The Unmaking of June Farrow

by Adrienne Young

suspected that the ache of missing her would mostly come from those little things. The holes that were left behind, empty places I’d stumble upon now that she was gone.

In those last years, Gran had all but lived inside of her own broken mind, shut away from our world for weeks at a time. It was one thing to miss her when she was gone. It was another to miss her when she was still here, in this house with me. For the last few months, I’d found myself longing for the end as much as I’d dreaded it.

The morbid, superior curiosity of people who pretended to be good Christian folk was something still alive and well in Jasper.

I couldn’t stop thinking that where we stood was the center of something, a place that created the kind of gravity that made galaxies.

“You may have ruined my life, June. But first, you gave me one.” My fingers found the damp fabric of his shirt and I pulled him into me, pressing my lips to his.

And I didn’t think there was any way to ever come back from that explosion of light that had birthed a universe inside of me when she said that word. Mama.

“I wouldn’t change any of it. If I could walk through a door and undo all of this, I wouldn’t. Do you understand?”

“You and Annie are the loves of my life,” he breathed. “And I wouldn’t change it.”

“I need to ask you something.” Eamon’s voice lowered. “What?” He set his forehead against mine, holding me there. “Do you remember me?” He asked the question like he was scared. Like I had an answer that could destroy him. “I don’t mean do you have memories of us. I mean, do you remember me.” I nodded, and he exhaled, like it was the first time he’d been able to breathe since I’d left. “I do,” I whispered. He caught my mouth with his, making the space between us come alive, and I melted into him. There was only the burn of his fingers. The heat of his breath. The feeling of his teeth grazing my lip.

All that time, she remembered me. She was just waiting for me to remember her.

It was such an easy thing—that choice. I’d already made it.