June First

by Jennifer Hartmann

I take a step back, away from the swaying cradle. Maybe I don’t like Baby June. Is she my wish? Is she what I traded my parents for? Theo slides up beside me, fiddling with his overalls. “Do you like her, Brant?” “I don’t know.” All I know is that she’s here, and Mom and Dad aren’t.

She holds her hand out to me, and I take it, and then she whispers, “I’ll love you like my very own, Brant. I’ll love you like Caroline loved you. You have my word.”

Tiny fingers clamp around my pinkie, stealing my next breath. She clings so tightly—as if she needs me for something, as if I’m important, and that causes my belly to flutter. My chest tickles, too. I like the feeling: being needed, wanted. Claimed. I feel claimed. And after losing everything I love, it feels really good to belong to someone.

“Have a remarkable day.” He always says that. He never tells us to have a good day, or even a great day… It’s always remarkable.

Brant’s face brightens with a smile, reminding me of a lightning bug at dusk. I stare at him for a moment, and the prickle of fear fades away. His face is handsome and brave, with eyes like the earth: a little green, a little brown. He has dents that pop up on both cheeks when he smiles wide, and Mama says they’re called dimples. I love Brant’s dimples. I pretend they were made just for me.

My little ballerina is more dedicated than ever—

“What’s a june bug look like?” I glance over at her still dancing in circles around the coffee table. The lights from the tree reflect off the sparkles in her emerald dress, and I smile wistfully. “It looks like a rainbow butterfly with glittery fairy wings.” “Wow!” I feel guilty for lying, but I realized too late that I’d named her after a hideous creature with long, creepy legs and a poop-colored shell. It might be the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.

June is in my lap, her back pressed to my chest as she gazes at the tree with a look of wonder in her eyes. It’s magic, really, and it makes my heart skip a few beats as I watch the joy flicker across her face.

June is quick to point at the discovery, her voice high and chipper. “Look, Brant, it’s your mama! She’s so pretty. And that’s you when you were as small as me.”

June announces with pride, “I couldn’t find your elephant friend, but Mama found this picture in the attic, so I did my best. He’s not lost anymore. He’ll live in this picture with you forever.”

The image of my little ballerina with a mighty sword causes me to laugh out loud through my worry. What a sight that would be.

I could never love anyone more than I love you.” “You mean it?” Her eyes widen to sky-like orbs, looking even bluer outside in the natural light. “Of course I mean it.”

My insides clench. Her innocent nine-year-old wish thunders through me, wreaking more havoc than it should. It warms me, too. It warms me because little girls should be wishing for roller skates, or a new bike, or dolls that talk and cry. They shouldn’t be wishing for things like my mother coming back. But she wished it for me, and that’s everything.

June looks up at the ceiling, her racing thoughts twinkling in her eyes. “Brant? If that wish won’t come true, can I wish for something else?” “Sure.” “Okay…I wish that we can be together forever.” “Forever, huh?” She nods, picking at one of Aggie’s worn ears. “Forever and ever. That one will come true, right?” I hope so, Junebug. And sometimes, hope is all we have. “I bet it will,” I say, kissing her on the temple and rising to my feet. I turn to leave the room, pausing in the doorway to whisper two final words into the dark. “Happy birthday.”

That’s always how it’s been, though. When she calls me, I’m there. If she needs me, I’m hers.

I’m cold. So cold. The mattress shifts beside my shivering body, and I feel him looming over me before he speaks. He’s warm. He’s perfect. He’s my everything. A hand reaches out, gathering my sweat-soaked hair and letting it drop against the pillow. His breath flutters into my ear, followed by my favorite word in the whole world: “Junebug.”

The dream spirals back to me, causing me to blush profusely. I’m hopeful the heat from my fever is disguising my humiliation. I dreamed I was marrying Brant! Strange images flicker through my mind—from unicorns to vintage settees to Brant’s mother floating from room to room. Madness. Delirium. I’ve never had a dream so realistic before. So…bizarre.

“That’s because I love you, Junebug,” he whispers. Brant bends over, pressing a light kiss to my hairline. “So much.” “How much?” I ask. My voice cracks. My throat tickles. He inches away, peering down at me with all the love in the world. His handsome face is all I see. His warmth is all I feel. I gulp. “To the moon and back,” Brant says. “That’s not enough,” I murmur, inhaling a frayed breath. Then I smile, with Aggie tucked beside me on the hospital cot, a hand gripping my sword while the other holds on to Brant. All the things that make me brave. “How about…over the rainbow and back again?”

