Not when he’s the most intensely loyal, brave human I’ve ever come across, ever since the day we met in first grade because he beat up the third grader who stole my lunch.
He didn’t even know me at the time. Silas was already cool, already popular, already the king of the playground, and all he saw was a short, skinny kid get his lunch stolen.
In return, I taught him how to stay out of trouble. Please note: I didn’t teach him to stop getting into fights or to obey the teachers.
I taught him not to get caught.
After a few years he’d gotten smarter and I’d finally hit a growth spurt, but we were already fast friends and somehow, it stuck through middle school, through high school, through the football team and my father’s accident, through me leaving for college and Silas heading to Afghanistan.
My point is, I don’t take my bond with Silas lightly.
My point is also that whatever I think of June, I’d best not act on it. She may be funny and smart, she may be relentless and curious and sharp as a tack, and she may be so pretty that it makes me lightheaded to look directly at her, but she’s my best friend’s little sister.
Plus, she’s leaving again soon. She told me earlier this week, alone in the microfiche room, that she’s applied for ninety-seven jobs since getting laid off.
Ninety-seven. There’s no way she doesn’t get offered at least one.
The problem isn’t that I’m afraid of Silas. The problem isn’t that I don’t want June.
The problem is that anything between us would inevitably be over far too soon. Weeks? Months? I’ve got no way of knowing when June might suddenly get a better opportunity and move away, leaving me behind, broken hearted.
I’m not a quick fling guy. I’m not built that way, for brief, physical relationships. I’m not my brother Seth. I don’t just want June, I want her.
And even if I were, I couldn’t jeopardize my relationship with Silas for something over in a few months.
If June were staying, I’d do it. If I thought that we could have something real, something deep, if I thought that we could be more than ships passing in the night, I would go for it without looking back.
But that’s not reality. This is reality, and I’ve weighed my options and chosen the only rational one.
“Am I good?” June asks, turning toward me. I wait for the road to straighten out, and I look over at her, inspecting her face that still takes my breath away.
“There’s a streak on your nose,” I tell her, and she rubs it in.
“Thanks,” she says. “All right, I’m officially ready to visit a tree crime scene and catch some tree murderers.”
I can’t help but smile.“How much further is it?” June asks, holding her water bottle to her lips.
I look at the map, considering.
“Not far,” I tell her, because distances can be tricky on trails. “We’re almost—”
“Do not tell me we’re almost there, I’ll have an aneurysm,” June declares.
I lower the map and look over at her.
“Every time I go on a trail run with Silas, he tells me we’re ‘almost there’ when we’ve still got like two miles to go and I think my lungs might explode,” she says. “And now I have an allergic reaction to the phrase ‘almost there.’”
I smile, look at the map again.
“I think we’ve got about another mile on the trail, then maybe half a mile cross-country,” I tell her.
“That’s a euphemism for not on the trail, right?” she says.
“It’s not a euphemism, that’s what it’s called,” I say. “A euphemism is a pleasant name for something unpleasant. Like calling prostitutes ladies of the night.”
“That’s your go-to euphemism?” June asks, one eyebrow lifted.
“Is there a problem with it?” I ask as she caps her water bottle.
“Just interesting that it’s the first one you thought of,” she teases.
“I chose to spare you the first one I thought of,” I tease back.
“Well, now you have to tell me.”
We’re heading along the trail again, surrounded by the forest. It’s a hot day but not too bad here, in the shade.
“I don’t,” I say.
“Come on,” she says, looking over at me, thumbs hooked in the straps of her backpack. “What was more incriminating than prostitute?”
“I’ve never visited a prostitute, if that’s what you’re getting at,” I say. “You could just ask, June.”
“I wasn’t, but thank you for the information.”
We hike in silence for a minute, around a curve in the trail.
“C’mon, tell me,” she says. “You said yourself it’s useless to keep information from me.”
I sigh, because she’s right. She’s right and moreover, I like it about her.
Usually.
“The first one I thought of was pass gas instead of fart,” I admit, and June starts laughing.
“See?” I say.
“I’m not laughing at fart,” she says. “I’m laughing at what you must think of me that I don’t mind prostitute but you don’t want to say fart in front of me.”