by Ella James
“That’s exactly how I feel about Sutt, man. She was always way out there in California. I’ll be thinking she’s still there, doing her thing while I do mine. And then I remember…” He shakes his head. “She always was a shitty driver.” He shakes his head, and I can’t help laughing.
“I know, I’m so bad. She would expect it, though, believe me,” he says. “She and I were the two oldest. It was us who shared the bunk beds and all that good shit. Mary Helen was sort of in the middle and then June a little younger than her and a whole lot younger than Sutton and me.”
“What was that like?”
He starts talking, and I swear he keeps the conversation going solely on his own for at least twenty minutes.
“Am I boring you to sleep?” he asks with a guilty grin.
“No, I like to hear about it. Sounds like you guys grew up…in a really good place.”
He nods. “Yeah, our mom was awesome. Like the kind of mom that did all this crazy craft shit. She had us making bread that rises on its own, like painting pottery and making clay beads. One time she had this kiln, you know, the real hot things that bake the clay and seal it up and make it shiny?” He shakes his head with a small smile. “She just really liked being a mom. Hell, I just remembered last time you said your mom passed away. We can just move on from moms if you want to, to my dad,” he says, barely taking a breath. “That dude’s crazy. Runs away from everything. He ain’t like he used to be. Losing our mom made him skittish. You hang out with him one weekend, and then he’s shutting himself off again.”
I nod. “Yeah. I get that.” I don’t, of course. The last time I saw my father in person—intentionally, anyway—was the day Asher moved into his college dorm.
“Were you guys little kids and shit?” Shawn says. “Do you care if I ask?”
“We were younger, a lot like Oliver and Margot.” For the first time, I realize how true that is. We were so damn young. I let a breath out. “We were on our own, too. Pretty much,” I hear myself say. “He was better off if he was working.”
“That sucks, man.” His gaze flickers toward me. “You’re the oldest, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Always feel responsible for the younger ones, or I do anyway. June or Mary Helen needs help, I’m always trying to be there. Like June when she wanted to take the farm over…”
I find out more about June in the last half hour of the drive to Heat Springs than I did in all of Molly’s reports.
“It wasn’t so much that she couldn’t let it go,” he says, of the farm. “I think it was more like she just didn’t want to give up. June is a stubborn ass. When she wants something to go her way, she’s gonna make it go her way. Ever since she was a little thing with pigtails. Mama used to braid their pigtails every day…”
It’s oddly comforting to hear about June’s childhood. I was never sure if people had lives like the one Shawn is describing—at least outside of TV and fiction. But apparently they do. And June is one of them.
Shawn talks about their dad a little more, how everyone is sort of worried about him, but no one really knows what to do or say.
“He’s never been the real emotional sort of person. He’s a hunter and a golfer,” Shawn explains, as if that settles things.
He talks about the farm again—“June should be planting and harvesting more, I think. But I think she’s scared of hiring more people. She wants to pay fair wages and gets scared about letting people down if things go bad.” He snorts at that. “She’s got her own way of doing things. And she’s not running it into the red more than it has been. She’s pulled some parts out of the black. June knows how to steer the ship. She’ll get it figured out. She’s got some good help there, too. Just takes time.”
It probably takes time because no one has any money to invest on the front end. I want to say that. I almost tell him I’ve been sending her checks and she won’t cash them. But I keep my mouth shut, because telling him won’t make her happy. When we finally get to his place—a small, brick house—it’s 2:00 AM local time, and I’m ready to crash.
“I’ve got a spare room. My girlfriends stay in there sometimes when we get in a fight.” He flashes me a good ole boy grin and waves me over to a door just off the living room.
“It’s kind of a girly room, see all these sunflowers?” He opens the door, revealing a bedspread covered in sunflowers. “My current girlfriend decorated in here. She’s asleep in our room. Remember me telling you about her last time? Sandi? She was in Aruba when you came last time.”
