by Ella James
“You leave him alone, Kirke!” Mom cries.
His footsteps recede from my closet door, heavy strides shaking the floor a little. “You shut the fuck up, you stupid twat! You think you can stop me from doing anything?”
“Burke?”
I blink, but it’s dark and blurry. June’s arms come around me.
“Mom, I just need vinegar! I told you last week, I need vinegar or it won’t work! Ask Daddy to bring it when he comes home from work.”
Her dull gaze flicks up at me from where she’s lying on the couch. “He’ll be home late, honey.”
I start crying. “What about my baking soda vinegar train? It’s due tomorrow for the science fair!”
“I’m doing my best, Burke.” She sits up a little. “Asher, go play in the playroom, please.” He runs off, and she grips my shoulder. “You know Mommy’s tired, Burke. I’m so tired. After I nap, maybe we’ll go down to the store and see if we can find the vinegar. How does that sound?”
Anger rises in me. “Dad made you this way! You’re not acting like my Mom, and now you never do!”
I run off, to my closet, slam the door, and play with a train set I left in there. A while later, Asher comes in, and he plays with me.
“Burke, I’m hungry. Where is Mommy?”
“On the couch, where she makes her home.” I roll my eyes.
He frowns. “She’s not there…”
“Burke—you have to look at me. You’re worrying me.”
June’s voice cuts through the thick fog. I tug air into my lungs, look at her and nod. I grip her arm, and she sighs.
“Okay. Burke?” Her hand is on my face, cupping my cheek.
I get up, even though my whole head throbs. “I want to get in the bed,” I rasp. It’s a different bed, and that whole room feels different. With June in there with me…
“Okay,” she murmurs.
She helps me up into the bed, her hand on my back, which is sweaty.
I lie on my back this time. Fuck, I’m so damn dizzy. When she wraps her arms around me, my throat tightens up, and my eyes well.
I turn on my side and hug her hard—the way I’ve wanted to since she showed up in my hospital room. My lips press against her hair. “You smell good…like always.”
“I am good.” Her small body tenses in my arms, and I let out a long breath.
“You are. You’re good, and I’m so fucking sorry.” I brush my lips over her forehead. “I’m sorry.” My body jerks as a little shiver moves through me. “I’ve never—” I bite my lip, not sure how to explain. I don’t know what to tell her. How I’ve never let myself feel like this.
She strokes my hair. “We don’t need to talk right now. You need to try to rest.”
Tears fill my eyes. “Why do you make me this way?” I manage.
“Because you’ve got good taste, Sly. And because of what I said.” I feel her let a breath out. “I know you’re tired…and feeling bad. Just go to sleep. We can talk about how I’m a unicorn some other time.”
I don’t remember falling asleep. When I wake up sometime later, everything is dark and quiet and June’s not by me.
A groan escapes me as I blink around the room. I think it mostly looks the same. My eyes are drawn to the desk that’s built in between the bookshelves—where my school project sat that night. I can almost see the box of baking soda sitting there…the lightweight plastic train my mom had picked up at a local science store the week before.
I look at the closet, at the bedroom door—slightly ajar. The stupid shaking starts again.
I put my hand over my chest, the way June told me to that day I napped in her bed. I lie back and close my eyes and try to feel myself breathe.
I cover my eyes with my hands, rub my temples, roll over. June’s careful as she climbs back into the bed. I can feel her hesitation before she wraps one of her arms carefully around me.
“Oh, Burke,” she whispers, so quietly. “Where are we?” It’s a question intended for a sleeping man.
I pull together the tiny bit of courage I have left and whisper, “This is my mausoleum.”
She doesn’t make a sound. But she holds me. It’s what I need to stop the shaking. When I feel more steady, and I’m pretty sure she’s still awake, I take a deep breath, letting June know I’m awake.
“B?” Her voice cuts like a light across the darkness in my heart. “This is your old house?”
“Yeah.”
She nods, as if somehow she knows all the rest. “Was this room your room?”
