June First

by Jennifer Hartmann

“Well, I wish I had better advice for you. All I can say is follow your heart—knowing that there might be a few casualties along the way. You have to weigh the good and the bad,” she tells me. “No relationship comes without a fight, but it has to be worth fighting for. It has to be worth all the sacrifices you’ll inevitably have to make.”

Hard, fast, punishing. He fucks me like he’s trying to wash away everything sweet and good between us, until we slip into the darkness where our sins are overlooked. Where permission lies in wait. Where we fit in.

I can see it. I can see it all in that moment. A future. June as my wife, baking brownies when I return home from a long day of work. The kitchen alight with sweet smells, the house a mess of toys and living, maybe a happy-go-lucky dog circling my ankles, and the chatter of our children, the ideal soundtrack to our life of bliss. I can see it so fucking clearly. And it hurts my heart that the things I see, the things I crave with everything I am, aren’t necessarily the things that are right.

“I’m afraid you’re making a mistake.” “We’re not a mistake,” she insists. Her nails dig into me, carving little crescents into my arms. “We were written in the stars. Stars don’t make mistakes.” My eyes close tight, my body swaying as if it’s being pulled in two different directions. Dancing and distance are what’s best for June. No, I’m what’s best for June. Fuck. I don’t know. I don’t know, so I just kiss her, because nothing is scary or messy or wrong when I’m kissing her.

The urgency swells between us, as it always does. I lift her up by the thighs, wrapping her legs around my waist. When I pull back from her mouth, I breathe out, “I want to make love to you.” “Okay.” She nods eagerly, arms linked around my neck. “Bedroom.” I kiss her again, then start walking the short distance to my room. “I want to make love to you, June. Sweet and slow and soft. The way it should have been that first time.”

“I want to treasure you. Cherish you. Adore you.”

And when I finally sink my cock into her, my own desperation blinding me, I gather her closer than ever, our faces a whisper apart, our bodies slick and tangled. She whimpers as I move, slow and deep, rocking against her as our eyes remain locked. Then I say it: “Junebug.”

“You’re my Junebug,” I tell her, sweeping back the strands of hair matted to her forehead. I kiss her hairline. “You’ll always be my Junebug.” She sniffles, sucking in a shuddering breath. “You mean it?” “Of course I mean it.”

And as I follow behind, releasing inside of her, sinking and falling and melting, I know I’ve never felt more alive, more at peace, more grateful than I do in this moment. For all the tragedy I’ve witnessed, for all the heartache… I’m lucky. I’m lucky to have something so good in my life washing away all the bad.

Numb. Sad. Done. Last night I was lucky… But not today. Today is just another tragedy.

“There is no sense in love,” I counter, swiping away more tears. “It’s a senseless thing.” Mom pauses, pinching the bridge of her nose, chin tucked to her chest. I forge ahead. “And I didn’t pursue him. He didn’t pursue me. It just…happened. Because that’s what love does. It happens. It sneaks up on you, and then it burrows. It festers in your blood. And once it’s in your blood you can’t just flush it out. It’s a part of you. Trying to get rid of it would be like cutting off a limb or carving your heart right out of your chest.”

“Passion is meaning, and it would be a hell of an empty life without it.”

Passion is meaning. Passion is purpose. And tragedy is simply the risk we take in order to experience it.

“You’re going places, Peach. You really are. And I’ll be cheering you along, all the way to the top.”

He inhales a shuddering breath and glances up at me with eyes like those of a wounded soldier. “I stayed away because I’m completely defenseless when I’m around you, June. Logic flies out the window, and all I want to do is whisper pretty lies into your ear, telling you we’re going to be okay. I can’t be around you without touching you, and I can’t touch you without wanting to keep you.” Touch me. Keep me. Never let me go, Brant.

That’s when I feel him. That’s when he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, burying his face in the crook of my neck. “I’m trying to be strong because I know this is what’s best for you,” he confesses, his voice cracking on every word. “But I’m not built for this, June. I’m not built for a life without you.” My stifled sob falls out, and I spin around in his arms, collapsing against his chest. He holds me so tight, crying right along with me as we shake and mourn and grieve. “You’ve always been here,” he says through gritted teeth, cradling the back of my head. “It’s always been you and me, and I’m going to be so fucking lost without your hugs and the sound of your voice and your sweet smiles.” He squeezes me in his steadfast arms. “But I’ve been selfish for too long. I need to let you fly.”

