June, Reimagined (2)

Just like everything in her life recently, the thought had come too late. Now she would have to travel as the personification of a particularly bad Walk of Shame—like after shacking up with the only ugly lacrosse player at Stratford College, in bedsheets that hadn’t been changed in three months, while his dorm mates played video games.

June draped her backpack over her shoulder. Her hand holding the boarding pass shook. She found it nearly impossible to move forward. She considered whether there was a God, the canceling of Party of Five, the first time she had had sex in the back seat of Mike Brogan’s minivan, and the possibility of heading straight back to the ticket counter and returning her ticket. The sound of her cell phone jolted her out of her panic. She must have thrown it into the bag on instinct.

“Shit.” She dug in her backpack. “Damn it,” she said, seeing the name of the caller.

Declining a call from Matt Tierney would only create more suspicion. After last night, he wouldn’t leave a voice mail. He’d hang up, walk the one hundred feet between their two families’ houses in his pajamas, and knock on the Merriweathers’ front door. She needed more time than that.

June flipped open her phone and answered.

“OK, confession time,” Matt said before June could utter a word. “Do you remember when Marty Hillsdale farted in Mrs. Rockhold’s class in seventh grade, and everyone started calling him Farty Marty? Well, it was actually me. I’ve never told anyone that. God, it feels so fucking good to get that off my chest. OK, now it’s your turn. Tell me one of your deep dark secrets.”

The sound of Matt’s voice relaxed June, like the first sip of beer on a Thursday night. “You know all my secrets.” That was a lie. Matt knew most of June’s secrets. “I can’t believe you never told me about Farty Marty.”

“I was weak and young and a total dick.”

“You were kind of a dick back then,” June agreed. “Remember when you threw a party at Dustin Andrew’s house when his family was out of town?”

“That kid still hates me.”

“You stole a picture of his mom and hung it up in your locker.”

“It was a Mrs. Robinson thing.”

“You called her a MILF to Dustin’s face.”

“And he punched me. I accepted the punishment. That kid suffered from a bad Oedipus complex.”

The gate attendant announced the boarding of flight 823. June placed her hand over the phone’s mic, trying to muffle the sound.

“Where are you?” Matt asked.

“A coffee shop. I had a craving for scones.”

“Scones.” He sounded unconvinced.

“I’m trying to decide between lemon blueberry and orange cranberry. Which one should I get? I’m leaning toward lemon blueberry.”

“June, where are you really?”

“They have a poppyseed one, but I hate how the seeds get stuck in your teeth.”

“Don’t bullshit me, June.”

“Did I tell you about the poem I saw in the bathroom at Herb’s Tavern the other night? You would have loved it. ‘When you sit to take a shit No longer should you fear We all poop loud so just be proud / Don’t worry what we hear.’ Brilliant, right? All the best poetry rhymes.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Distract from the topic at hand by pushing my literary buttons,” Matt said. “Just tell me where the fuck you are.”

June cursed herself for answering the call. Matt was too perceptive for his own good, and she knew it. Neither of them had made a single important decision without informing the other since they were five years old—until now, and that guilt sat on June’s chest like a dumbbell.

“You worry too much,” she said.

“I worry about you.”

“Well, don’t. I’m fine.”

“You’re still not answering my question.”

“Life isn’t about answers, Matty. It’s about asking the right questions.”

“That’s poetic. Now I definitely know something’s wrong.”

“What can I say? You’re rubbing off on me.”

“June,” Matt said in a tone that begged seriousness. “We don’t lie to each other. No matter how bad it is. That’s the deal.”

June hugged the urn to her chest, a reminder of her reality. “It’s my turn to order. I gotta go, Matty.”

“Wait. Can I see you later? After . . .”

After I scatter Josh’s ashes, June thought. Even Matt had a hard time talking about her brother’s death. People around Sunningdale generally seemed unable to finish their sentences when talking to her, since Josh’s untimely departure from this world.

I’m so sorry to hear . . .

When these things happen . . .

If you need anything . . .

June was left to finish the unsaid. Even Matt, whose life was constructed on complex and compound sentences, was reduced to fragments.

“I’ll call you,” June said.

“Do you want me to come?”

“No.”

“Why don’t I meet you at the coffee shop? We can eat scones together. Though, if you ask me, scones are fucking pretentious. They’re like Americanos. Just call it coffee, for fuck’s sake.”