“How did you know?”
She holds me a little tighter. “B? Why did you tell them I’m your person?”
“Because you’re the one I want,” I whisper.
“Why not your father?”
The shaking starts again. In its strange, awful way, it’s so reliable—the things that trigger it, the places.
June holds me tighter.
“Burke…I tried to look you up. From my phone…when you were sleeping just now. I looked you up a while back…just to see. But there was nothing anywhere about your family. Just about Asher and Sutton.” I hate the way my body trembles harder, knowing what she’ll say next. “While you were sleeping tonight, I looked again. Google. I found this story from a few weeks back. It’s from like…this gossip column.”
I inhale, and she does, too.
“Did your— Burke. Did something happen here…that I don’t know about?”
I want to laugh at how she’s skirting it. I read the story, too—along with everyone in the Bay. Even the headline trumpeted the news: Tech Titan Lived Through Family Tragedy
I suck in a deep breath. Blow it slowly out. And turn around to fully face her. I can’t see her clearly, but I feel her gaze on my face. I feel the warmth that’s radiating from her, the concern.
I shut my eyes and just say it. “My mom died here.”
“Did…” She hesitates, and I spare her the angst of asking what the gossip rag implied.
I shake my head. “There was always speculation…because they fought.” Because he hit her, and me, and some of her friends knew that. “But he didn’t kill her.” Not with his hands. “He was gone that night. It was a school night,” I choke out. “She was here, with me and Asher. I was ragging her about something…and she was on the couch.”
I squeeze my eyes shut as tears trek down my cheeks. “It was me that set her off.”
“You’re not acting like my Mom, and now you never do!”
“She was depressed. I think she had been for a while. She wanted to leave him.” I swallow to steady my voice; still, I can’t seem to project above a whisper. “My uncle was a successful lawyer. Dead from cancer now,” I add, just in case she wonders why she’s never heard of him. “That was the irony. My mom thought she could never get away—not with custody of us. Because my father was vicious. And my uncle.” I swallow a swell of grief, then do some breathing so I don’t break down again. And still, my voice cracks when I say, “He died the next year. It would have worked, if she had stayed. She had to wait it out, but it would have worked, I think.”
Instead… “She put a note under her bedroom door. I found it. It said ‘call 9-1-1.’ And—” my voice drops to a whisper rasp— “I love you boys.”
June wraps herself around me. My whole body quivers with the weight of what’s inside. I gulp deep breaths to keep it locked down.
“Burkie…” She squeezes me tighter. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
It’s her voice that does it. Hearing June sound upset, syncing up the past and present while her arms are wrapped tight around me—it knocks down my last wall.
JUNE
I hold him against me, and he sobs for what feels like an hour. He locks his arms around me and holds on so tightly, sometimes I can barely breathe, but I don’t mind even a little.
“It’s okay…” I say it like a litany. Because it’s what I hope for. I realize, though, that it isn’t. He’s not okay, so I change my whispers to “I’ve got you.”
I’m not even sure he hears me, nor that my words matter. His grief has been locked up for a long time. Pushed down, starved off, hidden. The stupid gossip column about Mrs. Masterson’s suicide implied Burke had worked to ensure stories about her death that were in print newspapers and local magazines at the time didn’t make it online and weren’t searchable in any archives.
It makes sense now—everything that didn’t. The article I found on my phone came out two days after we last saw each other—on a Tuesday.
“It makes sense,” I murmur, when he’s quiet, breathing heavy but no longer weeping. “Why you were so upset about Margot and Oliver, and how much you wanted them back.” They’re roughly the ages of Burke and his brother when they lost their mom. “You asked if I was dating anyone. Was your father…” I swallow.
“He was an abusive bastard. Just to her…and me a few times.” His voice drops low on that, as if using a low volume makes it less relevant. “Asher was so little… And after she died, he stopped.”
“You mean he stopped treating you bad?”
