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I swivel around, spotting June at the bottom of the staircase, her hand curled white-knuckled around the railing. A hardened look is etched into her typically soft features, and she’s dressed in nothing but one of Theo’s old T-shirts, the hem skimming her thighs.
She looks at me, then at Wendy, her eyes squinting with distaste. “You’re not welcome here. We’re grieving.”
“I was asked to stop by.” Wendy glances in my direction, a silent plea for help, before addressing June. “Brant’s boss wanted me to bring him a gift.”
“Brant’s boss has his phone number and address. Why send his ex-girlfriend?”
“I offered.”
The two women silently stare at each other, the air charged with animosity. June is hardly ever combative, so her disposition jars me. Clearing my throat, I take a tentative step toward June. “It’s fine, June. It’s just chocolates.” I hold up the bag for emphasis.
“It’s not fine.” June crosses her arms, her shirt inching upward. Her eyes darken to blue coals as she keeps them pinned on Wendy. “She’s using your trauma to try to win you back.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Wendy cuts in, moving forward.
“Why are you wearing that?”
“What?” Wendy looks down at her outfit. “What are you talking about?”
“That scarf. It’s purple.” June stalks toward her, her eyes full of spite and sorrow. “Why would you wear that?”
“You’re acting craz—”
June rushes at Wendy, yanking the scarf from around her neck, tears leaking, body trembling. It flutters to the wooden floor. “If you actually cared about Brant, you wouldn’t wear that,” she spits out. “Just go! You’re not welcome—”
“Whoa, hey.” My shock dissipates, and I jump between the women, my attention on June as I grip her upper arms and walk her backward, away from a stunned and wide-eyed Wendy. My voice is low, gravelly. Infused with concern. “What are you doing?”
“I…” Her cheeks are flushed pink, lips quivering, as her gaze skates from me to Wendy, then back to me. “I’m sorry…” She swallows, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Brant.”
The anger dims from her eyes, replaced with only grief. Soul-shattering grief. When my grip on her loosens, she pulls free and spins around, dashing back up the staircase.
I’m compelled to chase after her.
I stall briefly, turning to watch as Wendy picks up her scarf and spares me a wounded glance before slipping out the front door. Then I make my way to June’s bedroom.
Andrew is still sitting on Theo’s bed as I pass by.
Still staring at nothing.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Choking back a lump of sorrow, I find June curled up in the corner of her bed, legs drawn to her chest, face buried. Aggie is tucked inside one arm as she sniffles into the valley between her knees.
While I stare at her from the doorway, I’m drenched in a familiar sentiment, and a single word slips out before I can think it through. “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?
