Page 10 of Diesel’s Second Chance

"You're safe here," I tell her. "Power might go out, but the generator will kick in. And even if it doesn't, I've got candles and flashlights. We're fine."

"I know." But she doesn't look fine. She looks small, scared and heartbreakingly vulnerable in a way I rarely see from her. June's spent seven years being strong, holding herself together, taking care of everyone else while her own grief went unprocessed.

"When's the last time you let yourself fall apart?" I ask.

She blinks at me. "What?"

"Fall apart. Cry, scream, whatever you need. When's the last time you did that?"

"I don't…" She stops, reconsiders. "I don't remember."

"June."

"What do you want me to say?" There's frustration in her voice now, defensive. "That I cry myself to sleep sometimes? That I have bad days where I can barely function? I do. But I can't stay in that place, Jackson. I have responsibilities, people depending on me. I don't get to fall apart."

"Everyone gets to fall apart sometimes."

"Do you?" She turns the question on me, eyes sharp. "When's the last time you let yourself grieve? Really grieve, not just work yourself to exhaustion so you don't have to feel it?"

Fair point. I've spent seven years doing exactly what she described—staying busy, staying functional, never letting the grief or the longing or the guilt sit long enough to process it.

"Touché," I mutter.

"We're both stuck," June says quietly. "Aren't we? Both pretending we're fine when we're not."

"Maybe."

"Definitely." She sets her coffee down, turns to face me. "Can I ask you something? And will you give me an honest answer?"

"Depends on the question," I tell her.

"Do you ever think about what your life would look like if things were different? If Tommy hadn't died, or if you'd made different choices somewhere along the way?"

There are so many answers to that question, most of them dangerous.

"Sometimes," I admit.

"What do you see?"

*You*, I want to say. *I see you, have always seen you, will probably see you until the day I die.* But that's not an answer I can give, not without destroying whatever fragile thing exists between us.

"I see the garage bigger," I say instead, choosing safety. "Maybe a house instead of this apartment. A life that's not on hold."

"Your life is on hold?"

"Isn't yours?"

June's quiet, absorbing that. Outside, the rain continues its assault on the building, relentless and unforgiving.

"Yes," she finally says. "I think it is."

We sit in that admission. Two people who've been treading water for seven years, going through motions, existing instead of living.

The lights flicker again, longer this time, and then die completely. The apartment plunges into darkness, broken only by the faint glow of streetlights through the rain-streaked windows.

"Generator should kick in," I say, standing. "Give it a minute."

But a minute passes, then two, and nothing happens. I move to the window, peer out at the street below. The whole block is dark. Power's out everywhere.