June First

Brant, age 25

It takes three more days for me to muster up the backbone to knock on the Baileys’ front door.

Normally, I’d walk straight inside. I used to live here, after all.

But I don’t live here anymore.

My hands are stuffed into my jeans pockets to keep them from shaking as muffled footsteps approach on the other side of the threshold. I try not to think of June when a breeze carries over the flowery scent of lilacs.

The door pulls open.

Andrew stares back at me, his eyes sunken-in, his skin pallid.

Surprise steals his expression for the briefest moment before loathsome disgust takes its place. Angry fingers curl around the door frame, his knuckles going white. He clenches his jaw as he seethes, “Get the hell off my property. You’re not welcome here.”

And then the door slams shut, rattling the hinges and nearly cracking the frame.

I close my eyes, holding my breath as I work to keep my emotions in check.

I’m exhausted.

I’m bone-weary, having spent the last seventy-two hours working double shifts to keep my mind distracted. I haven’t slept, I’ve barely eaten, and I’m shocked my legs are even functioning enough to keep me upright. All I’ve done for three days is work and miss June.

She texted me a picture from the JFK airport, letting me know she’d landed safely. Seeing the name ‘Junebug’ pop up on my cell phone screen felt like a sucker-punch to the gut, but I was grateful for the communication. I hope it continues. I hope she calls me, texts me, video chats me. I hope she shares her life with me because mine is numb and uninspiring without her in it.

Which only confirms the fact that this was for the best.

Who am I without her?

Running a hand over my face, I debate my next move, glancing down at the happy welcome mat decorated with frolicking Dachshunds.

I realize I’ve been a coward. I’ve kept my distance from the Baileys, and I didn’t back-up June when she confronted them about our relationship. The guilt still eats at me. She was so brave, so full of conviction as she stormed out of the apartment that morning—where I had completely shut down. I was blank. Catatonic.

Useless.

And I feel just as useless right now as I stand here, wondering what the hell I’m going to do.

Luckily, a decision is made for me when the door cracks open again.

This time, it’s Samantha on the other side of it.

I swallow, meeting her eyes—blue like June’s. She’s frumpy and makeup-less, looking like she’s slept just as much as I have over the last few days. I heave in a frail breath, and all I can manage to spit out is, “I’m sorry.”

I’m sorry for tearing the family apart. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I’m sorry for ruining your daughter.

I’m sorry for betraying the two people who gave me a second chance at life.

I wonder if she can see everything I’m sorry for shining back at her as she pulls the door open a little bit more, taking a step toward the screen. Her face is a mask of remorse, paired with indecision. She doesn’t know what to do. Her feelings aren’t as black and white as Andrew’s.

Inhaling deeply, she moves away from the screen. “Come in.”

Those two words sound like more than I deserve, but I let them inside; I let them burrow. I let them fill me with the only semblance of relief I’ve felt since the last time I fell asleep with June tucked inside my arms, warm and soft and mine.

It’s not forgiveness, but it’s something.

A crumb.

And when you’ve lost everything that matters, a crumb might as well be a four-course meal.

Stepping into the house, I let the screen shut softly behind me as I stop just short of the living area. Samantha stands a few feet away, her arms crossed, her back to me. She pulls a pen out of her bun, then clicks the end of it like a nervous habit.

When she spins around to face me, her arm drops to her side as she shakes her head. “I lost one child, but it feels like I’ve lost all three.”

My muscles contract, and my jaw clenches. I stare down at my shoes, guiltily, as a horrible, insidious feeling coils through me. I feel sick. “Samantha, I never meant to hurt anybody. You have to believe that.”

“Of course, I believe that,” she says, still clicking her pen. “I raised you, and I know I raised a good man.” She pauses, letting out a long sigh. “But good men can still do really stupid things.”

When I glance up, she’s watching me with measured disappointment. I scrub a hand down my face again. “I fell in love with her,” I mutter softly. “And it never felt like a choice; it was just… effortless.”

“Loving someone may not be a choice, but acting on that feeling when you know it’s wrong, is.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

She’s right.

She’s absolutely right.

Hanging my head again, I plant my hands on my hips and close my eyes. “I realize this may not be fixable,” I say, sorrow lacing my words, “but you have to know that I did everything I could to prevent this from happening. I fought it, and I fought hard—but for all the stigma surrounding our relationship, for all the fucked-up technicalities that shadowed us, my feelings for her never felt wrong. She never felt wrong.” I’m breathing hard, my heart pumping fast. “And it’s really hard to keep fighting something that feels so goddamn right.”

