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They didn’t leave the kids to June by accident. The two of them preferred June. I rub my forehead, and I’m forced to admit I understand why.
Right before they set her ankle, June insisted on calling Mary Helen to talk to the kids. She told them two knock-knock jokes about breaking a leg—I later realized she was reading them from a laminated poster just over my shoulder—and was nodding at whatever they said in return as her eyes started to roll back from her latest infusion of pain meds.
After they had set her ankle, when she was high off her gorgeous ass, she started cackling about the weird-looking design on her gown. She did this epic, pig-snort laugh. She threw her head back against the pillow and said, “Don’t you fuckin’ push your finger to your nose. When I was a kid…” She shook her head. And then she did. She made a pig nose, and then laughed her ass off at that. “Pig laugh. Ever since first grade.”
And I realized in that moment that June is not the problem. And she hasn’t been. How I interacted with her was the problem. My presumptions and assumptions, and my judgments. Really makes me feel like fucking shit now.
The shit feeling fills my chest and head, and for the longest time, I just lie there on her bed—feeling heavy and cold. I half-dream about a stump that’s looking up at tall pine trees around it. Everything is moving, but the stump is still and cold and hollow. Then it’s cracking.
Then it’s morning and the birds are chirping outside. It’s morning and someone murmurs, “Burke.”
The voice is soft and husky. It spins through my head like sugar tendrils into cotton candy, and I open my eyes and it’s her. She looks a little pale, and she’s got tired smudges under her eyes, but she’s smiling, and it’s so gentle and and sweet that for a moment I’m sure I’m still dreaming.
I smile up at her. “Did you just call me Burke and not the devil?”
She grins back, but then squeezes her eyes shut. “I think the pain pill wore off,” she groans.
“Shit.” That one’s on me. I didn’t think I’d sleep—it so rarely comes that easily—so I didn’t set my phone’s alarm. “I’m sorry,” I say, getting off the bed. I stride toward the bedroom door. “Be right back.”
My heart hammers as I walk through her empty house. I hear her dogs’ nails clicking on the laundry room floor as I grab a pain pill and some water, and I make a mental note to let them out soon.
When I get back to her room—a girly space with lacy curtains, two paintings featuring a lot of abstract pink and sparkle, and an excess of what look like handmade patchwork quilts—I find her lying back against the pillows with her eyes closed.
I stand by her for a second, not knowing what I should do or say.
“Hi,” I whisper finally, feeling awkward as fuck.
Her eyes peek open. Her mouth twitches up on one side. “Hey there. You got my fix?”
I hold the pill out. “Sorry that I didn’t wake you to take it.”
She opens her palm, takes it from me. I hand her a glass of water with the red straw I found in her cutlery drawer last night. I watch her slender throat move as she swallows the pill.
“Not your fault.” She sets her drink on her nightstand and tilts her head back on the pillow, squeezing her eyes shut again. “Distract me, Sly.”
“Hey, now—wait a second. Does that stand for Slytherin?”
She grins, maybe a little smug despite her tired face.
“You know, you don’t strike me as an HP fan,” I tell her.
Her face twists and her eyes peek open again, just so she can narrow them at me. “Who calls it HP?” she asks, heavy-lidded.
“I do.”
She cracks one eyelid while the other stays shut, throwing me some hard shade. “When’d you read it?”
“The year it came out. Which, for you young’uns, was 1997.”
“Really?” Her soft voice drips skepticism.
“Oh yeah.” I fold my arms.
“How old were you?” she asks, arching a brow.
“I was fourteen.”
“How’d you come across it?” She brings her palm to her face and presses it against her forehead. It catches my notice because it’s something I do when I don’t feel well.
“School library,” I say.
“And you’re how old now?”
“I’m turning thirty-six.”
She shakes her head. “Old-school oldie from Oldsville. You know I’m ten years younger.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m in my prime.”
“Are you, though?” She takes a strand of her honey-colored hair between her fingers, playing with the ends as she looks up at me.
“Oh yeah.”
She gives me a strained smile. “Can this be verified?”
I have to work hard to contain the answer that springs to mind—and twitches my cock. “No need for that.” I arch my eyebrows. “It’s obvious to everyone.”