We’ve grown codependent. We’re addicted to each other. And until I learn how to live without him, I’ll never be able to live with him in a healthy way. Sniffling, I murmur, “What if my place is with you?” “Then I’m here. I’ll be waiting.” A gasp leaves me as I press my cheek to his chest. “You mean it?” “Of course I mean it.”

This decision is about more than just dancing. Our future depends on it. Glancing at him with swollen, puffy eyes, I reach up and clasp his face between my palms. “I know we’ll be miles apart, but…” My lips quiver. My hands shake. “You’re still Brant…and I’m still June.” His eyes close, and he says in a strangled breath, “That’s right.”

His forehead crashes against mine as a gut-wrenching sound passes through his lips. “A lot of love…is a good thing to have,” he says, his voice worn and raw, echoing his past words. “The downside is the more love you have, the harder it is to lose it.” “We’ll never lose it. I’ve been yours since the day I was born and I’ll be yours until the day I die. Distance doesn’t change destiny.”

With a strangled cry, I pull back, shaking my head, knowing I need to be the strong one now. Brant has spent his entire life being the strong one. He’s taken on my added weight, my heavy burdens, and he’s carried them with dignity. With pride. Brant has always gone out of his way to protect me, and now it’s my turn. It’s my turn to be brave. His mother’s last words to him filter through my mind, tightening my chest with sentiment. I heave in a rickety breath, taking a small step back. “I’ll always protect you.” I watch him carefully as a beat passes. As he absorbs my words. His kissed lips part with a sharp inhale. “Now…cover your ears,” I tell him gently. Brant’s eyes flash with memory. With painful familiarity. A single tear makes a languid, agonizing descent from the corner of his eye, down his cheek. But he does it. He obeys. His hands lift slowly as his eyes close tight, more tears pooling and falling, and he cups his ears, exhaling a long, tapered breath. “I don’t want to leave,” I begin, placing my own hands over his, keeping my voice low. Tears pour down my face like a fractured dam. “I want to stay and build a life with you—a beautiful life I know we deserve. I want to marry you, Brant Elliott, and I want to make love to you every night beneath rainbows and stars. I want to have children with you. I want to raise them strong and brave, just like their father, and I want to sing them lullabies by the light of the moon.” My words clip with grief, and I take a moment...

She’s gone. June is gone—and now the only comfort I have left is the hope that all of her dreams come true. I sit collapsed on the floor with my head in my hands, hating the sob that pours out of me. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear my chest caving in, because there’s no sound more painful than a breaking heart. So I cover my ears. I cover my ears and let myself break. A tragedy occurred, that much I know. I just don’t know if the tragedy was in her leaving me… …or loving me.

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?

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.”

“She was never supposed to be my sister!” I burst out, 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 dots 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’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.

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 rest 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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

“He said his name was Brant.” A lengthy silence stretches between us for a moment, only fractured by the sound of singing cicadas. I run a hand through my hair, sitting up and watching as she stares off between the headstones, the heartwarming memories lighting up her eyes. “She told me she’d finally decided on your name, and that any boy with that name was destined to become a good, honorable man,” she explains. “And then when she got home, she researched the meaning behind the name, just out of curiosity. Do you know what it means?” I shake my head. I never bothered to look it up. “Sword,” she tells me. “Brant means ‘sword.’ Brave, gallant, a stalwart defender.” Aunt Kelly reaches into her purse and pulls out an opened bag of Skittles, quirking a smile as she tips the corner toward me. Cupping my palm, I hold it out to her. She pours the candies into my hand, the purple ones already plucked out. Just like she’d done when I was a small child. “You’ve lived up to your name, Brant. More than you know.” We both glance at the headstone, feeling my mother’s presence swirling around us, wrapping us up in a warm hug. “I know she’d be so very proud.”

“I wish that we can be together forever.” “Forever, huh?” “Forever and ever.”

Curiosity nudges me, so I pull out my phone and do a Google search for the Italian word stellina. Then I smile. “Little star,” I murmur aloud. Yep…Pauly’s toast.

