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My curiosity is piqued as I twist to fully face her. I fold my arms, my brow furrowing with confusion.
June smiles. She reaches out and squeezes my hand, her thumb grazing over my knuckles as the light of the fire dances in her eyes, causing them to glimmer with an orangey glow. “Let’s go for a drive.”
My feet stop at the gate, a deep-rooted sense of panic sluicing through my veins.
A cemetery looms before us.
“June, I can’t.”
Moonlight casts its milky glow on shadowy headstones, spotlighting my pain. June stands beside me in a navy-blue jumper, her hair piled up in a high bun, her shoulder pressed against mine. She slides our hands together, interlacing our fingers until I’m squeezing tight. So tight I’m afraid I might break her fragile bones.
Two big round eyes gaze up at me. “You can, Brant. I know you can.”
I shake my head. “You shouldn’t have brought me here. This isn’t your decision.”
“Sometimes we need a little push from the people who love us.” June squeezes my hand just as hard, telling me I won’t break her. She’ll be as strong as I need her to be. “You just need to be brave that first time, then all the other times come easy.”
My own words echo back at me.
I know I’ve been a hypocrite.
I’m twenty-four years old, and I haven’t visited my mother’s gravestone. Not once. When I was just a little boy, I was convinced she’d come alive, bust through the dirt and soil, and grab me with her skeleton hand. Foolish fairy tales, of course. Childlike excuses to get out of doing that hard thing. And the older I got, the harder it became. With every passing year, it felt like a greater distance grew between my mother and me. She slipped farther away.
Maybe there was a tinge of resentment there.
She promised me she’d always protect me. Those were her last words, and I believed them.
But where was she?
She was six feet underground. She was dead, and I was still here.
Somehow, visiting her gravesite would feel like a cruel reminder of that. A cold, bitter reminder of her broken promise.
“I don’t think I can.”
“I promise you can—”
“I don’t want to!” I spin to look at her, my chest heavy with the weight of my buried grief. I’m white as a ghost and feel just as lost. “I don’t want to.”
If I startled her, she doesn’t show it. June lifts her hand to my face, resting it against my cheek. My eyes close. “Yes, you do.”
I swallow, nuzzling into her palm. It’s an involuntary reaction to her touch. She touches me and I melt. I sink. Inhaling a shuddering breath, my eyes still closed, I freeze when I feel the sensation of warm lips grazing the side of my jaw.
“For comfort,” she murmurs. Her lips slide to the opposite side of my face, where she presses a second kiss. “For courage.”
My eyes flutter open, and I know it’s a mistake. It’s a mistake to look at her when she’s standing on her tiptoes, one hand in mine, the other holding my shoulder for leverage, and the feel of her sweet kisses still burning my skin. But I do my best to quell the urge to take more than she’s given—more than she’ll ever give—and simply nod. “Okay.”
June flattens her feet, a sigh of relief leaving her as she lowers to the ground. A smile stretches, a proud, thankful smile, and she leads me through the gate, our hands still entwined.
I stare at the grass as we wind through headstones, focusing on my swiftly moving feet.
Focusing on her hand tucked warm inside of mine.
Focusing on the cicadas singing to the ghosts.
I keep my mind busy until she slows down toward the middle of the cemetery, a shiny stone plaque moving into my vision. Significant, yet unfamiliar.
Precious, yet frighteningly intimidating.