Samantha stares at me, her expression softening, just slightly. She stops clicking her pen to drink in my words, searching for her own.

But our conversation is interrupted when the patio door slides open, and Andrew makes his way inside. He does a double-take when he spots me, his eyes narrowing to pointed slits. “What the hell are you still doing here?”

Samantha answers quickly. “I let him in. He deserves a chance to explain himself.”

“He doesn’t deserve anything. An explanation that justifies what he did does not exist.” Andrew’s face is angry and red, the veins in his neck popping. I watch as he storms over to us through the kitchen and into the living room with indignation in his gait. He raises a finger to my face, moving in closer. “We took you in when you’d lost everything. We raised you.”

My blood swims with ice and shame. I look down, too conscience-stricken to meet his eyes.

“We paid for your years of therapy, we gave you an education, we packed up everything and moved, just so you wouldn’t have to grow up living next door to that house of horrors.”

Tears sting my eyes. My heart grows heavier with every word.

“And how do you repay us?”

Samantha steps forward, the steady voice of reason. “Andrew, calm down. I’m handling this.”

He ignores her. “Answer me,” he spits out.

“Please,” I muster, lifting my hand like a prayerful white flag. My voice shakes. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You son-of-a-bitch.” His teeth are bared, his finger jabbing at me as he stands toe to toe with me. “You desecrated our daughter!”

We all go silent.

I look up, my gaze shimmering with penitence.

I don’t know what to say.

I don’t know how to excuse this, or argue my case, or latch onto the smallest thread of sympathy and make him understand.

All I have is my pathetic truth, so I let it fall out of me: “I’m in love with your daughter.”

He responds by flying his fist at my face.

Andrew slugs me in the jaw, bowling me over until I stumble back against the wall.

“Andrew!” Samantha shrieks.

I don’t have time to recover or process the hit before he’s on me again, snatching my shirt collar in a deathlike grip and shaking me. “You’re not in love with her. You preyed on her. You groomed her.” His spit mists my face as he growls through clenched teeth. “How long were you fantasizing about my little girl? How long were you violating her under my goddamn roof?”

No.

I’m floored, stunned, heartbroken.

A breath leaves me as my stomach rolls with sickness, and I feel like I’m going to puke.

That’s what he thinks?

That’s what he believes?

I whip my head back and forth, choking on my own air. “Andrew… no. God, no, it was never like that.” Bile climbs up my throat as my body tremors with disbelief. I’m like a ragdoll in his grip, listless and stripped of fight. “Fuck… no…”

Andrew shoves me away, and my knees buckle.

I collapse.

“Andrew, damnit, get a hold of yourself,” Samantha says, her voice hoarse and pained. She races over to me, crouching down to inspect my face that’s oozing with blood from a split lip. She grazes her fingertips to my jaw with a mother’s touch.

I’m still shaking my head back and forth, my breathing escalating. It feels like I’m about to have a panic attack. “You don’t think that…” I rush out, looking up at Andrew, my limbs trembling. “You can’t possibly think that of me…”

A brief moment of regret flickers in his eyes, but he slips the mask back on. “What am I supposed to think? You were having sex with your sister.”

“No…”

“Your sister, Brant!”

“She was never supposed to be my sister!” I burst, my head falling back against the wall as venomous tears drench my eyes. My chest caves in, my ribs burn, my breath hitches. “And it’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair,” I chant, broken and hopeless. “She was supposed to be Theo’s sister, and we were going to grow up together, as neighbors—I would’ve just been a regular boy who had a crush on a regular girl, and that boy would have fallen in love with that girl the right way.”

Samantha stills beside me, her own eyes watering.

Andrew goes silent. Watchful. His face untwists as he listens.

A growl funnels through me, and I slam my fist to the floor. “It’s not fair that my father had to lose his fucking mind and ruin my life, taking my mother away from me, while also destroying any chance I had of a future with that girl—that amazing, incredible girl with the purest heart I’ve ever known.” My own heart feels strangled and smothered as I push out more words. Sweat lines my brow, while adrenaline courses through me. “The girl who removes all the purple taffies out of the bag because she knows I don’t like purple, and who wears perfume that smells like desserts because it reminds me of my mother, and who bakes me things even though she doesn’t like to bake because she knows I love sweets, and who’s brave and kind and so fucking good, it’s impossible to see any other girl but her.”