But she doesn’t know the psychological toll it took on me. She doesn’t know that it altered inherent parts of me. She doesn’t know that I made a wish that day, standing in my front lawn, begging the cotton-candy clouds for a baby sister. And then I got one. I got June in exchange for my parents, and in the mind of a small, damaged child, it felt like I had caused their deaths. My wish had come true at a terrible price. It was all my fault. So I refused to ever see her as my sister. I refused to see the Baileys as my true family because that would make me guilty. That would have given me the darkest, heaviest burden imaginable, and it likely would have snapped me in two. As I got older, I came to realize that it was simply a tragedy, and there is no logic in tragedy—tragedies just happen—and how we get through them, what we do after, is our only true power over them. But that was how I chose to cope at the time, and even though I understand it now, those feelings have been hardwired into me. There’s no going back.

“I wanted to apologize for more than tonight,” she cuts in. “I wanted to apologize for every time I’ve made you angry, made you sad, or scared, made you question how much I love you, and how much I always have.”

“I miss how close we used to be, and I hate that I’ve caused distance. It truly kills me.” “You’re growing up, Junebug,” I tell her. “It’s natural. Lullabies and bedtime stories don’t last forever.” She smiles softly, almost sadly. “Growing up isn’t the same as outgrowing. I’ll never be too old for the rainbow song.” My heart continues to skip its strange, unfamiliar beats, and I swallow through my nod.

We didn’t talk about that night again, but our dynamic changed once again. We grew closer. In a lot of ways, too close. And I’m not sure why. I’ll never know why. But I got out of bed that Sunday, threw on a clean T-shirt, drank my morning coffee, and hopped into my car. I drove to Wendy’s apartment, and I broke up with her. For the very last time.

For a blinding, beautiful second, I see her as she is—my beautiful Junebug, the girl who makes me homemade scones, who lies with me and dreams with me, who protects my heart at all costs. Nothing has changed. Nothing has changed.

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.”

He told me once, in a hospital bed as I struggled through deadly pneumonia, that he’d brought me Aggie for comfort and my custom pink sword for courage. Little did he know I already had both. I had him.

I think I’m kind of drunk. I’ve never been drunk before. Hangovers have never really held any appeal for me, especially with my rigorous dance schedule and the goals I’m determined to reach. Parties and booze will only slow me down, hold me back. Alcohol doesn’t fit into my life.

I pull up on my elbows, still catching my breath. We glance at each other, just once, and there’s a flickering of mutual understanding that hangs mutely in the air. Don’t touch June. Don’t touch Wendy. And the damnedest thing happens— We obey.

I can’t be in here right now. She’s too soft, too vulnerable. I’m still surging with adrenaline. I’m still suffocating on the awful awareness that the child I watched grow up, the angel I swore to protect, the little girl I craved in a million beautiful, innocent ways—is now becoming the girl I crave in the only way I shouldn’t. And it’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair. If my father hadn’t murdered my mother, I would still just be the neighbor boy and she would be the girl next door. Instead, he branded us with a label, forced me into something twisted. He turned the only girl I’ve ever wanted into the only girl I can never have. But I still love her. I still love her in all those other ways—all those precious, pure, good ways. And I just have to hope that the rotten love doesn’t spoil all the rest.

“Brant.” I’m falling apart, right along with the bodies and bones, when June wraps her arms around me, crouched beside me in the grass. “She kept her promise.” I shake my head, tears spilling from my eyes. I’m crying. I’m fucking crying, and I can’t remember the last time I cried. “She didn’t.” “Shh…she did. She did.” June strokes my hair, kisses my forehead, whispers her soft coos of solace into my ear. “She gave you to us, Brant.” Her own tears get the better of her, and she chokes out, “She gave you to me.”

I’m hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you, June Bailey. The desperate, aching kind of love. The kind there’s no coming back from. The kind there’s no way out of. The kind that’s going to be the death of me one day. I fall more in love with June than I ever thought possible as we clutch each other in a moonlit graveyard on her eighteenth birthday, with my mother on my mind and the scent of sweet desserts dancing in the air.

“I–I knew it was a good day…to save someone,”

I hate that it’s going to end this way. I hate that Brant’s last memory of me is filled with violence and bloodshed after he’s already experienced so much of that. A tear slips. A single tear trickles down my cheek, filled with so much regret that I’m not sure what hurts more—my pulverized insides, or my heart. My shattered legs, or the heavy burden of grief resting on my shoulders.

“Tell Brant…” I inhale a slow, shuddering breath. My teeth are still chattering as I force out words. “Tell him…it’s okay.” Darkness whispers down my neck, eager to swallow me whole, but I force it away. I fight it. I drown it out before it drowns me because I need to purge before I plummet. “You have to tell him…June…it’s okay.”

