, wide-eyed wonder.
And I’m dressed like a zebra.
I blink, making sure he’s real. Making sure I’m not having another delirious dream.
“Junebug,” he murmurs, saying my name like it’s a sacred thing.
Tears sluice my eyes. I think I might faint.
My black and white striped legs pull me toward him, and Celeste slips out of the way to avoid being sandwiched between us when I inevitably catapult myself into his arms.
Only, I stop just short, afraid to touch him.
I’m terrified to feel his arms around me because I might just break apart.
“Brant,” I whimper, my bottom lip trembling. My entire body trembling. “You’re here…”
He’s wearing a cream-colored button down with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. It’s striking against his tanned skin and dark, unruly hair—the hair he’s sweeping fingers through right now as his eyes twinkle beneath the incandescent lighting. They twinkle with relief, with want, with sweet reunion.
This isn’t a phone call, or a video chat. This isn’t a letter, or a text.
I could reach out and touch him if I wasn’t about to topple over.
He’s really here.
His lips stretch into a smile, causing his dimples to pop. His hand falls from his shaggy hair, then extends toward me, reaching for my face. I’m bathed in familiar scents, like Ivory soap and spearmint and home.
Everything around me falls away.
I close my eyes when his knuckles lightly graze my jaw, absorbing his touch for the first time in two years. Memories inundate me; good, bad, beautiful, painful. Desperate kisses and warm hugs. Tears, love-making, grief, and sad goodbyes.
God, it’s too much… it’s so unexpected and powerful, and…
My lungs collapse.
I feel my chest start to wheeze as my breathing comes undone.
Oh, no.
A familiar overwhelm infiltrates me—the lights, the crowd, the heat… him.
It’s him.
Brant is here.
How can he be here?
A stampede of emotion tramples through me as my knees wobble and my lungs fight for satisfying breaths. Brant’s look of awe slips away, replaced with worry.
“Whoa… are you okay?” He steps closer to me, his palm cupping my cheek. “June.”
I’m nodding even though I can’t breathe.
“Shit,” Celeste says, jumping into action and snatching my purse tucked beneath the beauty counter. She pops my inhaler into my hand. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.”
“No, I-I’m… o-okay…” I take a few puffs on the inhaler, closing my eyes as the medicine eases the tightness in my chest. I feel Brant’s hands brush up and down my arms, languid and firm. A calmness seeps inside, and my frenzy morphs into a slew of hot tears biting at my eyelids. “Brant,” I squeak out, my eyes fluttering back open. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”
His brow is creased with unmistakable concern. He squeezes my upper arms, swallowing hard. “I’m here.”
Celeste rubs my back, then whispers into my ear. “Go get some air. We still have a few minutes.”
I nod.
Brant guides me through the dancers to the backstage door that leads outside, and the moment we step into the muggy August air, I launch myself into his arms, my airways finally stretching with reprieve. The chaos in my chest dissipates, and all I’m left with is profound relief.
I try to keep my tears from falling so I don’t ruin my makeup, but they slip out anyway. They dampen his shirt, ivory like his soap, and I feel two steadfast arms wrap around me, his palms sliding up and down the center of my back.
One of his hands moves around to my front and lands against my chest, his fingers splaying over my ribs like he’s trying to soothe my faulty lungs. “Don’t cry, Junebug,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss my hair. “You scared me.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, sniffling. “It was just a shock.”
When I pull back slightly, my eyes lift to his, catching the sentiment glowing back at me. Feeling him in my arms, inhaling his scent, watching his expression flicker and burn, has my mind spinning and loopy. I squeeze his shoulders to steady myself, still not convinced I won’t topple.
“God… let me look at you.” Brant inches back farther and takes my chin between his thumb and fingers. His gaze rakes over me, remnants of worry lingering from my brush with asthma.
“Don’t,” I beg. New tears rush out of me as I shake my head. “I’m a zebra.”
His lips finally quirk into a smile. “You’re a dream.”
“A nightmare, honestly,” I sniff. “What are you doing here?”
He steps back more, his hands finding their way into the pockets of his dark slacks. The streetlight casts a yellowy warmth upon him, highlighting the bronze flecks in his hair. Two earthy eyes find mine, glinting with more than he can say right now. “It’s a long story, but maybe we can grab a drink and talk after the show?”
