“Fine,” she says, her eyes narrowing at me, but then she rolls her eyes and sighs. “Whatever. But I’ll buy the drinks.”
I glare at her, but know I’ll do anything to make June happy, so like a dozen times before, I agree, mentally planning some new scheme to handle it.
TWENTY-THREE
June instructs me to get to her place at ten on Saturday morning before we make the ninety-minute drive to Wildwood. When I arrive, I text her that I’m out front, then wait for her to make her way outside. I remind myself I just need to make it through the drive there, the festival, and the drive back. We’ll park in the hotel's lot, then leave our bags there until we check in after the concert. I was able to reserve two hotel rooms on opposite sides of the hotel, a forethought I’m grateful for when she steps out of her apartment building.
She’s always gorgeous, but right now, casual and ready for a day in the sun, she’s my own brand of cruel temptation.
Her lips are painted a bright red, and her hair is half up, half down, with two small pigtails on top of her head. There are a dozen colorful gems glued somehow to the top of her hair and along her eyes, making her look like a little disco ball. With the wide grin lighting her up from the inside, it’s the perfect embodiment of the ray of sunshine that is June Taylor. She’s in a red bathing suit top barely hidden beneath a loose-knit, white cover-up tee and a pair of frayed, tight jean shorts. As I step out of the car to grab her bag, I realize my plan of acting natural andjust may just be a fool’s errand. How the hell am I supposed to act natural when she looks like this?
She waves at me eagerly, as if she isn’t completely blowing me away before starting to run toward me despite wearing a pair of flimsy-looking flip-flops. When she trips, I snap back into reality and step toward her, steadying her with a hand on her lower back.
“Jesus, June, don’t run in those,” I say, but she just giggles.
“Sorry, I’m just so excited!” I take the duffel bag from her and slide it into the trunk next to my small suitcase. When I slide into the front seat, she turns to me, beaming and nearly jumping in her seat. “Are you excited?”
I don’t have any other choice.
I smile back, giving her something that is both a lie and the complete truth.
“Yeah, June.”
“Can you take my picture?” June asks hours later as we walk past a colorful mural emblazoned with the festival's name. She chatted the entire drive, which was fine since it kept my mind occupied, but now that we’re walking along the sand, bouncing around from stage to stage, it’s impossible to ignore how fucking gorgeous she is. I welcome the distraction and the bit of space I’ll earn and nod, taking her phone from her hands before she runs to the mural. I take a dozen photos as she effortlessly shifts poses and expressions before giving me a thumbs-up, my mission complete.
“Good?”
“Yeah, I think I got some,” I say.
“Thank you! You’re the best!” she says, moving to me and hugging me. It’s her new go-to, and even though I’ve noticed she does it with everyone, I cherish each one, deluding myself into thinking it’s something more, something precious.
“Do you two want me to take your picture together?” a woman asks. I look over June’s shoulder to see a group of three women, one in the front giving June a wide grin, her hand outstretched to take her phone.
“Oh, no, that’s—” I start, but June untangles from me, stepping toward the woman with a nod.
“YES! Oh, my god, that would be amazing!” June says, handing over her phone before her small fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging me toward the mural. “Come on, Graham.”
“June—”
“Friends take pictures to commemorate their outings together,” she says, and who am I to argue? I’m incapable of saying no to her, it seems, especially when she’s giving me that happy look. She settles me in front of the mural and stands beside me. On instinct, I slip a hand behind her, setting it on her back, and her arm moves around my shoulder.
“Try to look like you’re not completely miserable to be here,” she says, smiling and staring at the woman holding the camera, and I can't help but grin. After a moment, the stranger waves her hands closer together.
“Get closer! I’ll get a few like that, too.” My heart skips with nerves, but June is unfazed as always, instead shifting her body toward me, sliding her arm from my shoulders to my waist, and setting a hand on my chest. On instinct, my hand slides to her hip, pulling her into my side. “Cute!” the woman says.
“Try to look like you’re not completely miserable to be here,” I say low, and with my words, June’s head tips back with a loud, full laugh. I smile down at her, enthralled by her joy, as always.
“That’s the one! Oh my god, that was perfect!” the woman says.
“Thank you so much!” June says before she slips from my grip, moving across the sand to grab her phone. My arms feel empty without her, so I cross them over my chest, watching as June returns the favor, spending almost five minutes taking photos of the women, chattering on and laughing as she does. It’s strange to see how quickly June can make friends of strangers.
“Can we sit in the sand? I want to post a few of these,” she asks, and we do, finding a spot on the sand out of the way of foot traffic. She starts tapping her screen, then smiles at me and explains. “If you tag the festival, you’re entered to win tickets for next year.” I let out a loud laugh. I should probably feel nervous that she might be disappointed if she doesn’t win, but something in my gut knows I’d do it again next year. The idea settles in me uncomfortably, since I don’t know where I’ll be then. I will probably be assigned some new location by then, and for the first time in my life, the thought settles sourly in my gut. I can’t help but think I’d miss Seaside Point. Not even just because I’d miss June, either; the entire town is growing on me in a way I didn’t expect.
I’m still lost in my thoughts when she shows me the photo on her phone, now in the company’s tagged section. A shot of her and me is the most recent, but there have to be hundredsof tags for the last hour alone, all in front of that mural.
“Is that the point of that mural?” I ask, confused. “A marketing tool?”
She nods.
