June, Reimagined (39)
June had walked around the New Year’s Eve party, shimmering ass on display, hoping someone would take her. One simple pull in the direction of a bedroom and she would have gone. But Matt had stayed with her all night: next to her in the kitchen, next to her on the couch in the living room, next to her outside when June accepted a cigarette from Jerrit Rautenbach.
“You hate smoking,” June had said when Matt took one between his fingers.
He merely shrugged. “Who the fuck am I to say smoking is a disgusting habit that only leads to bad breath, yellow teeth, wrinkles, and eventual emphysema and cancer . . . if I’ve never even tried it? I’m too judgmental. I need to change, June. So what if tomorrow morning I smell like rotten asshole?”
June held her unlit cigarette. “Rotten asshole?”
“Yeah, like moldy, never-been-washed, crusted asshole.” June wasn’t sure if she was going to barf or laugh. “Smoking is sexy, June. And I love sex. It’s like my favorite thing in the world.”
Matt leaned back against the house, lit cigarette in hand, and took a drag. In another lifetime he could have been one of those brooding Hollywood actors she’d grown up crushing on, with hair perpetually falling in his pained eyes and a constant look of serious contemplation. Matt had a beautiful mystique that felt untouchable and yet irresistible. But unlike all those actors June dreamed about, Matt was hers. She knew what he looked like in the morning, pajama pants hanging loosely from his hips, coffee in hand. She knew how he lounged on the couch, always propping one arm behind his head as a pillow. She knew if she poked him in the side, he’d curl up and convulse in laughter. She knew his smell, coffee grounds and library books.
June swatted the cigarette from his hand. “You’re not judgmental. You just don’t tolerate bullshit.” She knew what Matt was doing. If June was going to be reckless with her life, Matt would join her. He wouldn’t let her drown on her own. He would hold her hand until the end. She handed her unlit cigarette back to Jerrit.
After that, June had said she wanted to leave, and they walked the two miles back home, Matt leaving her side only when they had arrived at their neighboring houses.
“Do you want me to come tomorrow?” he had asked. The Merriweathers were planning to scatter Josh’s ashes in a small family ceremony at the park down the street, where Josh had played countless hours of football. When June shook her head, Matt grabbed her hand. “I’ll be here when you get back. Just come over.”
And June knew he would indeed be there.
“Happy New Year, June.” Matt pulled her into a hug. She was engulfed in his smell, but the cigarette was there along the edges, too. That was when she knew—if June remained at Matt’s side, she would irrevocably hurt him. He would stand as a shield to protect her, take any beating himself so she didn’t have to. Matt had always stood carefully outside the claustrophobic closet, but he suddenly stepped inside, cigarette and all, and June was choking on him. The safest person in her life was suffocating her.
Later, in her pajamas, lying in bed, eyes wide open, the smell of cigarette still lingered in her nose. She couldn’t stay. She hadn’t found escape with another body at the party, but that wasn’t the only way to disappear. There were other, grander options. Options that didn’t involve ruining Matt. Options that saved him from June. She packed her bag, stole the urn, and called a cab in the middle of the night, bound for Cincinnati International Airport.
June had left with the best intentions, and yet she had found that, from thousands of miles away, she was still able to hurt her best friend. She had left to preserve what they had, and then, inadvertently, June had changed in Scotland.
But tonight the festival kept Matt from June’s thoughts. Squad after squad entered the hall to raucous explosions of cheering. People sat or stood, cupping drinks and eating food. June laughed and danced and breathed freely, the claustrophobia at bay at least for the time being.
A squad dressed like Wham! in fluorescent short-shorts filed out of the hall. It was three in the morning, and the Jarl squad had yet to visit. June was beginning to fear they never would. She felt like a fool for overreacting with Lennox and wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted nothing to do with her after Up Helly Aa.
The drunken revelry began to die down. People slouched in chairs. Coffee and tea were set out next to whisky and beer. June yawned in her seat, as Eva plopped next to her with a fresh glass of whisky, her words slightly slurred. “So . . . have you decided?”
“Decided what?”
“If you’re going to shag the living daylights out of Lennox tonight.”
June hushed Eva and took the drink from her hands. “You can’t say that.” She took a sip.
“And why not? It’s just a question about a completely natural occurrence between two people . . . sometimes three.”
“I’m not sleeping with Lennox.”
Eva blew air through her lips, fluttering them exaggeratedly. “Stop being such an American prude.”
“I am so not an American prude.”
“Yes, you bloody well are. You’ve been in Scotland for more than a month and all you do is work, work, work, and run. You’re the most American . . . American I’ve ever met. Obsessed with money and exercise. You need to lighten up and take some risks. Have some fun.”
“I have fun,” June stated firmly. Just three days earlier, she had hung out of Lennox’s car window in a snowstorm. “And I take risks.”