How did you find me?
How long will you be in town?
Do you still love me?
My mind races with questions, but I simply nod my head, knowing I’m running out of time. I have a performance to finish. I have a small role in the acclaimed The Lion King, and that’s no small feat for a newer dancer like me.
“Of course,” I nod, licking away the paint-tinged tears tickling my lips. I need to hurry inside and fix my makeup with only moments to spare. “Do you have a ticket? Will you be in the audience?”
He shakes his head, ruefully. “This was sort of last minute. I got Celeste’s aunt’s number, and she said you guys were performing tonight. I was just waiting out here until you were done.” Brant dips his head with a light chuckle. “Celeste caught me.”
“Well, I’ll meet you out here after the show,” I say as a smile pulls on my awful zebra lips. I’m certain I look like a buffoon, and any attraction Brant still held for me has exploded into dust. “You’ll wait for me?”
Brant’s eyes squint toward me like my question is absurd. “You know I will.”
“You mean it?” My smile blooms. I can’t help myself.
“Of course, I mean it.” He steps forward, clasping my neck with both palms and pressing his forehead to mine. He inhales sharply, as if he’s drinking me in. “I told you I’d wait forever.”
With a kiss to my hairline, Brant pulls back and lets me go, leaving me with a smile and the remnants of his promise.
It almost feels like a first date as we stroll through the doors of The Rum House, a swanky bar located in the Theater District of Midtown Manhattan, and take a seat at the bar.
I suppose I don’t really know what a first date feels like.
Aside from a few awkward kisses and house parties with classmates, the only man I’ve ever been with is Brant—and our relationship has been backwards from day one.
But if I could picture a first date, it would be something like this. Piano music, candlelight, classic cocktails, romantic ambience, and the man I love unable to keep his eyes off me.
He sips his scotch on the rocks like a red-blooded male, while I suck down a Cherry Upside Down Cake Martini like a juvenile girl who’s only been able to legally drink for two months and has limited knowledge of alcoholic beverages.
I send him a shy smile over my glass.
Brant returns it, spinning his scotch between his fingers and letting the ice cubes clink. When he sets the glass down on the counter, he sighs, swiveling on his bar stool to fully face me. “It’s crazy to see you in a bar,” he says, his gaze scanning my face, dipping briefly to my mouth. I nibble on my bottom lip. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”
“I haven’t changed, really,” I confess, tucking my drab brown hair behind my ear. “I’m still terribly boring and as plain as can be.” Chuckling with a bit of self-deprecation, I glance down at the change of clothes I’d brought to the stage performance. I hadn’t expected a surprise visit from the love of my life, so I’m only wearing a pair of blue jeans and a loose fitting Wicked t-shirt that I’ve tied at my hip with a scrunchie. My face is red and blotchy from removing my costume makeup, and my hair is still caked in hairspray, riddled with dents and bumps from being pulled back beneath a zebra head.
My appearance is appalling, and I’m shocked I was even allowed into such an upscale place. I’ll bet Brant’s swoony smile and Thomas Beaudoin eyes gave us the golden ticket in.
But as I take another drink of my frilly cocktail, I watch as that smile slips and those eyes dull.
Brant frowns, reaching for his scotch and fingering the glass. “You’re not plain, Junebug,” he tells me, looking away and taking a small sip. “There’s nothing plain about a masterpiece.”
A lump swells in my throat, clogging my response.
He says it so casually, so effortlessly, like he didn’t just move me to tears.
“I’m really proud of you, you know,” he says after a quiet, poignant moment stretches. “Whatever happens between us… I hope you know that.”
That lump grows bigger. I try to swallow it down.
I pick apart his words, wondering why he says them like he’s uncertain of our future. “Why did you come here?”
He’s silent for a beat before he looks back over to me. “Pauly offered me a job in Manhattan. An executive chef position at his restaurant.”
My instinctive reaction is pure joy. Pride. I lean in and throw my arms around his neck, squeezing him to me. “Oh my gosh, Brant. I’m so happy for you.” But as I hold him, my fingertips grazing the soft curls at the nape of his neck, feeling his breath against my ear, his answer fully registers. I close my eyes and squeak out into the crook of his neck, “You didn’t come for me?”