Wetness trickles down my cheeks as I crumple, defeated, against the wall, breathing hard. “I love June. I’m in love with June… madly, completely, infinitely. I’m in so deep, there’s no way out. And I’d love her no matter what, regardless of the circumstances, regardless of if we were neighbors, friends, classmates, or strangers—I was always meant to love her.” I swallow and close my eyes. “But these are the cards I was given. These are the shitty, unfair circumstances I was forced into, and instead of a blessing, my love for her is a curse. And I’m sorry… I’m so fucking sorry for that.”

My chest aches from my tormented breaths, and my jaw throbs from Andrew’s fist.

Samantha places a tender hand along my shoulder, a small comfort.

And as I sit there with my eyes squeezed shut and my fists balled on the floor at my sides, Andrew’s voice breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry for striking you.”

I open my eyes, his haggard stance barely visible through my blurred vision. But I see the contrition in his eyes. I see his own guilt.

Andrew takes two full strides backward and lets out a harrowing sigh. “But I still can’t look at you,” he finishes, running both hands through his salt-and-pepper hair. “I don’t know when I’ll ever be able to look at you.”

Andrew spins around and stalks away, disappearing up the staircase, his footsteps mimicking my thunderous heartbeats.

My eyes close again.

The man who raised me as his own son, who gave me shelter and love and unconditional support, sees me as a monster.

A traitor.

Samantha squeezes my arm, likely trying to cease my tremors.

I shrug her away. “Don’t. You don’t have to pretend to still love me, just because a piece of paper says you should.”

Just hate me.

Hate me like he does.

Hate me like I hate myself.

“That’s absurd, and you know it,” Samantha says softly but firmly. She moves in closer, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and tugging me to her. “This has been a shock, that’s true. It feels like a boulder in the pit of my stomach, and I’ve hardly slept in days. I’m not sure when, or if, I’ll ever be able to accept it.”

My head falls against her chest as I exhale slowly.

“But I understand it,” she says.

She takes my hand in hers and squeezes, and I’m thrown back to my early days of childhood with the Baileys, when I was six years old, and all I needed was a mother’s love. I’d been caught in June’s nursery, trying to comfort her with a toy.

Samantha had ushered me toward her on the rocking chair, telling me that I’d done a kind thing.

“I’ll love you like my very own, Brant. I’ll love you like Caroline loved you. You have my word.”

The memory shoots more tears to my eyes because I don’t know if I ever returned that promise.

She loved me like I was her own son, yet I could never call her “Mom.” I refused to take their last name because that would make me theirs—and I belonged to Caroline Elliott.

But still, even now, she comforts me like I’m hers, despite the fact that I’ve betrayed her in the worst possible way.

Pressing her palm to my jaw, she holds me close, with tenderness and protection. “Nineteen years ago, I was drinking lemonade on my front porch with your mother… with Caroline,” she says, stroking my face as I go still. “She’d caught you feeding the neighbor dog pieces of your pancake through the fence in your backyard that morning; petting its nose and giggling. She’d scolded you, of course—told you it wasn’t safe, and that the dog could bite your hand.” Nostalgia laces her words. “But you didn’t care. You said the dog wanted love… and if you got bit, that was okay. At least you gave it love.”

I vaguely recall that moment.

It was only days before my world unraveled.

She sighs, still holding me close. “You’ve always put love first, Brant—regardless of the consequences. Regardless of the fact that you might get bit.” Her tone shifts then, riddled with a tinge of grief. “Three days later, Caroline stopped by again, hysterical. She had bruises all along her abdomen from where Luke had kicked her in a fit of rage. She begged me not to call the cops, fearful of what he might do… but she was finally done. She was going to leave him.”

An icy chill sweeps down my back.

“Tomorrow, it will be June. June always feels like a new beginning.”

My mother’s words echo in my ears—words I didn’t understand then.

Words that hold such a double meaning now.

And it kills me that she never got her new beginning, the one she was finally brave enough to take. She never got to leave.

He wouldn’t let her leave.

“Caroline told me that if anything ever happened to her, she wanted us to raise you,” Samantha continues, brushing her fingers through my hair. “She’d watched Theo grow up, she’d witnessed the bear hugs and piggy-back rides from Andrew, tee-ball in the front yard, endless barbeques and laughter, the bike rides and picnics in the sun… and she wanted the same thing for you. A good father, a loving home.” She swallows. “I think she knew, Brant… I really think she knew her time was running out. A mother’s instinct.”

