Page 154 of June First
“I know.”
“Sometimes I think about when I was a kid, dancing on the big stage at all those spring recitals. No asthma, no heartbreak. It was only dancing.”
My hand splays along the middle of her back as I dip her. “It still can be.”
A smile creeps in as she swoops back up, our palms clamped together. Her eyes twinkle in the early evening haze. “Too many bad things have happened. There’s this black cloud following me around, and it’s not the same anymore…”
“Dancing is dancing, June.” I spin her in a clunky twirl.
“The black cloud is too big.”
She spins herself with far more grace, and as she falls back against me, her chest to mine, I whisper down at her, “Be bigger than it.”
June parts her lips with argument, but her words dissolve away when mine sink in. She blinks, her gaze fused with something hopeful.
“Honey, it’s one of your favorite songs,” Samantha pipes in, shaking us from the moment.
I let go of June, wondering if we were too close. Replaying the moment, questioning if we were looking at each other in all the wrong ways or pressed together too intimately.
I wonder if the Baileys saw that look of longing in my eyes I’m certain I forgot to hide.
God, I hope not.
I scratch at the nape of my neck as June eases backward, pulling her attention off of me and zoning in on the song. Her face lights up with recognition.
“Stand by Me” by Ben E. King.
June danced to a rendition of it a few years back as she was just entering high school. It was always one of her favorite performances.
“I think I still remember the routine,” she says, skipping off into the grass and getting into one of her ballet positions.
When the next verse starts, she moves.
She floats and glides.
She dances.
The song drowns out, and all I see is June—a vision in baby blue, skipping across clouds like a melodic bluebird.
Like she never lost her wings.
I inhale a choppy breath, clenching my fingers at my sides as my eyes drink her in. Her body bows, her legs leap and sway, her arms arc in the shape of a rainbow. She moves like pure poetry, and the smile etched onto her lips is the exclamation point.
June is so much more than a dancer.
She’s nature’s most exquisite choreography.
When the song ends, Andrew and Samantha clap joyously, their faces pinched with pride. Andrew whistles with his thumb and index finger, while Samantha clasps her hands in front of her, beaming with maternal admiration.
I know they saw what I saw—that reemerging spark.
And I hope she stokes it. I hope she keeps it warm.
June takes a dramatic bow, twirling one arm in a circle, then flipping her hair back with a bashful burst of laughter. Her gaze trails to me, eager for my reaction.
I clap.
I smile.