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A new, exciting city.
A huge career advancement, doing something I love.
But…
A breath leaves me as I deflate, and I see the way his eyes flicker with disappointment. He knows my answer before I say it out loud. “I’m extremely honored, Pauly. Humbled. It’s just…” Folding my lips between my teeth, I try to piece my words together in a way that makes sense—in a way that doesn’t sound like “I can’t because I’m in love with June.”
“This is about your family, yes?” Pauly questions. His dark eyebrows crease studiously as he reads me, slipping his hands into his pockets.
My teeth clack together as I nod.
“Your sister.”
I nod again. “Yes,” I admit. “We’re…close. Even more so since we lost Theo, and I just don’t think I can leave her. She still needs me.”
His head bobs up and down ever so slowly, drinking in each word like an aged wine. Then he leans back against the wall as kitchen commotion clatters behind us. “When I was just a young boy, I found a bird with a broken wing,” he says in a wistful voice, his gaze locked on mine. “My mother let me nurse it back to health. It was a white-breasted nuthatch—a brilliant little bird with blue and gray wings and a snow-white underbelly. I bonded with it, keeping it tucked inside a wire cage close to my bed. I named it Annalise because I fancied a schoolmate with the same name.” He chuckles, his eyes glazing with old memories. “It began to fly one day. Its wing healed nice and strong, and even though I had promised my mother I would let it go the moment it could fly, I could not seem to part with it. The bird had become my friend. I loved it.”
I stare at him, my jaw tense. My heart patters with anticipation as I hang on every word.
“One day, the bird tried to fly through my closed window. It dazed itself on the pane of glass. I cried myself to sleep that night, whispering apologies to the little bird, saddened I had caused it pain. And yet…I still could not part with it. I could not let the bird go.” Pauly’s smile returns, but it’s a watery smile. A smile weighed down by remorse. “The next day, it tried to fly through the window again. One final time,” he tells me. His voice cracks on the last word. “It did not survive that final time.”
A lump forms in the back of my throat. My skin feels clammy, and my eyes mist over as the story resonates. As it digs into me, burrowing deep.
“I still think about that bird, Mr. Elliott,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he lifts up from the wall. He stares just over my shoulder for a moment before meeting my eyes. “I think about where it could have flown, and the life it could have lived…if I had just had the courage to let it go.”
Our gazes linger and hold, tangling with double meaning.
Then Pauly reaches out and squeezes my bicep, giving me a light slap as he moves past me. “My offer remains,” he says, his voice fading as he strides toward the double doors. “If you change your mind.”
I stand there for a while, hands clenching at my sides.
Eyes clouded over, zoned in on the white plaster wall.
Head spinning.
I stand there thinking about my Junebug and all the places she could fly.
When I step into my apartment at nearly midnight, my senses are assaulted by the scent of chocolate baked goods.
June stands in front of the stove with an oven mitt, her long brown tresses bouncing down her back as she waves the mitt back and forth as if she’s trying to cool something down. She spins around when the door clicks shut.
“Brant!” Her face brightens upon seeing me, her eyes shimmering beneath the brassy yellow ceiling lights. “I know you’re the master chef around here, but I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d whip up some dessert for you.”
A smile crests as I stare at her, my entire body warming.
She jumps to the side, showcasing her creation. “Ta-da,” she exclaims. “Brownies. And not just any brownies… These are extra special. I added those little caramel candies for some added sweetness.” June grins, crinkling her nose. “Which is basically a nicer term for calories.”
The scents of milk chocolate and warm caramel float over to me as I hover in the doorway, my feet frozen to the grubby tiles. June is a picture of perfection, wearing the chef apron she bought for me a few years back, tied around a modest sundress.
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.
