Hate You Not

That makes me smile—the thought of June hiding at her own parties. “I thought that seemed to be the case.”

She peers at my phone’s screen. “You doing some work over here?”

I slide it into my pocket. “Something like that.”

She laughs. “Oh, you look guilty. Are you a smoker?”

“Nah.” But I can’t admit it to her that I don’t know how to start a charcoal grill. “Just listening to a quick voicemail. What about you?”

For half a second, she looks like she just bit into a lemon. Then she sighs and steps a little closer to me, cutting her eyes toward the backyard again like she’s worried someone there will overhear her. “I’ll tell you. I’ve gotta tell someone. This is insane. I just saw my dad…” She drags air into her lungs, then exhales, covering her face with both hands. “My dad kissed Leah’s mother. Mrs. Kensington.”

Mrs.

Oh, hell.

“So she’s married?”

“Leah’s father passed away. Last year.” She moves her hands down off her face. “Not even a whole year. It was last June.” She heaves another sigh and then shakes her head. “They were in the laundry room. So all the puppies saw.”

That makes me snicker. “You think it was traumatic for them?”

“Yes, I know it was. And you know the worst part of all this?”

I shake my head, and she squeezes her eyes shut, rubbing her brows. “Leah’s mom was ‘at the beach with her best friend’ who doesn’t live here in Heat Springs when my dad was in Mexico.” She shakes her head again.

“Wait, your dad was in Mexico?”

“Yeah, remember? Last time you were here.”

“Ohh, that’s right. I do remember that.”

She tilts her head back. “He was obviously with Mrs. Kensington. Leah will be crushed.”

“Will she, though?”

“Yes, I’m sure. My dad…he’s nothing like hers.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “Her dad was the chief of police here. Old reliable. He was older than her mom, and he had some health problems, but he worked every day, rain or shine. He was the extrovert in the relationship. Her mom is more reserved and aloof. Nothing like my mom,” she says almost resentfully.

“For sure, yeah—that’s some strange stuff.”

“This is what happens when the population doesn’t top four hundred. People lose their minds!”

She looks so matter of fact, so flustered and so pretty, that I can’t help smiling.

“I think people lose their minds pretty much everywhere.”

She sighs again. “Yeah.” Then she narrows her eyes at me. “Why were you really over here? I saw you from the window. You were standing by the grill.”

“I’m going to start the grill,” I hedge. “But I think I need something to help the charcoal ignite.”

“Oh, like lighter fluid. Yes, you do. There’s some inside—in the laundry room,” she says with exaggerated trepidation. “If I were you, I’d go through the front porch door. In fact, I will go with you that way. Better to avoid any hanky-panky,” she whispers.

June starts walking and I follow, trying not to stare at her ass even though I can see her sweet curves underneath the cottony jumper thing she’s wearing over her swimsuit.

She slows when she walks into the kitchen, which is filled with faces I don’t know well, although some I think I’ve seen before.

“For those who haven’t met him, this is Burke, the kids’ uncle,” she says.

I flash them a quick smile.

“C’mon.” She beckons me. Before she steps into the laundry room, she peeks around the corner of the door. I hear her soft “whew.”

“C’mon,” she says again. “Nobody’s in here.”

“Hey, that’s not true.” I lean down to pet her older dogs, then crouch to rub the puppies’ heads.

I look up to find her holding the lighter fluid. She grabs something else out of a cabinet—a long, thin candle lighter. “Use these things.”

She gives me brief instructions for getting the charcoal started. My neck flushes. She smirks. “It’s okay, Mr. Bigshot. I’m sure some hired help does the grilling where you’re from.”

I shake my head.

“You don’t look like a rich boy today”—she gives my mud-crusted boots a pointed look—“but I know how much you’re really worth.” She says it with a little smile, like to her it’s a joke.

Something tugs in my chest. “It’s not a good expression.”

“What’s not?”

“How much someone’s worth. Only in a capitalistic society would we even use that language.”

She covers her face and turns her back to me. “When I turn back around, we’re gonna pretend that you didn’t just say that.”

“Say what?”

“You’re not bashing capitalism with a cool one hundred million whatever in your bank account.”

“I told you—it’s not in my account.”

She snorts. “I don’t want to hear that you’re some kind of super liberal. Please don’t tell me that.”

“Oh, Christ. Are you some kind of super conservative?”

“First,” she says, “don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I’m no holly roller but it does offend my Southern sensibilities. Second, I’m a moderate. Almost all reasonable people are actually moderates—whether they know it or not. That’s just a little theory I’ve got. I mean really, who wants to just do things all batshit crazy with the pendulum swinging way far in one direction—like okay, let’s hike up taxes by forty percent across the board. Or way the other way, like okay nobody’s paving roads or running ambulances anymore, y’all just take care of yourself. Be moderate, don’t be an asshole. That’s my campaign slogan.”