June First

by Jennifer Hartmann

thought babies were a happy thing. What’s a loo-der-us, anyway?”

I’m not sure why I tell my secret to the sky, but Mom always looks up at the ceiling when she says her prayers at night. Maybe she’s talking to the sky. Maybe it listens.

“I dunno. They said we don’t name new babies after bugs, but then they named her after a month. That doesn’t sound like a people name either.”

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.

Bubbles. 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.”

I love cooking. I love baking. And according to everyone who eats my food, I’m pretty darn good at it, too.

Two earthy orbs stare down at me. He has eyes like soil and grasslands, and they make me want to run and play in open fields.

He turned the only girl I’ve ever wanted into the only girl I can never have.

“I always thought he was a weird-ass-looking toad. Why is his name Toad, then?” “Because a toadstool is a type of mushroom,” I say, unable to hold back my laughter. “Shit. Shut up. Are you saying my whole life has been a lie?” “Told you to sit down.” “Fucking hell, Brant.”

Maybe I’m going mad, making up wild scenarios that hold no weight. And that’s the terrifying thing about keeping a secret that can rip your whole world apart. Sometimes you hold on too tight and spring a leak. Bits and pieces start to spill out, little by little, and before you know it all your ugly, shameful truths have been exposed.

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.”

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

I’d had practice with tragedy. I’d been there before, and I’d seen what the darkness could do. I’d lived inside it, and I’d crawled my way out with teeth, claws, and blood. I knew that darkness wasn’t permanent—just as the sun sets, the sun always rises. And so do we.

“Listen…everyone reacts to trauma differently. There’s no right or wrong way to heal. Some people need time and space to process, to grieve alone, and some people, like me, need to stay busy. Social and useful.”

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

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.”

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

“But you look upset, and I hate when you’re upset. You can talk to me.” My teeth grind together. “I’m upset because one minute you’re calling me your brother, reminding me of how wrong this is, and the next minute you’re looking at me like you want me to tear that bikini off of you and cross a line we can’t come back from.”

“When the day comes and you regret this,” he murmurs softly into my neck, his voice cracking, “I pray you can forgive me.”

know we’ll be miles apart, but…” My lips quiver. My hands shake. “You’re still Brant…and I’m still June.”

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.

“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.”

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.