Page 40 of June First

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth. “It’s June’s birthday. I don’t want to be sad and depressed on her birthday.”

“It’ll always be her birthday on this day. You have to go sooner or later, right?”

A heavy sigh leaves me, and I tug back the lace drapes. Aunt Kelly comes by every year on June first, hoping I’ll finally tag along and visit my mother’s grave.

It’s not that I don’t want to—

Well…maybe it is that I just don’t want to.

I’d rather be here, with June, celebrating another year of her life instead of wallowing in the life I lost.

I pivot, leaning against one of the table chairs bejeweled in pink and white tissue-paper pom-poms and glittered streamers. Tasteful ballerina-themed decor is featured throughout the entire main level, and it looks like a little girl’s dream party.

Mrs. Bailey sets the food tray beside me on the table, deflating with her own sigh. She eyes me in a way I’ve come to expect when she’s about to spew out sage advice that I probably won’t appreciate. “I know you’re scared to go, sweetheart. I know it’s hard. But I’ll never forget what you told June all those years ago at her very first dance recital…” Her flaxen hair glints with specks of silver beneath the recessed lighting, reminding me that she’s getting older.

I’m getting older.

I turned fifteen this past April, and I’m finishing up my last week as a high school freshman. Stubble has sprouted along my jawline. My voice has progressed from young and squeaky to almost manly. A deep baritone settled in over the past year, and while it was an embarrassing transition, it was one of multiple newfound changes.

Scratching at the stubble that always feels itchy, I lift my gaze to Mrs. Bailey, waiting for her to proceed.

She smiles. “You just need to be brave that first time, then all the other times come easy.”

I guess I was the one with the sage advice; she’s just using it against me.

Too bad I’m too much of a coward to take it.

I push up from the chair and shake my head. “Maybe next year,” I murmur, clearing my throat and glancing out through the cracked drapes again. “Do you think they’re ready for cake?”

Changing the subject to pastries sounds more appealing, so I shuffle toward the birthday cake I whipped up, smeared with raspberry frosting and chocolate drizzle.

I love cooking. I love baking.

And according to everyone who eats my food, I’m pretty darn good at it, too.

I think I’ve taken after my mother in that sense, and I wonder if she’d be proud of me.

My sleeveless shirt hangs off my gangly frame as I move. I shot up to nearly six feet tall, but I’ve hardly filled out in the muscle department yet. Theo lifts weights every day, so he’s bulking up more than me, hoping to try out for the football team next year. I may join him if I can pack on some more weight.

Before I reach the refrigerator, the sliding door squeaks open, and I turn to see a soaking-wet June barreling over the threshold. She’s in a swimsuit and pink tutu, her chestnut hair drenched and limp. “Is it cake time?” she chirps. She does a pirouette in the kitchen, gracefully spinning on the ceramic tile with her wet bare feet, then throws me a smile. Her hair is long now, so long that the ends tickle her hips. “I’m starving.”

“Coming right up, Junebug.” I grin.

“June, you’re dripping everywhere,” Mrs. Bailey scolds, shooing her back outside. “And you’re bringing in grass blades… Out with you.”

“Cake!” she shouts at me through her giggles, then disappears into the sea of squealing children. Mrs. Bailey pinches the bridge of her nose, laughing lightly, and before she can take the tray outside, the door slides open again. June pokes her head inside, looking frantic. “Brant, I need you! You have to hurry.”

My eyebrows lift. “Why?”

“There’s no time for questions. It’s an emergency!”

Points for drama and suspense.

Chuckling under my breath, I sweep past Mrs. Bailey, swapping an amused grin with her, and follow June outside into the unknown “emergency.”

Two minutes later, June is on my back, piggy-back style, her bathing suit soaking through my T-shirt. Long, wet hair smacks the side of my face every time I take a giant stride through the yard, while a mass of sugar-infused nine-year-olds and a tiny dachshund chase us. Her hands are like prunes from hours in the water, and her high-pitched shrieks batter my eardrums as the children gain on us.

“Faster, Brant, faster!”

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