The Truth About Keeping Secrets(73)

We hugged too hard, and it hurt like hell, but I didn’t care. I buried my head in the space between her neck and shoulder as all the fear I had felt about her, about what she could have been, purged from me. She was here. She was now.

I couldn’t even keep myself from crying, and from the way she heaved against me, she couldn’t either.

Only when she pulled back did I notice the brick of a cast on her arm and the shaved bit of hair on the right side of her head.

I realized the woman behind June had to be her mom. She had June’s wide-set eyes and height, but even tighter curls, bunched up on the top of her head. They were about the same height. It was funny; even given the couple of times she mentioned her mom, I’d never imagined what she’d looked like: maybe I’d thought June actually just appeared one day, perfectly formed.

I smiled as much as my wound would allow, and let her hug me. ‘I’m so glad you’re both all right,’ she said.

‘Mom,’ June said, ‘is it OK if I go back with Sydney?’

Our moms exchanged a look; June’s went to speak, seemingly apologetic, but mine stopped her. ‘It’s no problem. They should be together tonight, I think.’

So we drove. We sat in the back seat, not saying much; neither of us wanted to talk about anything. Not yet. There were too many tragedies, so many that I didn’t even know which one to focus on. None of us did. We were experiencing the full-body-and-mind equivalent of not knowing what to do with your hands.

June spoke in a strangely casual way to Mom about how she’d never broken a bone before and how badly it hurt when it happened. I felt the jagged texture on my right cheek, dragged my middle finger up and down the stitches. Likely, I think we were still in shock.

And then a hand on mine.

June wrapped her fingers round and squeezed. There wasn’t anything romantic about it, I didn’t think; it seemed more like necessary contact, like holding a baby after it’s born.

June wasn’t looking at me; she was staring out of the car window, the streetlamps silhouetting and dancing and playing along her profile, the long shadows appearing, skewing and disappearing like lifetimes one after the other. I squeezed back.

June next to me. June in a bed.

Mom had graciously left us to our own devices. It took approximately a thousand years to get comfortable; my head was pounding and June didn’t seem much better off, and I think we were both so struck by the novelty of being together like this that it was difficult to decide what we should do or how this should look. We finally settled on lying next to each other, heads propped up with pillows, looking up at the ceiling.

She had answers, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to look her in the eye.

I wasn’t sure she’d be able to look me in the eye.

So this was fine for now.

‘OK,’ June said, and exhaled. ‘Hi.’

‘Hi,’ I said back, then laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. Because there were no words. There were no words for a lot of different reasons, so really, it seemed there should be negative words: we had been given too much and now it felt like we should take something away. I couldn’t comprehend the fact that she was finally here, that this would all end, that everything she’d kept buried was going to be dug up, reanimated; I think we were both nervous to find out what that would look like.

‘You look like Frankenstein,’ she said.

‘Frankenstein’s monster, thanks. You – I can’t think of anything known for having a cast and an edgy haircut.’

‘Here’s one: June Copeland.’

I laughed. ‘Then you look like June Copeland.’

‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

‘I don’t really know. I think I’m feeling less OK by the second,’ I said, because it was true. At the hospital I’d felt relief that it was over but now there was panic that it’d happened at all. Anxiety slithered near the bottom of my belly, threatening to sink its teeth into me.

And June still had some talking to do.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

‘I think I feel … great,’ she said. ‘Maybe it was the drugs they gave me. I’m sure the trauma will hit in the morning. But right now I’m OK. Yeah. I’m OK.’

We both considered that for a moment. Outside, the rain had stopped and there was no sound besides our staggered breaths – until a dog barking made me flinch.

‘I need to know everything,’ I said.

‘I know,’ she said immediately after, like she was just waiting for me to ask. ‘Now?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What do you already know?’

I wasn’t actually sure. I was sure Heath had sent the messages. He had broken in, had uploaded the video. I was sure he had hurt June. And Dad – well, I wasn’t sure about anything. But I didn’t want to assume. And I wanted to hear her say it. ‘Nothing. I just, I need to know, first: did you have anything to do with this? Any of it?’

‘No,’ she said, the syllable low and punchy. ‘I’ll explain, but … no. You gotta believe me, Whitaker.’

I did.

‘Well.’ She took a breath. ‘God. I don’t even know how to do this. You know I’ve thought about this moment happening probably hundreds of times? Literally, hundreds? And even then I never knew what to start with. There’s so much that I just … don’t know where to start.’