Nothing Feels Better (Better Love 3)

“I’ll check on your minis.”

I climb the stairs and find Jude’s legs poking out from under his bed.

“Dude, what are you doing?” I ask with a laugh, then grab his ankles and pull him out.

“I can’t find my sword,” he grumbles and flips over onto his back. He is wearing his red and black pirate pants and his pirate vest. He can’t find his sword, though, because I hid that shit under the couch.

“Weird,” I say, then set him on the bed. “You won’t need it today. No swords allowed on campus. If you bring it, we can’t eat pizza or play frisbee.”

“Awwwww,” he whines, then takes off running through his door and toward June’s room.

“Hurry, Doonie,” he shouts as he bursts through her door. “Pizza!”

She whips around from where she was standing at her dresser and glares at Jude. She’s wearing a black tank top and jeans, and she’s holding a hoodie. My eyes immediately catch on her left shoulder and arm, and my eyes widen.

“Don’t come in my room!” June shouts at Jude, but when she sees me, the anger on her face is replaced with...I don’t even know. Terror? Shame? Emotions that I never want to see on a kid’s face. Ever. Especially not directed at me. She pulls the hoodie up to her neck and blinks back a few tears.

“Please leave,” she pushes out, and the rawness of her voice hits me right in the chest.

I grab Jude and steer him out of the doorway.

“We’ll wait for you downstairs,” I say with a forced smile, keeping my eyes on hers, careful not to let them drop any lower.

She stays facing us, hoodie held like a shield, but I already saw what she’s trying to hide. The bright pink, jagged, angry skin that covers her shoulder and arm, that continues into her tank top.

Scar tissue. Fresh scar tissue.

My body hurts just thinking about how much of her upper body is covered with it, and my medical brain immediately runs through scenarios of what could have caused scars like those.

Every possibility is terrible. Every single one is painful. Terrifying.

June is eight years old, and scars like that....

Jocelyn meets us at the bottom of the stairs, face alert and concerned.

“Is everything okay?” she asks, and when she meets my eyes, hers fill with tears. I swallow back the knot in my throat and open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes. She shakes her head, closes her eyes tightly, and whispers, “Later.”

June doesn’t speakto me. She doesn’t speak to anyone. She stays silent the whole drive to campus, and I can’t help but take note of the fact that she’s wearing jeans and a baggy hoodie. I’ve never seen her in anything other than long pants and long sleeves, come to think of it, and usually both of them are huge on her thin frame.

My fingers flex, making a fist until my knuckles turn white.

When we climb out of the car, Joss and the kids follow me in the direction of the quad, and when we reach the edge of the large open stretch of green grass, I nudge June with my elbow.

“See that big tree, Junie Moonie?” I say to her, and she looks to where I’ve pointed.

“Yeah?” Her voice is mostly flat with just a tiny note of curiosity. I latch onto that note. That’s the string I need to pull on.

“First one to touch it gets to pick where we go for dessert,” I tell her, and bounce my eyebrows. Her lips quirk up, but her eyes narrow.

“You’ll beat me.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “But maybe not.”

She flicks her eyes toward the tree, then back to my face.

“On your mark,” I whisper, and her big eyes widen, looking back toward the tree, then surveying the quad between it and her.

“Get set,” I say a little louder, and when she drops the book she brought onto the ground, I know I’ve got her.

“GO!” I shout, and we both take off in a sprint across the quad.

It’s a beautiful day, so the grassy area is full of students. Lying on blankets, tossing footballs, even some people doing yoga. We run through the crowd, and June holds her own. I thought I would have to trip or fake a cramp to let her win, but nope. All I had to do was underestimate her.

The path June takes is cleaner than mine. With the time I spend having to duck, weave, and juke to avoid disaster, she gains crucial ground. When she slaps the tree with both hands, I’m still ten feet behind her, but I skid to a stop when she whirls on me, knocking me on my ass with the fireballs she’s shooting at me from her giant eyes. For a moment, I’m afraid of an eight-year-old.

“You let me win,” she accuses, and immediately, I shake my head.

“No,” I say honestly, “I didn’t. I swear.”

She blinks and searches my face for any hint of a lie. Yep, I’m scared of her. I put on my please believe me I’m innocent smile.

“You didn’t let me win?”

“No. You saw a better path and took it.” I wink, nervous as hell. “That observation superpower.”

Her eyes narrow even more, then she makes a fist and sticks her pinky out at me. I hook my pinky with hers instinctively. I haven’t done a pinky promise since...well...maybe since I was like eight.

“Promise,” she demands, and her finger tightens around mine.

“Promise,” I say with a nod. Then I watch as she quickly leans down and kisses her fist. She straightens, but doesn’t release me, and when she arches a brow, I lean down and kiss my own fist. The smile that breaks out over her face triggers my own. I want to run a victory lap for that smile.

“I want a big ice cream sundae with chocolate and caramel and sprinkles,” she announces, and I knock her shoulder as we head back to her mom and Jude.

“Then we’ll get you an ice cream sundae with chocolate and caramel and sprinkles, Champ.”