June, Reimagined (58)

Matt pulled June toward the bed. She felt how much he wanted her. How desperate he was for her. Finally, she could give him what he wanted. After months of letting him down, years of lying, June could be everything Matt wanted right now. But what about after, when they put on their flippantly discarded clothes and left the bedroom and found themselves in the world again? What happened then? Who did June want to be then? Was being wanted worth the price when the fever calmed? Panic weaseled its way into her system.

She pushed Matt away, catching her breath, her mouth hot and wet.

“What is it?” he begged.

“We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

June tried to formulate her very logical reasons for why kissing Matt was a terrible idea.

He gestured to the pile of photos on the bed. “Is it about him?” June had been too startled by Matt’s kiss even to contemplate Lennox, but in the very recesses of her mind, he had always been there. “I knew something was going on. I hate everything about that fucking guy.”

“Did you just kiss me because you’re jealous?” she said.

“No.” Matt was on her again, grabbing her hips, holding her to him, but June refused to crumble. She couldn’t lose herself in him again. It was too hard to think with him this close. “Listen to me, whatever’s happened here is done. All I care about is taking you home.”

She pushed him to arm’s length. “I can’t, Matty.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration replacing desire. “Fuck, June! This is crazy! Why not? What could possibly be the reason?”

“I just can’t!” Panic grew like a monster in June, slowly eating her insides. She shook out her hands at her sides, feeling the edgy tingles that told her to run at any cost.

“What does that even mean, you can’t?” Matt asked, exasperated. “Look around you, June! You think you actually belong in this small fucking town? You think these people know you?”

June squeezed her eyes closed, her breath labored, and wished herself anywhere else. The closed bedroom door felt like a concrete wall. The air felt heavy, poisoned, unbreathable. She felt as if she might explode if she didn’t escape, so she broke for the door again, but Matt wouldn’t let her go. He held her in place, hands on her arms, squeezing, torturously rooting her still.

“You can’t give me a reason because there isn’t one. This place isn’t you. Lennox doesn’t know you like I know you, June.” Matt’s body was so close that June felt the weight of it, the burden. “You know I’m right. Just stop running from me and say yes!”

“I lied to you!” June screamed.

Silence invaded the room.

June took in a gulp of air. “Is that what you want to hear? Fine! I lied to you. I’m lying to everyone, Matty.”

Matt backed away. June felt the distance grow, like a tide moving out from the shore. It would only increase from that moment on. He had pushed this on himself. This was his fault. If he would have just stayed away like he was supposed to, none of this would be happening. He had come to her rescue without asking whether she wanted that. June had to let him go. He had left her no other choice.

“Lying about what?” Matt asked.

June looked at him, tears collecting in her eyes. “Everything.”





TWENTY-THREE


Josh Merriweather, found in a small apartment in Marion, Ohio, had been pronounced dead at the scene. Cause of death: heroin overdose.

Phil had insisted that the officer was wrong. He had sworn, demanded to speak with a supervisor. How dare the officer assume the cause of death without an autopsy? Nancy had taken the phone from her husband’s shaking hands and asked the officer to repeat what he’d said. June had pulled on the drawstrings of her hooded sweatshirt and wished then and there to disappear. To run. To hide. To get away, as fast as she could.

It was the third overdose the officer had seen that week. The Merriweathers could request an autopsy if they wanted, but he knew what an overdose looked like, he had said. And there were drugs in the apartment.

An ocean away from Marion, June shook as she confessed the story to Matt, her hands balled into fists at her sides. Her skin crawled, and she wished she could zip out of her own body as if it were a one-piece jumper.

“How long?” Matt asked. “How long was Josh . . .”

On heroin. June knew why Matt trailed off. It was one thing to drink and smoke weed. Hell, at Stratford it wasn’t odd to see the occasional line of cocaine. But heroin? Heroin was a dirty word, a drug done by dirty people, who deserved to die in a dirty way. June had felt the same, three years ago when she had found Josh’s stash hidden underneath the loose cabinet floorboard in their shared bathroom, buried there like a bomb. Filth had infiltrated their clean house, right under their noses. June had been disgusted, but more than that, she had been embarrassed and ashamed. How could her brother have been so weak? How could he have brought that into her life? What would people in Sunningdale think? Did he know he threatened the reputation of their family?

Three years later, he was dead.

After Josh’s death, June saw everything differently. Her family’s denial was a plague. Josh had had a problem, but they were all sick, maybe June most of all.

“A while,” she answered Matt.

“A while like months, or a while like years?”