People talk about rehabilitation all the time. Broken bodies learning to walk again. Impaired minds fighting disease, addiction, and dark thoughts. But have they ever had to rehabilitate a heart? Hearts fall apart, too. Bodies crumble, minds fail us, and hearts turn hopeless. They can deteriorate if we’re not careful, and for all the tragedies I’ve suffered through, for all the tears and pitfalls, I can’t think of anything more tragic than a hopeless heart. The heart is the crux of life itself, and once it starts to wither, everything else starts to wither, too. And that’s a damn shame. That’s a devastating injustice to everything we’ve fought so hard to overcome and to everything still worth fighting for.

He takes my hand. He takes my whole life, too.

He draws his thumb from my mouth, and before the desperate begging can spill out of me, he kisses me. My lips are his again, as they have been ever since we stood in that hallway at the prom and I opened a doorway to the inevitable. A prelude to meant to be. Fate disguised in sinful wrapping paper. But it doesn’t feel wrong anymore. His hands on my body don’t feel criminal, and his lips on mine don’t feel like a fluke. Brant seems to melt, deflate, as he presses a soft kiss to my bottom lip, just lingering for a pause as if he’s accepting the moment—this inevitable, meant to be, fateful moment. A moment that confirms that we were never wrong. Our love story was never wrong. We were simply waiting for the timing to be right.

Brant wraps his arms around my back and tugs me close, his face buried between my breasts. His nose tickles the chain of my necklace as he murmurs, “I want to go slow. Adore you. Fuck you for hours, like we have all the time in the world because we do…” I grip his hair, his tongue dipping out to taste me. “We do, Junebug.” “I missed you,” I whimper. “I missed you so much.” “I’m done missing you. I’m done sleeping alone. I’m done wishing for a future with you when you’re still here.” His head falls back against the wall as I ride him, swiveling my hips and leaning forward, our lips touching. “I…” He thrusts up. “Am…” He thrusts again. “Done.”

“You…you haven’t been with anyone else? In two years?” “No.” “But you’re…” “What? A man?” He peppers kisses down my jaw and nibbles my neck, his fingers raking through my hair as our bodies slap and grind together. “And men have needs?” I nod, tilting my head to the side to give him better access. “I’m your man, June. And the only thing I’ve ever needed is you.” Kissing and biting his way up the side of my throat, he nips my earlobe and says, “Never underestimate a man willing to wait forever for the woman he loves.” I want to cry. Cupping his face between my hands, I move his head back until we’re eye to eye. His pupils dilate, the browns and golds and greens of his irises swirling with faithful devotion. “I love you, Brant. I love you…over the rainbow and back again.” A smile paints his lips as he moves in for a kiss. “I love you, Junebug. More than you’ll ever know.” We go slow. We go hard. We go fast, brutal, sweet, and kind. We make love for hours, savoring, cherishing, appreciating, until we’re sore, bruised, and satiated. We come. We cry. We heal. He breaks me apart and puts me back together again. And then we fall asleep, tangled and spent, knowing that for the very first time, we don’t need to fear what comes next.

I loved the boy, and I’m in love with the man. Brant Elliott lays claim to all of my most precious memories of the past, and I know without a doubt he’ll claim my future as well.

“Fine.” He grins. “Naughty things. Dirty things.” Two fingers trail down my middle, landing at the juncture between my thighs. “Things that are making you blush right now.” My breathing becomes unsteady. “It’s warm in here. It’s August.” “I recognize that color in your cheeks, Junebug,” he rasps near my ear, curling his fingers inside me. “That’s all me.”

“Where were we?” I murmur. “I’m not sure where you were, but I was right here…wishing I could be wherever you were.” When he pulls back, a flash of teeth lights up his face. It takes my breath away. I nearly choke because I can’t remember the last time I saw Brant smile like this. Untethered from grief and perfectly present. I return his smile with my own as joyous tears shimmer back at him, knowing it’s been a long time since I’ve smiled like this, too. It’s been years.

True happiness is a puzzle. It’s a jigsaw puzzle we’re all carefully putting together, searching for those pieces that link and connect, that allow us to move on to the next part of the puzzle. Some puzzles remain incomplete, and I think that’s because many people don’t know what makes them truly happy. Or…they’re unwilling to take the time to find those other missing pieces first. They just want to squeeze the last piece into a space it won’t fit. Those other pieces are integral, though. They are the stepping stones for the finished puzzle. And as I lie here beside the man I love, watching his organic, soul-deep smile put light back into his eyes, I’m thankful we both took the time to find those pieces.