“Oh yeah,” I say, even though I’m not sure I do.
“You’ll love her. Real sweet. We’ll see you in the morning? Oh, and there’s a shower off your bedroom, too.”
“I might go to June’s house in the morning.”
“What time?”
“Maybe seven.”
“Oh, well here.” He tosses me some keys. “That’s to the Jeep. You said you’re good at stick shifts, right?”
I nod.
“She’ll be good to go. Got you some gas today.”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime. You’re sort of family now. Us uncles have to stick together.”
I laugh, but when I shut the door to the bedroom and look around, I feel like my throat’s closing up.
I don’t belong here. Fuck. Why did I come for this party?
Margot and Oliver, I remind myself. And for Asher. He would be here if he could be. I’m his proxy.
I undress and step into the shower. Get out, put on boxer-briefs and sleep pants. I lie on the bed, blinking at the ceiling for the longest time. I see Sabal Gurung’s wise eyes. I think of the last time I hugged Asher. I shut my eyes and try to clear my head. Instead I picture being hugged by June.
I sit up. Get out my laptop and my travel modem. I work until 6:30. Then I fire up Shawn’s old Jeep and drive toward her house.
Chapter 21
June
I wiggle out of my little black shorts and then kick them across the room.
“Ugh. This is stupid, June.”
I march over to my T-shirt drawer, jerk out the first thing I see, and yank it over my head. It’s a battered gray T-shirt with tiny holes along the collar and a tear at the top of its front pocket. Bonus points because it says Heat Springs High Band. What better than to remind him that I didn’t finish high school?
I riffle through another drawer and come out with a pair of black Nike running shorts with mint green piping along the seams—the kind that come with built-in underwear that are somehow superior to all regular cotton underwear but also make you feel like the most basic bitch alive.
“That’s me,” I murmur.
I swipe my hair into a bun on the top of my head, smooth on some nude lip gloss, and slide my feet into my beloved Teva flip-flops.
“I don’t even want to see his fancy ass,” I mutter as I huff into the hallway.
It’s early, and the kids are still asleep, but I know the pool people are here because I heard their giant truck pull up a few minutes ago. It backed into my yard, the brake lights glowing against the blue dawn hue. I can only assume Mr. Startup King of Silicon Valley will be rolling up next in his rented Maserati.
I stop in the kitchen for some coffee and reluctantly whip up a second cup. I sweeten it a little less than what I personally enjoy and leave it on the bookshelf in the screened porch. The dogs whine as I shut the living room door, but I’m not bringing their hyper little asses outside at 5:30 AM.
It’s too early for anybody with good sense. I take a long, slow sip of my coffee and then head down the porch steps, into the dewy lawn, where a whole bunch of people are doing a bunch of different things. The damp grass blades stick to my flip-flops and the top of my feet as I walk over to the guy who’s got a short-sleeved button-up shirt on and is holding a clipboard.
“Hey there…”
He smiles, phony as all get out. “Matt. I’ll be your site manager this morning.” He taps a name tag t
hat I hadn’t noticed. “I don’t think we’ve talked, but we’re here for the accelerated assembly for the most luxurious pool in our collection, which holds—”
I wave at him. “You don’t need to tell me the specs, Matt. Thank you for that, though. I mean, we already bought the pool, right?”
He nods, looking chastised.
“I just want to know how long will it take?”
“It should take about two, two and a half hours.”
“Whoa. So that’s not real long.”
“This pool has a frame that’s—”
I hold my palm up again, and his face reddens.
“Sorry, I’m just not that good at mornings. Do you need me for anything?”
It turns out, they need me for a lot of things. I’m finally sitting on the porch swing about fifteen minutes later, having picked out the exact spot for where the pool will go, when I see headlights shining down the driveway.
It looks more like an SUV than— Oh yeah. Shawn the Traitor invited Burke to stay at his place. Loaned Burke Bug his old Jeep. Told me all about this…oh, about twenty-four hours ago. I wasn’t even completely sure that Burke was coming. Afterward, I got his call about the pool.
