June, Reimagined (48)
Matt smiled, clearly satisfied with himself. “Don’t eat those too quickly. I only brought six.”
June put the sweatshirt and bakery box in the top drawer of her dresser and grabbed a towel.
“What are you doing?” Matt lounged back in bed, arm behind his head, yawning.
“I need to shower before work.”
“Work . . . right. My body has no idea what time it is.”
“Take a nap.”
“No. I need coffee. I’m coming with you.”
“You’ll be bored out of your mind.”
“I have a book. I’ll just hide in a corner and read.”
June smiled. “That’s so something Jared Leto would do. Seriously, you should see some of Scotland while you’re here. Take a walk or hike or something.”
“I don’t need exercise. A library card works just as well to pick up girls.”
“I thought your dancing career was taking off.”
“That’s not exercise. That’s foreplay. And I didn’t come here to see Scotland. I came to see you. Plus, I’ve got research to do.” He dug through his messenger bag and pulled out another book. “I figured we could start planning. I earmarked a few places already.”
June inspected Matt’s guidebook to Paris. “Do these places sell key chains and snow globes?”
“Good to see you’re still as tacky as ever. I was worried you’d changed on me.”
June registered the offhand comment, but she let it slide, flipping to an earmarked page. “Paris catacombs. Sounds creepy.”
Matt got out of bed and stood next to June, reading the book over her shoulder. “There are bones of over six million people down there, and they have tours that run at night. I thought we could get all banged up on wine and bring your old Ouija board. Commune with the ghost of Jean Valjean.”
“Who?”
“Jesus, June. Read a fucking book.”
She whacked Matt in the arm with the guidebook and then turned to another page. “Sacré-Coeur. I like this one. Sounds less scary.”
“It’s got one of the best views of Paris. When the weather’s nice, people watch the sunset from the steps.”
June noticed the book’s worn binding. “You’ve thought a lot about this.”
“Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think lately.” Matt took the guidebook back, his fingers connecting with June’s. In fifteen years of friendship, they had touched millions of times, but it had never felt intentional like this. Like a message. But Matt stuffed the book back into his messenger bag as if nothing had happened.
“Just promise me that when you’re done working, we’ll do something fun,” Matt said.
“Promise.”
On her way to the bathroom, Matt stopped her again, grabbing her sweatshirt from the drawer and tossing it to June. “Don’t forget to wear this.” As June caught it deftly, he added, “One more confession.”
Too much had occurred in too small a time. June was unbalanced, irrational, and confused, on the verge of doing something stupid. She hugged her towel to her chest like a shield and said, “Let me guess. You never really tutored Angela House in trig.”
A pregnant pause sat between them before Matt threw his hands up in the air. “You got me. How’d you know?”
“It was during your hickey phase. Angela wore turtlenecks for a month straight.”
“I loved my hickey phase. I should bring it back.” He climbed back on the bed and lay down, one arm behind his head. “OK. Now it’s your turn. Tell me something good. You owe me.”
June’s confessional list was long, and none were stories she wanted to tell Matt. “I’m giving you a kidney,” she said. “That’s payment enough.”
Matt sat reading without complaint at a corner table in the Thistle Stop Café. June couldn’t help noticing how out of place he looked with his navy-blue wool peacoat, worn leather messenger bag, and gray scarf. In Knockmoral, Matt was a wing-tip oxford among muddy Wellington boots. June had always considered herself as Matt’s match—gold and pink, green and royal blue, purple and coral—but seeing him among the customers at the café, how their gaze lingered on Matt, eyeing the out-of-place stranger, the scene felt dissonant. Floral print with polka dots. Leopard pattern and plaid. Black pants and a brown sweater. She no longer felt the deep fusion with Matt that she always had before, which should have made her sad. June loved being linked to Matt, loved being constantly at his side when so many other girls came and went, loved being thought of as a pair—Matt and June, June and Matt—but she couldn’t conjure sadness now. All she felt was wonder. Almost a sense of pride at her independence. She had never considered her interconnectedness to Matt as a hindrance, but maybe it was camouflage. Distance had made it impossible for June to hide, and now she wondered if she could ever go back to matching him so fiercely. Had June changed too much? Did she even want to go back?
She kept Matt’s coffee cup full and a plate of biscuits within arm’s reach. She had just delivered him a hamburger and sat down at his table with her own salmon sandwich when Amelia blew into the café in a frenzy.
“I was hoping I’d find you.” She plopped down in the seat next to June, sweat on her brow. June had never seen Amelia move faster than a stroll. Amelia introduced herself to Matt, then turned to June and said, “Max is missing. He got out this morning, and we can’t find him anywhere. I’ve been driving around for hours, but there’s no sign of him.”