He nods. “He disengaged. It was like…we didn’t have a family anymore.” His voice wobbles on that, so he swallows and takes a second. “Before, it was a bad one,” he rasps. “I watched Asher like a hawk…after. But Dad was done.” He exhales. “He started a foundation in Mom’s name—for a type of depression that’s called PMDD. It’s hormonal. Like…I think women get it at a certain time of the month. The thing is…” He huffs out a quiet sound almost like a laugh. “That condition is like…chemical. You can have it even if your husband treats you very well. So that was savvy. Helped imply that Mom was ill. And that was all.”
But wasn’t she?
“Maybe she was,” he says, reading my mind, “but Dad beat the resilience out of her. I bet it went on for a lot longer than I even knew.”
I tighten my arms around him. “Oh, Burke. I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry we came here.”
“I wanted to,” he says gruffly. “Like how you brought me in that day, to your old house. I had never been back. Dad moved us out but held onto it. The bastard gave it to me a few years ago. So I’ve been wanting to sell. All this furniture is staged, but…” I can feel—or maybe hear—him swallow. “That day I was leaving your place,” he says in a voice that’s barely above a whisper. “They called—the stager did—and she had found out. The house’s history.”
So that’s what did it. Whoever that bitch was, she clearly told someone else what she’d found—because that local gossip rag published it just two days later.
“Was it…” I want to ask if the story was a big deal for him, but I’m not sure how. “Did you leave work?” I whisper, stroking his hair.
He inhales slowly and tucks his head against my chest, exhaling. “I decided to sell. I had been approached…and I decided I would. I just—” He sighs, and I hold him closer. “Making apps is not a passion for me. It’s more like a…challenge.” I think I can feel him smile against my throat as he says, “I took the construction job…to learn more woodwork. Get the basics down. I don’t think they had a clue about me till I fell. Then the foreman texted yesterday. I think he was worried I would sue or something. Anyway,” he says softly, as he leans slightly away from me. “You can see I’m not really the man for you. Your family is…” He lifts his head, frowning. “We’re not very similar,” he manages through his gritted teeth.
Tears shine in his eye, and he winces, his hand going to his bandaged side.
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone in so much physical and emotional pain simultaneously.
I don’t mean to, but I lose it and start crying. Burke is clearly horrified. He pulls me up against him and holds me between his legs, so I’m half on top him. He’s leaning against the headboard. He strokes my hair and hugs me tight and whispers sorries until I can find the words to tell him, “You have nothing to be sorry for. Except disappearing. And not trusting me.”
I look up and find he looks confused at that. “I wanted to know, Burke. I would have loved to know your story. Everything about you. But I didn’t get the chance.”
He shuts his eyes. “I know.”
“You know what you don’t know, though?” He looks down at me, his face strained.
“I’m not holding it against you.” I reach up and stroke his scruffy, tired face. “I can forgive you.”
“I’m sorry. June…the way I feel about you—” He shakes his head, looking miserable. “It scares me,” he rasps.
I give him a teasing smile. “Say it again? The ‘s’ word?” Before he can, I lean up, closing the small space between us, and I brush my mouth over his. “I’m just teasing.”
I have the thought that maybe it’s too soon to be kidding with him. As his hand moves down my side. I kiss him again, tasting salt and his soft tongue. And then his hand brushes my belly.
Chapter 30
June
I try to lean back, but it’s too late. His palm’s cupping the tiny baby bump I’m sporting just above my pants waist. He rubs once, his mouth gaping. I watch as the realization transforms his face. His eye widens as his jaw drops fully, and his whole body freezes.
He blinks once, slowly. “You’re pregnant.”
“Yes.”
He sits up straighter, looking absolutely stunned as he gapes at me. “I got you pregnant? That night?”
“Yeah, you did. I was on birth control, but something happened.”
His mouth drops open wider. “Oh my—Fuck.” He covers his mouth. “Fuck, June.”
I laugh, slightly maniacal. “Maybe a little bit too much of that. Or maybe just enough, depending on your stance on babies. I like babies.”