I wipe the emotion from my eyes, sniffling into the front of her blouse.

“Just like my own instincts told me that my daughter was never going to be your sister.”

I go still, lifting my head a little. Inhaling a quaky breath, I wonder, “How did you know?”

“Moments,” she says quietly.

“Moments?”

Samantha nods, then scoots away, forcing me to sit up straight. “I’ll be right back.” She pops the pen back into her hair and makes her way down into the basement.

When she returns minutes later, her arms are full of shoeboxes, all stacked on top of each other.

I frown. “What are those?”

She moves toward me as I straighten more, my back flush with the wall. She plops the stack of boxes beside me, lowering herself to her knees. Black permanent marker is scribbled along the side of each box, the ink smudged and worn.

Numbers.

Years?

Reaching for the first box, my heart beats swiftly as I read off the number. “Two-thousand-and-three.” I pull off the top, my nose assaulted with must and age. Inside the box rests dozens of index cards. Hundreds. I glance up at Samantha, my frown deepening with unspoken questions.

She smiles. “Moments,” she repeats.

My teeth scrape together as I pluck a card from the box.

March 4, 2003

• Theodore got an A+ on his science project. He made a solar system and named the planets after video game characters.
• June fell asleep in Brant’s lap watching The Little Mermaid. She slept for three hours, and Brant refused to move from the couch because he didn’t want to wake her. He told me his legs felt like a mermaid fin later that night, but that it was worth it.

September 16, 2003

• June had a nightmare about a giant bug that tried to eat her. Theodore and Brant spent an hour calming her down and telling her funny stories. When I checked on them the next morning, I found them all curled up together, fast asleep.

Popping the cap off more boxes, I keep digging. Keep reading.

May 10, 2005

• Brant went to a birthday party today. He was given a chocolate cupcake, his favorite flavor, but he didn’t eat it. He brought it home and gave it to June because she skinned her knee this morning and he thought it would make her feel better.

April 5, 2006

• Theodore wanted to have a swordfight with June in the backyard, but June wanted to ride her bike with Brant. Theodore thinks she loves Brant more than him, but I told him he was wrong. She doesn’t love him more, she just loves him differently. I’m glad he didn’t ask me what that meant because I don’t know.

June 23, 2008

• June told me she wants to marry Brant one day. I told her she couldn’t because he’s her brother. She said, “Theo is my brother. Brant is my handsome prince.” This kid watches too many Disney movies.

January 2, 2011

• Brant canceled his plans with Wendy because June fell ill. He made her soup and suffered through a Hannah Montana movie with her. Whoever he marries one day will be a lucky lady.

Emotion is clogged in my throat as I reach for a more recent box, both eager and terrified.

May 11, 2019

• June picked out her Prom dress. It’s gorgeous. The first thing she said? “I think Brant will love it.” I had no idea what to say to that.

June 7, 2019

• June just walked down the stairs in her Prom dress. She’s absolutely glowing. Andrew is tearing up like a giant sap. I love this man.
• Brant can’t keep his eyes off of June. I guess he loves her dress.
• Theodore looks so handsome in his uniform. I’m very proud of him. He hugged me a little harder before he left for his shift tonight, and he whispered in my ear, “You’ve raised us right, Mom. You’ve done a damn good job.”

• He’s gone. Theodore is gone. My baby boy is gone.

Fuck, I can’t do this.

Cupping a hand over my mouth, I shove the box away and drink in a deep, anguished breath. Samantha hesitates before pushing more boxes toward me across the floor. Older boxes, where sweeter memories lurk inside.

I gather my courage and pop off the tops, and then I lose myself.

I read through more cards. So many cards. Hundreds of cards.

Each one houses precious moments. Forgotten moments.

Glimpses into the future.

Foreshadowing.

And above all… love.

May 2, 2004

• The boys gave June the cutest nicknames. Junebug and Peach. This little girl is so loved.
• June wanted to draw on her new coloring pad, so Brant drew with her. She scribbled a bunch of colors onto the paper and said it was a secret, magical place over the rainbow. She asked Brant if he would live there with her one day, and he said yes—but how will they get there? June already had the answer. “I’ll fly us there because I have wings!” she said. Brant told her he couldn’t wait to go. Then June said it might be a long time because she still has to grow up a lot more (aww). Brant said, “That’s okay, Junebug. I’ll wait forever.” My heart!

