June, Reimagined (16)

SEVEN


The fields around Knockmoral were rolling green and brown, dotted in snow, sheep, and a hairy cow or two or five. June blinked rain from her eyes and turned in a slow circle. She was sure she knew her way home. At least, she was sure a few miles back, but running had possessed her, and now she stood soaked, shivering, and lost.

At the beginning of the run, she had almost given up. Every step felt as if her shoes were made of lead. Every breath, fire in and fire out. She almost cried. In high school, June had run a six-and-a-half-minute mile for the cross-country team. Not the fastest, but definitely not the sloth-like pace she was pushing now. The most recent exercise June had had was the Tri Gamma sloshball tournament, which was just kickball with a keg at second base. Every player who made it to second had to chug a beer before moving on to third. What did she expect?

She had almost given up, but stopping would have been too easy. Pain was penance, and June needed her legs to ache and her breath to burn. She didn’t deserve relief. The harder she ran, the more it hurt, the better. When the rain started, it was a welcome reprieve from the sweat collecting on her forehead.

But now, as she panted on the side of the road, hands on her hips, catching her breath, June questioned a slew of poor decisions. Damp clothes that had kept her hot skin cool now turned chilly. Blisters ached on her heels. She was alone with no phone, no directions, and no idea what to do next. Her stomach grumbled.

June turned back as her teeth began to chatter. Why in God’s name did she not bring her new rain jacket? Had she not just spent an entire week getting so intimate with rain that it knew her body better than her high school boyfriend had? It had been dry when she left the inn, but Scotland was a country of unpredictability that demanded preparation. Yet again June had failed the test. She attempted to run, but her legs seized with rippling cramps, and she fell to the wet ground. She cried. She thought about digging a hole, crawling in, and never coming out. She wondered what dirt tasted like.

June rubbed her calves, like her cross-country coach used to do. She got to her knees, forced herself to stand. At the rate she could limp, she would make it back to the inn by tomorrow morning, if she could find her way in the encroaching dark. But what other choice did she have?

“Pretend it’s a warm shower,” she whispered, tasting rain on her lips. “Pretend it’s a warm shower.” But that just reminded June how not warm she felt. Her fingers were wrinkled. Goosebumps covered her skin.

As she considered that maybe the best option was to befriend a hairy cow and hide underneath it, car lights approached down the road. The vehicle was headed into town. June stuck her thumb out. Then she waved. Then, mustering all the energy she could, she simultaneously jumped, waved, and flailed. The car stopped. June crossed the road, dragging her left leg, which had seized up again. The driver’s window rolled down, and June immediately regretted dancing in the middle of the road, begging for a ride.

“Hitchhiking?” Lennox asked.

June straightened herself, hoping to seem confident. “Actually, I was out for a run.”

“You’re an athlete?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“You just seem . . .”

“What?” June snapped.

“Delicate.”

“I am so not delicate. I broke my wrist once, falling out of a speeding golf cart, and didn’t go to the hospital for five days.”

“So, you’re delicate and stupid.”

June burned with a desire to punch Lennox Gordon right in the nose. What did he know of what she’d been through? She had come to realize, in the past few months, that emptiness had a sound. The absence of Josh in the house was louder than when he had played Tupac at full volume to get amped up before his Friday night football games. A hollowness overwhelmed her. Tears stung her eyes. Damn it—of all the times to cry. June pivoted, fists clenched, and walked away from the car, refusing to let Lennox see her weakness.

“It’s six miles to town, Peanut,” he hollered from his dry seat in his warm, dry car.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Just go away.”

“I thought you wanted a ride.”

“I’ll wait for another car.”

“Not many people come down this road. Might be a while.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Why in God’s name would you run all the way out here in the first place? There’s a perfectly good running trail in town, down by the water.”

June didn’t need his condescension. She raised her index finger. “I believe you requested that I keep my shite to myself. Isn’t there a cat stuck in a tree somewhere?”

“Right now, I’m trying to help a woman suffering from acute hypothermia, but she’s being a pain in the bloody arse. Get in the damn car, Peanut, before I drag you in here myself.”

“Don’t call me Peanut!” June stomped her foot and screamed. It was that or break down and weep, which she refused to do.

“I’m trying to help you,” Lennox said, too evenly.

This only stoked June’s anger. “I don’t want your help,” she snapped. She wanted Matt. She wanted Matt’s hand-me-down brown Lancer to pull up next to her, the front seat covered in library books and peppermint gum wrappers. June would move to put the books on the ground, but Matt would stop her: “Just because they’re beat up doesn’t mean you can treat them poorly. How would you feel if someone tossed you aside because of a few torn pages or a broken spine?” June would apologize to the books before setting them gently in the back seat. Matt bought only used or borrowed books. He liked them covered in fingerprints and smudges and notes. He once said that books weren’t just about the words on the page but the people who had turned the pages. Matt would offer her a stick of Trident, and she’d put a well-worn Dave Matthews CD in the player. Matt would play air drums to “Ants Marching.” The sun would shine, the windows would be rolled down, and when they returned Matt’s books to the library, he’d say, “Until next time, friend,” gently dropping each into the bin.