Never underestimate a man willing to wait forever for the woman he loves, for there is nothing he’s not capable of. Noble to some. A fool to many. But to that woman? He is everything.

June strokes the base as she tries to deep-throat me without gagging. She gags. And it’s so fucking hot.

I’m living my dream. I’m living my dream with the love of my life.

But I’m already on one knee. June’s words fall off, her lips frozen into an O shape. Her hand flies up to grip her chest, right over her heart. “Brant…?” “June Adeline Bailey.” I gaze up at her wide, glistening eyes as I dig the ring box out of my front pocket. I bought it in March and have been carrying it with me every single day, waiting for a rainbow. “Junebug.” “Brant,” she repeats, choking on my name. “Twenty-two years ago, I tossed a toy elephant into your crib, trying to give you comfort in the only way I could. And I knew in that moment as you gazed at me through the crib slats with your big blue eyes… I knew you were destined to become my comfort.” Emotion sweeps through me, stealing my words for a moment. I swallow. “That’s exactly what you became. You were the laughter on the other side of my tears, the solace to quell my nightmares, and the rainbow after every storm. You saved my life, June Bailey.” Both hands cup her mouth as tears collapse onto her fingers. She squeezes her eyes shut. “And I can’t think of anything sweeter than to spend the rest of that life with you.” Rising to my feet, I pluck the ring out of the box, holding it up between my thumb and forefinger. She lets out a gasp when she looks at it. A breathtaking sound of disbelief. “It’s rimmed with tiny sapphires. Blue like the eyes I fell in love with. Blue like the sky that gives us rainbows, and the bluebirds that fly over them.” I quirk a smile. “Blue like the prom dress that brought me to my ...

June doesn’t hesitate. She leaps into my arms, coiling her legs around my hips and linking her hands behind my neck. She kisses my shoulder, my collarbone, all the way up to my ear, and whispers, “Yes…yes. God, Brant, all the yeses. I’d marry you today, a thousand times over, in every version of every lifetime.”

The end of an era. The beginning of a brand-new journey. “Goodness…I feel old,” Mom reflects, stroking Caroline’s little round head. Her eyes lift to me with nostalgia. “It feels like yesterday I was putting pigtails in your hair, pulling pennies from your nose, and washing dirt stains out of your rompers.” I can’t help but laugh. “Now you’re getting married,” Dad muses. He shows no sign of resentment or scorn toward the man I’m getting married to. We’re beyond that now. While our family dynamic isn’t conventional, and I realize my parents may never completely approve of the path we’ve taken, I know there is still acceptance there. And as each day passes, the acceptance grows. They accept that we are what we are. They accept that they can’t change what we are, and they would rather love us than leave us. They accept Brant as the boy they raised and as the man who fell in love with their daughter. And above all, they accept this: Just as we cannot force ourselves to love someone, we cannot force ourselves to unlove them either. Fate can be foolish, and fate can be careless. But fate is always true.

“Have a remarkable day, my darling daughter,” my father says, his eyes creased with emotion. Canting his head down, he gives my arm a tender squeeze as he whispers in my ear, “Each remarkable day paves the way toward a truly remarkable life.”

As we wrap up our vows and Brant says “I do” with tears in his earth-spun eyes, I can’t help myself. I mouth to him, “You mean it?” Grinning, he mouths back, “Of course I mean it.” Rupert neighs as the reverend pronounces us man and wife, and then we kiss. And it’s not just any kiss. It’s a kiss of courage, a kiss of comfort, a kiss of two people beating the odds and weaving a love story out of tragedy. It’s finding a happily ever after with the one person you least expect yet the only person meant for you. It’s not our first kiss. It’s not our last kiss. It’s a kiss that culminates our past, brings magic to our present, and seals our future forever. “I love you so much,” I murmur, stroking my palm down his stubbled cheek as his dimples wink back at me. “I love you, Junebug. More than you’ll ever know,” he replies, planting a kiss on my hairline. He breathes in deeply. “More than you could ever dare to dream.”