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“June,” she meekly corrects on a heavy sigh. “It’s just June.”
“She’s not important,” my aunt casually continues, clearly not having heard what her assistant – er my assistant? – said. “You can pretend she’s not even here.”
June’s face noticeably falls forward as her frame slinks lower.
As she shrinks inward.
Not important?
Not here?
No fucking wonder she’s the shy, fumbling mess she is. No fucking wonder she doesn’t think her opinion will be heard or that her needs are valid.
She’s dismissed from existence the second someone acknowledges her.
Rendered unnecessary without even a second thought.
Yeah.
That shit’s done happening.
As Bastet – the ancient Egyptian goddess who protected against evil spirits – as my witness, that shit won’t be happening anymore.
Damn sure not in my fucking presence.
Gently pinching June’s chin is followed by lovingly lifting her face upward. “You are important.” Her gaze attempts to dart back down, yet I force it to stay with mine. “And you’re especially important to me.” Relief flickers in her brown glare; however, it’s not enough. I need it to take hold. Repaint and shimmer in her stare. “Okay?”
She slightly nods.
“Gonna need more than that, June Bug.” A small stroke is delivered to her cheek courtesy of my thumb. “Gonna need to hear that beautiful voice of yours speak your understanding.”
Her lips briefly squeeze tightly together in reluctance. “Okay.”
After forcing myself to be satisfied with the answer, I release my tender hold, let my fingers fall to rest possessively onto her thigh, and divert my attention back to my family, particularly my aunt. “Please refrain from dismissing June in that nature going forward. Not only is she a human being who deserves respect and basic decency, she’s a kind creature who shouldn’t have to spend her existence dodging being stepped on like her nickname namesake. And more importantly, please show her common courtesy by learning what her real name is versus the one most convenient for you.”
Uncle Brett’s grin grows as wide as his retired defenseman shoulders as he picks up his wine glass. “I agree with you on the showing her assistant the respect she’s earned – and Lord knows if she’s lasted this long working for my wife, she’s without a doubt earned it,” he wedges in a hearty laugh, “but come on, Tuck. You know your aunt is dogshit with names.”
“I am not!” Brandi squeaks in her own defense.
“Babe.”
“I’m great with names!”
“You called Tucker, Tucket for the first full year of his life,” Mom counters doing her best not to giggle. “I was honestly scared he wasn’t gonna know his own name when he started talking until Michael suggested you call him Tuck instead.”
Simply hearing my dad’s name threatens to make me smile.
We don’t speak it often.
It’s definitely become more of a curse to be weary of rather than the blessing it once was.
“I’m not…that…bad,” my aunt argues at the same time she grabs her own glass of wine.
“Babe, on our first date you called me Brant all night. I thought you were playing hard to get until our third date when I realized two very important things. One, you were the woman meant for me, and two, you were fucking dogshit with names.”
“It’s not my fault!” She squawks causing the entire table to chuckle. “I swear! It’s just…you know the artist in me. I may not always know your name, but I never forget your color palette.”
“And it was shit like that that made me wonder was I – the type of guy who lived, breathed, and pissed hockey – the man meant for you.”
More laughter swirls around the table prior to her pointing out. “You had way too much green in your every decision-”
“Team color.”
“-and Tuck too much midnight blue-”
“Michael’s doing,” Mom interjects, shifting me around in my seat for freely mentioning him twice.
“-and Jane-”
“June,” me and my date firmly remind.
“-too much beige.” She gives her dirty blonde hair a small ruffle. “While I have a healthy respect for earth tones, I don’t believe anyone’s should be her level of monochromatic.”
“Ouch,” whispers the woman at my side.
“Perhaps her choice to blend in rather than standout stems from something in her personality she’s trying to communicate,” the man at the head of the table casually states on an adjustment of his round glasses. “Perhaps it’s worth considering, Brandi, that she chooses those colors because it allows her to be in the background – caring or nurturing others – versus the spotlight.”
“Intuitive,” I bitterly bite during the arrival of the salads.
“Oh, it’s just his job,” Aunt Brandi brushes off, mirth sloshing around her voice.
“Rich is a shrink,” Uncle Brett informs on a dramatic shiver.
“Family therapist,” he playfully chastises with a finger point.
Oh…The. Fucking. Irony.
“Richard Duke,” Mom lovingly speaks up, posture straightening prior to her hand gesture my direction, “meet my son, Tucker. Tucker meet my fiancé, Dr. Richard Duke.”
