Hate You Not

“At the dentist office…” I want to explain how I’m such a lightweight that even basic Novocain keeps my mouth numb for like twelve hours. But I can’t seem to form the right words. I laugh again and lean my head back, and he pushes something up against my cheek.

“This is just a shirt of mine. Thought you might want a pillow.”

“I’m…high,” I confess.

“Are you cold?”

“Yeah. Like a burrito.” I laugh, and it’s a crazy cackle. “I mean an igloo.” It’s so funny that I mixed those two words up. Cracking myself up here.

I feel him moving over me. I smell him. Something in my belly warms at the cologne smell. Then I feel a blanket settle over me.

“I can lay your seat back…”

I blink sometime later, and all I see is the car’s ceiling. We’re in motion; I’m not sure what’s going on. I want to ask, but I’m so sleepy, I don’t care.

Then I’m bouncing. My whole lower leg hurts like a bitch. I open my eyes, and there’s a road that’s lit by gold beams—headlights.

I look around. I’m in a car with someone. “Burke?” I don’t know how I know it’s him.

“Hey there, Juney.”

I swallow, noting that my head hurts and my foot is throbbing. “Who is Juney?”

I can hear his smile although my eyes are closed. “That’s you.”

“No nicknames,” I order.

“We’re not tight enough for that?”

“At all.” But my lips twitch, and then I’m smiling against my will.

“I can take you to your brother’s house, or to your own house. Which one do you want?”

“Mine.”

“Good, because we’re almost here. Your brother said you’d want to come home. How ya doing?” he asks. “You in any pain?”

“You’re not taking them?” My voice cracks as I think of my babes.

“No.” He lets a breath out. “I’m not.”

When I open my eyes again, I’m staring at the darkness, with an amber light on my right. It’s the porch light. We’re at my house.

His hand touches my arm. “Hey, June?”

I blink up at him. It takes some effort, but I hold my eyelids open and try to cling to his gaze.

“I’m sorry again. For how I acted. I might be a dick, but I know when to say I’m sorry. And I really am. I’m sorry for insulting your education and your ability to be a good guardian to them. And I’m sorry for judging…I don’t even know what. I guess your culture? I’m going to confess something now.”

My lips twitch. Even though my head feels sort of spinny, I’m sort of enjoying this. His earnest face… “So hit me with it.”

“I’ve never really spent any time down here in the Southern United States before now. It’s a lot different than where I’m from.”

“I know,” I slur. “Like…what is Safeway? We went to Trader Joe’s—” When my family was out in California for the funeral. I smile at the memory of the good smells in there. “I like Trader Joe’s.”

He smiles like he’s amused, and I know I’m still loopy. “Did you?”

“Good nuts.” That makes me crack up laughing. “Did I say ‘good nuts’?”

He chuckles. “I think you did.”

Then he’s scooping me up, shifting so my weight is leaned against his chest. He’s carrying me up the stairs to the screened porch. I feel his arm flex, hear the dogs bark.

“Maybe you are the prince,” I whisper.

“Your friend has the puppies,” he says. “Just in case you think I’ve stolen them back.”

Then we’re in the living room. He starts down the hall with me, and as we near my room, he says, “June?”

“Mmmhm.”

“I’m not the prince.” So grave.

“Why not?”

My cheek is pressed to his chest, then it’s not because he lays me on my bed and reaches over me, pulling the covers back.

“Just not the prince,” he says.

“You’re Slytherin, aren’t you?” I lift my head a little—or try to. “Do you know what that means when I say that?”

He presses his lips together, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“You do know! Burke Bug is a Harry Potter nerd.”

He fluffs my pillow, folds his muscled arms. “What one are you?” His face is neutral, like a poker face.

My mouth is dry. I lick my lips. “What do you think?” I rasp.

“Do you really want to know?”

I snort, then wince because my ankle hurts each time my muscles tense. “I do want to know. Let’s hear your dumb assessment.”

That makes him chuckle. It’s a soft, rich sound. In the light of my bedside lamp, he looks painfully handsome, chestnut brown hair shining gold-red, framed by a faint amber halo, white teeth flashing as he tilts his head a little. His lips twitch. “I call Slytherin.”

“Oh I just bet you do.” I snort again, this time more careful not to move my sore leg. “Spoken like a Slytherin himself.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with Slytherins,” he says.