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Time to focus.
As I’m reapplying setting spray, I hear my name echoing through the sea of people.
“June!”
My head snaps up and I glance around, trying to pinpoint where Celeste’s voice is coming from. I’m surrounded by hyenas and lions.
“Holy shit, girl, look what the cat dragged in…literally!”
Celeste is costumed as a lioness. Leaning back in my chair, I crane my neck and spot her beelining toward me. “What? What are you…”
My voice trails off, and then I rise from my seat like I’m being yanked up in slow motion by an invisible force.
It can’t be.
My heart starts to race with recognition and coursing adrenaline.
I nearly choke on a stunned sob.
Celeste’s fingers are curled around Brant’s wrist as she tugs him forward, zigzagging through the crowd. “I’m not sure if he’s technically allowed in here, but I had to borrow him for a minute,” she says to me, her grin wide, her teeth looking even whiter against the dark orange face paint. “Surprise!”
Sweat dots my brow, and my lungs feel tight.
Brant.
Brant is here.
He’s here in New York City, standing in the middle of my backstage dressing room, staring at me in glazed, wide-eyed wonder.
And I’m dressed like a zebra.
I blink, making sure he’s real. Making sure I’m not having another delirious dream.
“Junebug,” he murmurs, saying my name like it’s a sacred thing.
Tears stream from my eyes. I think I might faint.
My black-and-white-striped legs pull me toward him, and Celeste slips out of the way to avoid being sandwiched between us when I inevitably catapult myself into his arms.
Only, I stop just short, afraid to touch him.
I’m terrified to feel his arms around me because I might just break apart.
“Brant,” I whimper, my bottom lip trembling. My entire body trembling. “You’re here…”
He’s wearing a cream-colored button-down with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. It’s striking against his tanned skin and dark, unruly hair—the hair he’s sweeping fingers through right now as his eyes twinkle beneath the fluorescent lighting. They twinkle with relief, with want, with sweet reunion.
This isn’t a phone call or a video chat. This isn’t a letter or a text.
I could reach out and touch him if I wasn’t about to topple over.
He’s really here.
His lips stretch into a smile, causing his dimples to pop. His hand falls from his shaggy hair, then extends toward me, reaching for my face. I’m bathed in familiar scents: Ivory soap and spearmint and home.
Everything around me falls away.
I close my eyes when his knuckles lightly graze my jaw, absorbing his touch for the first time in two years. Memories inundate me: good, bad, beautiful, painful. Desperate kisses and warm hugs. Tears, lovemaking, grief, and sad goodbyes.