I still hold onto him, unable to look him in the eyes as I ask my question.
Too afraid to see the truth glimmering back at me.
Brant’s hands lift to clasp my hips, holding me in a loose but intimate grip. The breath he releases near my ear is shaky, and I wonder if our lingering proximity is having the same effect on him as it is me. “I didn’t want to assume anything, June,” he admits softly, canting his head so his lips brush the lobe of my ear. “It’s been years. You have a whole new life.”
“You’re my whole life.” I say it like I’ve been waiting years to say it.
Another shuddery breath hits my ear. He finally inches back, his hands still glued to my denim-clad hips. His eyes lift to my face. “Just because I said I’d wait for you, doesn’t mean I expected you to wait for me. There’s no pressure. I wanted to discuss the transfer with you before I took it.”
“Take it.”
His forehead wrinkles. “Are you sure you don’t want to discuss—”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Brant. Take the job.”
Piano music sounds around us as Brant’s hands slide down my hips and land atop my upper thighs. He sighs deeply, provocatively, his gaze skimming me as his thumbs brush over the faded denim, shooting goosebumps across my skin. The pianist behind us starts to play the Elvis song Can’t Help Falling In Love, and my insides pitch.
I close my eyes, homing in on my other senses, like the feel of Brant palming my thighs, his touch electric. His body heat emanates into me as his fingers trace down my legs, then back up again, as if he’s re-memorizing my shape. The music pulses through my blood, turning my heartbeats into melodies; into beautiful love songs. I smell a hint of cigar smoke mingling with expensive liquor and something woodsy.
And if I zone out hard enough, I can still taste his kiss.
When my eyelids flutter back open, Brant is staring at me, the golden heat in his eyes outshining the muted greens. There’s a fire brewing. A familiar flame crackling to life.
We’re both breathing heavily, perched in this intimate position with his hands on my thighs, while my feet rest on the rung of his stool, my knees between his legs.
The silence thickens, the tension swells.
Brant’s gaze settles on my parted lips. He clenches his jaw as he says, “I have a present for you.”
“Oh, I…” I lick my lips, watching as he tracks the gesture. “I thought you were my present.”
His eyes flick back up, a smile hinting. But it fades as the heady fog grows thicker, swallowing both of us. “Turn around.”
I feel hypnotized, practically drugged as I stare at him, letting his words register. Blinking through the haze, I nod, twisting around on my stool until my back is facing him.
My skin hums with anticipation as I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling him inch closer to me after a few beats pass. The warmth of his skin radiates through my cotton shirt, and then his hands are reaching around me, equipped with a golden chain. He clasps the jewelry behind my neck.
Brant gathers up my long hair in his hands, pulling it out from the necklace and pooling it over my right shoulder. His lips dip down to my ear again as he whispers, “It made me think of you, Junebug. Finally spreading your wings.” A kiss finds the curve of my neck, and I shiver. “Flying free.”
I glance down and finger the pendant attached to a delicate chain. My breath hitches, emotion battling it out with the desire I feel as Brant continues to kiss my neck, his hands sliding down my body and curling around my waist.
It’s a tiny bluebird.
“I… I love it,” I manage, involuntarily leaning back, my spine flush with his chest. Goosebumps scatter along my skin when he drags his nose up the side of my throat, then kisses the shell of my ear. “Th—thank you.”
His grip tightens on my waist, his fingers biting into me as he breathes out, “I’m staying at a hotel.”
My thighs automatically clench.
I feel myself grow wetter as my skin crawls with hot flush.
I imagine him taking me back to his room and showing me exactly how much he’s missed me over the last two years.
My voice sounds small as I twist around on the stool and find his eyes over my shoulder, replying with, “I’m ready when you are.”
His hands give me a hard squeeze as my response registers, his eyes lighting up with blatant arousal. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, his gaze flickering across my face, landing on my parted lips while he considers the implication.
Then he pivots away from me, swallowing back the last sip of his scotch. Brant slaps a few bills onto the bar counter and stands, turning to me, his gaze still alight with hints of what’s to come.
He takes my hand.
He takes my whole life, too.