“Please, tell him. Tell Luigi…” I shiver. I exhale. I use the last of my strength to give Brant strength. To give him peace. He can’t think that I hate him. God, he can’t think that at all. “We came first…Mario and Luigi, right?” A nostalgic smile twitches on my mouth, and for a moment I pretend the paramedic is Brant. I picture his dark hair and dimples, his hazel eyes glimmering with grief. I turn this blurry stranger into my brother. I pretend that he’s Brant because I need him to be Brant. “I need you…to be Mario, now.” I think I hear giggles. Childlike giggles. Calling to me, beckoning me. Not yet. Not yet. “Take care of Peach because…no one…” My eyelids flutter. My throat tightens. My heartbeats stutter and slow. “No one will ever love her…like we do.”

Sound evaporates as I drift away, clinging to those giggles I hear echoing in the distance. Just beyond the beacon of light. I race toward them. Peace blankets me as I run, my bare feet tickled by grass blades while I chase a ladybug through the backyard. There’s a sword in my hand. A gallant sword, designed for battle. Created for saving worthy things. Those worthy things are sprinting beside me through the yard, young Brant on my right and a tiny June on my left. Her soft curls are glowing in the golden sunset, smelling of baby powder and lilacs. We collapse underneath our magical tree house with adventure in our eyes and innocence in the air. Brant moves in next to me, and we sit shoulder to shoulder with a little princess tucked safely between us. He looks over at me with a watery smile. “I’ll take care of her, Theo. I promise.” I smile back as the sun settles behind a fluffy cloud. We’re happy here. We’re untouchable. We’re forever young. “I know you will.”

This can’t be happening. This. Can’t. Be. Happening. I’ve lost my best friend—the Mario to my Luigi. I’ve lost one of the only people in my life who’s been by my side from the beginning, who accepted me, who offered me friendship in my loneliest hours and laughter in my saddest. Who knew my deepest, darkest secrets and loved me anyway. Who used his last moments on earth to forgive me for breaking a childhood promise. Who told me it was okay. But it’s not okay… He’s gone. Theo is gone. And now I have to go tell June that her brother is dead.

It was only supposed to be a dare. A silly, immature dare. Instead, it became a death sentence that will hang over both our heads. Forever. There’s no erasing the way our tongues ravished one another’s. There’s no silencing those awful, lustful moans. There’s no pretending he wasn’t painfully hard and I wasn’t humiliatingly wet. There’s no going back in time and taking it all back…and I’m sick—absolutely sick—that our beautiful, precious dynamic has been forever altered. Tainted.

“You were unsure which pain is worse: the shock of what happened, or the ache for what never will.”

“How are you, Brant?” The truth? The watered-down truth? A blatant lie? I’ve never understood that question in the aftermath of grief and loss—especially when it comes from people who aren’t equipped to handle the truth. And if a lie is what they’re after, why bother asking?

“Junebug.” She freezes, the word echoing all around us. Junebug. I haven’t called her that in weeks. How could I? That nickname was born from innocence and purity. Unsullied love. But now I know the sound of her desire. I’ve memorized the way her curves melt into me when I tug at her hair and make love to her mouth. I’ve witnessed the blue flames in her eyes when she looks at me in a way she should never look at me. God, why did she kiss me? Why did she have to go and do that? And why was I not strong enough to resist her?

I sing her favorite lullaby, partially off-key, nearly cracking on my own remorse, and June continues to cry until her body goes still and her breathing steadies. I sing about rainbows and blue skies, and I wonder if that’s where Theo is right now. Somewhere over the rainbow, a happy little kid again, laughing and loving, rescuing things in need of saving. Only, the things in need of the most saving are right here—nestled together like two lost creatures sheltering from the cold.

“You’re not responsible for the way others react to what you need to do to get better.”

Brant: I’m still that same boy who loves you with everything he is, who wants to be your comfort and your courage, and who would use his dying breaths to sing you your favorite lullaby.

Sydney pipes in, waving her arms back and forth. “I’m going to take off, too. I have a date with a riveting book of smut and my vibr—” She wheezes a little, catching herself. “Vibrant imagination.” Brant laughs. And I can’t help it. I laugh, too. “Have fun with that,” I chuckle, pacing backward. “It was nice meeting you.”

“I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but the thought of another man putting his hands on you makes me borderline murderous.”

I love him more than I love breathing. He knows every dent and divot in my heart, and he knows how each one got there. He’s tasted my tears and silenced my fears.

My mother has always had that uncanny sense of something not being right. She calls it a motherly intuition, while I tend to lean more toward the voodoo or witchcraft angle. She has a lot of crystals, and her favorite movie is Practical Magic.

“All birds have to leave the nest eventually, June. There’s no good time or right time. They simply fly when their wings are ready.”

Jesus Christ, the noises she’s making. The way she’s panting my name as her body shamelessly thrashes and throbs under my tongue. The way she grips my hair, her spine arching, her skin flushed bright pink while I eat her out. I’m eating her out. I’m eating her out like a fucking animal on my living room couch.

The realization sinks into both of us that we just crossed a very dangerous, very intoxicating line, and I have no idea where to go from here.