I tuck some hair into my bun and keep sipping my coffee, trying not to look over there while he parks the Jeep and talks to Matt and pokes around the pool parts. My cup is empty by the time he climbs the porch stairs and peeks through the screen door.
“Here,” I say from the swing, and his face bends into a smile as his eyes find me.
“Oh.” He squints. “It’s darker than I thought.”
He steps into the porch, and I try not to stare. He’s wearing dark shorts—navy?—and a gray T-shirt that sort of hugs his biceps but it’s not tight like tight. It’s got a pocket on the front like my shirt does, except his isn’t ripped. His hair is longer than last time—a little curly, I think?—and he looks like he forgot to shave. My gaze wanders down his muscled calves to his shoes, which are Vans-type sneakers.
“Hello.” It comes out sounding low and sort of hoot-y, like a cartoon owl.
He laughs, and when he does, his face transforms into a brilliant grin. “Hello to you, too, June.”
His gaze holds onto me, making me feel like I can’t pull air into my lungs. I swallow, sit up straighter, and try to use my wit and charm to play off this racing-heart sensation I’ve got going on. “What kind of greeting were you hoping for?”
His gaze falls to the floor for a second. Then he smiles, more guarded.
“Oh, I don’t know.” He brings his palms together, trying for a smirk, but it looks kind of tense, as if he’s not so sure about me this go ’round.
Good.
I might have lost my mind over him last time, but this time, I’m playing it cool. No narcotics messing with my head. He’s only here for two days, so says Shawn the Traitor. I can do it.
Have a little self respect, I coach myself. He doesn’t care about you. Observe how he left last time. He’s just an ordinary man, and he’ll act like they all do.
I draw one leg up onto the swing and wrap my arm around my knee—because even when I’m trying to be icy toward him, I’m still awkward.
“Well, you made it here in one piece,” I remark, and then I have to hide a cringe because comments like that remind me of my sister and Asher now—who didn’t make it home.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Your brother’s Jeep is kind of…eccentric.”
“You mean it’s a piece of shit?” I laugh. “Yeah, that thing’s ready for the junkyard.”
His eyes light up as I say that—as if he’s just so thrilled to hear me talk or something. He bounces on his heels a little, folding his thick arms across his chest—which I happen to know firsthand is thick, too, with all that muscle.
“So how’s it going?” he asks.
I lift a shoulder. “All right. I made two cups for myself but I’m stopping at one. If you want it.” I point to the coffee on the bookshelf.
“Are you sure?”
Lord, he’s so polite this go ’round. Clearly aliens stole the other one and left this clone behind instead.
“I’m sure.” I push off the porch rug with the toe of my shoe, remembering last time he was here. I was sitting on this swing, and he sat down and put my leg on his lap. Just remembering that makes my face feel too hot.
He leans against the wall between the living room and the porch and sips the coffee, his eyes moving from the floor to the pool assembly before finally settling on me.
His mouth twitches at the corners as he squints, and I realize he’s reading my shirt. “Band,” he murmurs, smiling softly. His eyes meet mine. “You were a band geek?”
I nod. His smile widens. “Me too.”
“You were?”
He nods. “Trombone.”
“Really? Trombone?”
He quirks a brow up. “Can’t envision it?”
“I don’t think I can.” I fold both my legs onto the swing and turn sideways, so we’re facing. “I see you as more a…I don’t know.”
“What?” he prods.
“Maybe like the debate team.”
He rubs a hand over his face, shielding himself from my eyes for just a second. “Yeah,” he says from behind the hand. “I guess I can see why.” He pulls his hand down, and I find that he looks abashed. “Sorry again about all that stuff last time,” he says quickly. “The…debating.”
“Water under the bridge.” I wave my hand dismissively—because apparently that’s something I’m doing today, dismissing people with waves.
“You’ll see,” he says. “I’m not really like that.”