“Fucking shit. June.” His eye wells as his gaze moves up and down me. “I’m so sorry.”
I grab his hand, squeezing so he doesn’t lose his shit again. “No. There’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m okay. I really am. But even if I wasn’t, we did this together, you know? I was there. I wanted you, desperately.”
He bows his head and closes a hand over his face. For a second, he starts breathing hard, like a football player who just took a hard hit and can’t suck air in.
“It’s okay.” I rub his palm with my thumb. “We’re okay and so is little baby.”
He lifts his head. “You’re pregnant.” He blinks, still looking totally incredulous. “Our baby. I got you pregnant!”
I laugh. “Really, we both got me pregnant.”
“Can I touch it?”
For some reason, that makes me laugh, and once I start, I can’t stop. I flop onto my back, and he gets up on his knees and spreads his palm so carefully over my lower belly. “Holy shit.” His face is still just total shock. “That’s our baby in there.” He’s panting a little, and his poor hand on my stomach trembles at the shock of it.
“That’s her or him.” I hold my thumb and forefinger about four inches apart. “They’re about like this now. Like a really small avocado, I think is this week’s fruit mascot. I have an app.”
He rubs a hand over his face and shakes his head, then winces like it hurts, and his eye fills with tears again.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “Okay? Everything is A-okay, Sly.”
“When were you going to tell me?” he says softly.
“Soon,” I reassure him. “I was never gonna keep this from you. I just wasn’t sure how to tell you, since you weren’t talking to me.”
A single tear drips down his cheek. I get a glimpse of his taut face before he’s up and off the bed.
“I want to go.” He rests his palm atop the mattress and looks up at me, still on the bed. “I don’t want to be here for this.” His voice catches.
“Okay, then. Let’s go.” I slide down off the bed, too, rubbing my hand down his arm till I catch his hand. “Let’s go find a hotel. You can’t wine but you can dine your baby mama.”
He laughs so loudly, I think maybe he’s finally cracked. Then he hugs me to him. “Jesus, June. You’re really fucking something. Do you
know that?”
“Something crazy. I know.”
He falters in the bedroom’s doorway. I can tell he’s somewhere heavy in his head, because for just a second, his face is full of pain. His brows draw together, and his shoulders stiffen. But then his gaze comes back to me. He laughs, rubs his forehead.
“I knocked you up.”
“You seem insistent on taking all the credit.”
He scoops my hand up, threads his fingers through mine, and leads me to the front door like we’ve got hell hounds biting our heels. He doesn’t look back as we walk down toward the car, our strides slow but steady. He keeps stealing glances at me, and I make silly faces when I catch him. Both of us are laughing by the time we reach the passenger’s side door.
“Well fucking shit,” he says.
“Well fucking shit, Sly.”
Sometimes things work out different than expected—the good becomes real bad real quick, or a bad thing turns itself around.
We end up at the Cow Hollow Rollin’ Motel, a two-star, two-story, weird ass stucco establishment that’s got a skating rink attached because…why not a skating rink? We don’t even make a go of that, Burke being temporarily half blind and me being in the family way.
Our room’s on the first floor by the vending machines, and we make good use of that by loading up on Cheetos, cans of Dr. Pepper, and some mints, since Burke’s obsessed with having fresh breath.
We lie on the lumpy bed with mildew-scented air blowing on us and a funny sort of watermelon smell tinging the air, and Burke pulls down my pants and leans his head down low so he can see the contour of my belly.
I wrap my hand around his arm and and bring his hand to me. “Might be better to feel it.”
“Is he or she kicking yet?”
I smile. “Not quite. But maybe soon, like in the next few weeks.”
“You’re pregnant,” he says with a crazed grin on his face.
“Knocked up with a pea in the pod. A bun in the oven.” I cup my hand over his. “There’s a little baby in there. I was feeling pretty nervous about telling you, but you don’t seem like you’re too upset.”