Hate You Not

It’s oddly comforting to hear about June’s childhood. I was never sure if people had lives like the one Shawn is describing—at least outside of TV and fiction. But apparently they do. And June is one of them.

Shawn talks about their dad a little more, how everyone is sort of worried about him, but no one really knows what to do or say.

“He’s never been the real emotional sort of person. He’s a hunter and a golfer,” Shawn explains, as if that settles things.

He talks about the farm again—“June should be planting and harvesting more, I think. But I think she’s scared of hiring more people. She wants to pay fair wages and gets scared about letting people down if things go bad.” He snorts at that. “She’s got her own way of doing things. And she’s not running it into the red more than it has been. She’s pulled some parts out of the black. June knows how to steer the ship. She’ll get it figured out. She’s got some good help there, too. Just takes time.”

It probably takes time because no one has any money to invest on the front end. I want to say that. I almost tell him I’ve been sending her checks and she won’t cash them. But I keep my mouth shut, because telling him won’t make her happy. When we finally get to his place—a small, brick house—it’s 2:00 AM local time, and I’m ready to crash.

“I’ve got a spare room. My girlfriends stay in there sometimes when we get in a fight.” He flashes me a good ole boy grin and waves me over to a door just off the living room.

“It’s kind of a girly room, see all these sunflowers?” He opens the door, revealing a bedspread covered in sunflowers. “My current girlfriend decorated in here. She’s asleep in our room. Remember me telling you about her last time? Sandi? She was in Aruba when you came last time.”

“Oh yeah,” I say, even though I’m not sure I do.

“You’ll love her. Real sweet. We’ll see you in the morning? Oh, and there’s a shower off your bedroom, too.”

“I might go to June’s house in the morning.”

“What time?”

“Maybe seven.”

“Oh, well here.” He tosses me some keys. “That’s to the Jeep. You said you’re good at stick shifts, right?”

I nod.

“She’ll be good to go. Got you some gas today.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime. You’re sort of family now. Us uncles have to stick together.”

I laugh, but when I shut the door to the bedroom and look around, I feel like my throat’s closing up.

I don’t belong here. Fuck. Why did I come for this party?

Margot and Oliver, I remind myself. And for Asher. He would be here if he could be. I’m his proxy.

I undress and step into the shower. Get out, put on boxer-briefs and sleep pants. I lie on the bed, blinking at the ceiling for the longest time. I see Sabal Gurung’s wise eyes. I think of the last time I hugged Asher. I shut my eyes and try to clear my head. Instead I picture being hugged by June.

I sit up. Get out my laptop and my travel modem. I work until 6:30. Then I fire up Shawn’s old Jeep and drive toward her house.Chapter 21JuneI wiggle out of my little black shorts and then kick them across the room.

“Ugh. This is stupid, June.”

I march over to my T-shirt drawer, jerk out the first thing I see, and yank it over my head. It’s a battered gray T-shirt with tiny holes along the collar and a tear at the top of its front pocket. Bonus points because it says Heat Springs High Band. What better than to remind him that I didn’t finish high school?

I riffle through another drawer and come out with a pair of black Nike running shorts with mint green piping along the seams—the kind that come with built-in underwear that are somehow superior to all regular cotton underwear but also make you feel like the most basic bitch alive.

“That’s me,” I murmur.

I swipe my hair into a bun on the top of my head, smooth on some nude lip gloss, and slide my feet into my beloved Teva flip-flops.

“I don’t even want to see his fancy ass,” I mutter as I huff into the hallway.

It’s early, and the kids are still asleep, but I know the pool people are here because I heard their giant truck pull up a few minutes ago. It backed into my yard, the brake lights glowing against the blue dawn hue. I can only assume Mr. Startup King of Silicon Valley will be rolling up next in his rented Maserati.

I stop in the kitchen for some coffee and reluctantly whip up a second cup. I sweeten it a little less than what I personally enjoy and leave it on the bookshelf in the screened porch. The dogs whine as I shut the living room door, but I’m not bringing their hyper little asses outside at 5:30 AM.