Page 78 of June First

June nods, twisting herself in my grip until our hands are clasped, fingers interlocked. It’s my injured hand. Scratchy gauze still winds around my palm in layers. “Do you think you’ll have two scars, now? One from that piece of glass, and the other from the burn?”

“No,” I whisper. “The burn isn’t serious.”

I never told June the whole truth about the scar on my hand. All I told her was that I cut myself on a broken window when I was six; she doesn’t know I was breaking into my old house where my parents were killed, hoping to find my lost stuffed elephant and officially move back in.

She doesn’t know she was there with me.

I tug her a little closer to me, our hands still intertwined. It’s instinct, I think. I don’t even mean to. June scoots over on the bed until she’s resting beside my hip, close enough that I can make out her chaste features. Pale white skin. Crystalline eyes. A handful of freckles aimlessly sprinkled along her button nose and high cheekbones, like someone tripped with a paintbrush.

A pouty, heart-shaped mouth.

I glance at it.

No. Stop it. This is insanity.

My jaw clenches, Wendy’s words fighting their way back inside my psyche. Infiltrating me. Poisoning everything good and pure between us.

I let go of June’s hand, dropping my chin to my chest. “I took you that night,” I confess.

She’s silent for a moment, but I don’t look up.

I just wait.

“What do you mean?”

Eyes closing tight, heart humming with wayward memories, I tell her. “The night I cut my hand. You were there. I took you with me.”

She moves in closer, somehow. “I’m confused, Brant. Where did you take me?”

“To my house. My real house—the house I lived in until I was six years old, until my father decided to slip off his work tie and instead of going upstairs and placing it into his dresser drawer with all of his other work ties, he wrapped it around my mother’s neck, strangling the life out of her until she stopped breathing. Until she choked. Until she died on our living room floor with a purple tie around her throat, and a little boy upstairs in bed, dreaming about fucking rainbows.”

The words tumble from my mouth, angry memories and bitter breaths, as June presses into me, her forehead to mine. My eyes are still closed, and it’s for the best because I can’t look at her right now. I can’t see whatever tortured look is shining out through her eyes, or the tear tracks staining her porcelain skin.

I keep going.

I have to keep going.

“You fell asleep in your little bouncer seat that night. I unstrapped you. I picked you up with all my strength and I carried you down the hallway. I put my shoes on, then I stepped outside and walked next door, two houses over.” Her forehead is still smooshed against mine, and I hear her sniffle. I hear her breaths catching and hitching in the back of her throat. “I set you down in the grass, and you were so good, June. It was cold that night, October I think, but you were so, so good. I realized I couldn’t get inside, so I took one of the rocks that lined our mailbox and I threw it at the window until it smashed into a million fractured bits. And then I climbed through, slicing my hand on the glass.” I swallow down the lump in my throat, my molars grinding together. “But I still came back out for you. My hand was bleeding all over your blanket, and I was so worried you’d be scared, but you just lay there with me on my living room floor. You lay there with me when I needed you the most, just like you’re doing right now.”

She sniffs again, her hands cradling my neck, thumbs dusting over my bristled jawline. “You brought me with you,” she rasps out, an air of incredulity in her tone. “I’ve always been with you, Brant.”

I finally open my eyes, lashes fluttering, my heart jackhammering in my chest. June is so close. She’s so close. “Always.”

I inch myself down the headboard, we both move into a sleeping position, and I tug the blanket up over our bodies until we’re cocooned in the downy quilt.

We shouldn’t be this close. I know it’s not right, but I don’t fucking care right now, and I don’t care about what Wendy might think or what she thinks she saw—all I care about is June.

June, June, June.

My eyelids feel heavy as we lie there, chest to chest, noses gently grazing. Her warm breath kisses my lips with every fervent heartbeat.

I’m content. I’m at peace. She’s here, in my arms.

She’s always been here.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but I’m roused awake by the feel of more than just her breath upon my lips. There’s something else. A tickle at first. Just an erotic tickle.

“Brant…”