“Mmmhmm.” I nod once. I’m trying to be generous, but he laughs, clearly thinking I’m trying to be a dick about it.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “For real. I mean, I’m not fully going to trust you, but I don’t fully trust anybody.” I say the end part with a faux mysterious flair and comically big eyes, so it doesn’t sound so pitiful.
He sips his coffee. “Who betrayed your trust before?”
“Oh, just people being people.”
“Did you date an asshole, June?”
I think we’ve established I like assholes. If not their glowing personalities, I like them for their hot, hard bodies. Assholes make me mad, and when I’m mad, I want to bite and scratch and screw. Because I’m stupid that way.
“I dated more than one,” I say. “But now I’m single, and that’s how I’m gonna stay.”
“Really? You want to stay single?” He seems genuinely curious, which for some reason throws me off.
“I mean…for a long time. There’s nobody here, and I’ve got kids now. I’m content with that. With them. I really love being their guardian,” I confess. I immediately wonder why I did. It just sort of sneaked out of my mouth—maybe because I do love the little critters, and that love stuff always bubbles to the surface.
“That’s good,” he says, and he sounds sincere. “I’m sorry again. When I think about those few days, I feel like shit about it.”
“Oh, you weren’t such a villain. You were doing thoughtful stuff like fixing broken gutters.” I grin as I say it, because I can’t not.
He chuckles.
“June, June…” He shakes his head.
He wants me. It’s there on his face, under the awkwardness and alongside that heat in his eyes. I want to tell him he should lock it down, but he steps closer to the swing instead.
“I am sorry,” he says after a moment, looking thoughtful. “I was fucked up from my brother. But it’s better now.”
There’s something about his face…about the look on it. It tugs at my heart. “That’s good,” I murmur.
“AUNT JUNE!” Oliver’s voice precedes his body by about a half a second. Then he rockets out the living room door and onto the porch, trailed by Mario and Peach. He sees Burke first, and then his gaze snaps to the lawn.
His jaw drops. “Is that a pool?”
“A pool!” Margot b
ounds out, too, still in her nightgown.
Burke says, in a low voice, “Do you want a pool?”
The kids start screaming, jumping up and down. After their rejoicing, I send them back inside to put on real clothes.
“After they put it together,” Burke says, “then we’ll have to fill it up. They told me on the phone that even with this special model that has the foundation underneath it and all that, it’ll probably be this afternoon before it’s swimmable.”
So we’ll go to breakfast. The kids are too amped up to sit at home, and I don’t want them running around while the workers try to do their thing.
“There’s a place a few miles outside town…this little shack that serves homemade biscuits with bacon and pimento cheese. That might sound bizarre, but it’s heaven.”
“Sold,” Burke says. “Do you guys want to take the Jeep?”
Of course, the kids want nothing more than to ride in the POS Jeep, so into the Jeep we go. I sit in front by Burke and try to maintain a polite neutral face and avoid looking at him for too long while he drives, and Margot and Oliver talk his ears off about everything from school to Hot Rocket to therapy with Dr. Weber.
Burke is quiet but friendly as we get the biscuits then drive to visit Hot Rocket at the vet—he’s now recovering at our usual vet in Dawson—and then take the kids to the playground behind the local library. There’s a porch swing by the playground, its chains bolted to the underside of a small party pavilion.
I sit down on it, and then Burke does. The swing creaks under his weight, and he makes an alarmed face. He rolls his shoulders like they’re sore, and laughs at something Oliver calls out to him.
Then he pulls his phone out, looking down at it. He mumbles something about “the office.”
“What’s going on with your work?” I ask.
“Mm, just everyday things.”
I study his face a second. “You look tired.”
“A little,” he says, giving me a crooked little smile.
We get up and cheer the kids on as they race across the monkey bars. Then the pool people call. The assembly—which apparently was some sort of super-fast, patented process—is finished, and they’ve started filling it up.