The angry adrenaline leaves me as I deflate, running a hand through my hair and finding my bearings. I glance up at the pen sticking out of Samantha’s bun, finally knowing why it’s always in there. She’s been documenting our life’s moments—turning them into something tangible.

Small ones, big ones, forgettable ones, devastating ones, cherished ones.

Our entire lives are in these shoeboxes.

It takes my breath away.

And at the center of it all, one thing stands out.

One thing is crystal clear.

“You’ve always put love first, Brant,” Samantha says, her blue eyes glimmering with awareness. With knowing. With a mother’s instinct. “You’ve always put June first.”

Five days later, I get a text from June while I’m making a pot of stew on the stove.

My heart leaps.

June: It rained all day in New York City, but I’d relive every gloomy minute just to see this again.

A picture loads, and when it pops up on my screen, I almost collapse.

It’s June, glowing and happy, standing in front of the most beautiful rainbow I’ve ever seen. She’s smiling. She has color in her cheeks.

She outshines every rainbow.

A final text comes through.

June: Pretty, huh? It’s fitting, too—because I sent you a package, and the tracking shows that it just arrived at the main office. I was missing you a lot today, and the rainbow gave me so much comfort. I hope this package is able to bring you comfort. I kept my promise, Brant. <3 Junebug

Confusion trickles through me as I read over her message, but I slip the phone into my pocket and make my way down to the apartment complex’s office.

Sure enough, the receptionist hands me a package, addressed from June Bailey.

I smile my thanks and finger the gift, unsure of what hides inside.

As I tear open the plastic outer casing, shuffling distractedly back to my room, I peek inside to see something wrapped in tissue paper with a little envelope attached. I open the note first, stepping into my apartment and closing the door behind me.

It’s a sheet of baby blue stationary stamped with birds in flight.

I smile.

And then I read.

Dear Brant,

Comfort and courage

Help keep us from sinking.

But for you,

I am both,

So I had to start thinking.

When I was a girl

I made you a promise.

A hard one,

Indeed,

But that’s never stopped us.

He’s silver like a sword

Yet soft like cotton.

Both courage and comfort,

And never forgotten.

You see,

I have Aggie

To keep me safe from my troubles.

And now,

An old friend has returned.

You know him as

Bubbles.

The note slips from my fingers, fluttering to my feet.

I feel like I can’t breathe.

What?

It can’t be.

It’s not possible.

It’s not fucking possible.

The room starts to spin.

I’m shaking as I sift through the package and pull out a plush object wrapped in tissue paper, my chest weighed down by emotion-steeped bricks.

How?

How, June?

With trembling fingers, I carefully unpiece the tape from the thin white paper, uncovering an irreplaceable token from my childhood. Something I never thought I’d see again.

My cherished stuffed elephant.

Bubbles.

It’s Bubbles.

I fucking break down like the child who used to clutch this elephant tightly in his arms, beneath colorful bedsheets, while his mother sang him lullabies and smelled of candy and cake.

A devastating, joyful sound creeps up my throat, and I cover a hand over my mouth as my whole body shakes with tears.

It’s Bubbles.

“I’ll find him someday for you, Brant. I promise.”

She found him.

June found him for me.

Squeezing the worn, stuffed toy in my hands, my tears dampen his gray fur. He looks the same as he used to, only dappled with blotches of bleach from where stains were removed.

I bend over to pick up the note, remembering there was a final paragraph at the bottom.

My eyes skim over the remaining words.

PS:

He’s had plenty of baths,

So he shouldn’t be smelly.

But for more of the story

Contact Aunt Kelly.

All my love,

Junebug

Still trembling, I reach into my pocket for my phone, set Bubbles on the kitchen counter, and snap a photograph. I send it off to June with the following message:

Me: I love you so fucking much it hurts.

She reads it right away and texts me back.

June: How much? 🙂

Me: To the moon and back.

June: That’s not enough…

Me: Over the rainbow and back again.

June: That’s better.

With tears on my cheeks and my heart in my throat, I think about that final notecard I read from the shoebox, and I send June one final message.

Me: We’ll fly over the rainbow together one day. Just you and me. I’ll wait for you, Junebug. I’ll wait forever.

I’ve always put June first.

She’s always put me first.

And I hope,

I pray,

I beg,

That someday…

We’ll finally be able to put us first.