Hate You Not

“I’m sure.” I push off the porch rug with the toe of my shoe, remembering last time he was here. I was sitting on this swing, and he sat down and put my leg on his lap. Just remembering that makes my face feel too hot.

He leans against the wall between the living room and the porch and sips the coffee, his eyes moving from the floor to the pool assembly before finally settling on me.

His mouth twitches at the corners as he squints, and I realize he’s reading my shirt. “Band,” he murmurs, smiling softly. His eyes meet mine. “You were a band geek?”

I nod. His smile widens. “Me too.”

“You were?”

He nods. “Trombone.”

“Really? Trombone?”

He quirks a brow up. “Can’t envision it?”

“I don’t think I can.” I fold both my legs onto the swing and turn sideways, so we’re facing. “I see you as more a…I don’t know.”

“What?” he prods.

“Maybe like the debate team.”

He rubs a hand over his face, shielding himself from my eyes for just a second. “Yeah,” he says from behind the hand. “I guess I can see why.” He pulls his hand down, and I find that he looks abashed. “Sorry again about all that stuff last time,” he says quickly. “The…debating.”

“Water under the bridge.” I wave my hand dismissively—because apparently that’s something I’m doing today, dismissing people with waves.

“You’ll see,” he says. “I’m not really like that.”

“Mmmhmm.” I nod once. I’m trying to be generous, but he laughs, clearly thinking I’m trying to be a dick about it.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “For real. I mean, I’m not fully going to trust you, but I don’t fully trust anybody.” I say the end part with a faux mysterious flair and comically big eyes, so it doesn’t sound so pitiful.

He sips his coffee. “Who betrayed your trust before?”

“Oh, just people being people.”

“Did you date an asshole, June?”

I think we’ve established I like assholes. If not their glowing personalities, I like them for their hot, hard bodies. Assholes make me mad, and when I’m mad, I want to bite and scratch and screw. Because I’m stupid that way.

“I dated more than one,” I say. “But now I’m single, and that’s how I’m gonna stay.”

“Really? You want to stay single?” He seems genuinely curious, which for some reason throws me off.

“I mean…for a long time. There’s nobody here, and I’ve got kids now. I’m content with that. With them. I really love being their guardian,” I confess. I immediately wonder why I did. It just sort of sneaked out of my mouth—maybe because I do love the little critters, and that love stuff always bubbles to the surface.

“That’s good,” he says, and he sounds sincere. “I’m sorry again. When I think about those few days, I feel like shit about it.”

“Oh, you weren’t such a villain. You were doing thoughtful stuff like fixing broken gutters.” I grin as I say it, because I can’t not.

He chuckles.

“June, June…” He shakes his head.

He wants me. It’s there on his face, under the awkwardness and alongside that heat in his eyes. I want to tell him he should lock it down, but he steps closer to the swing instead.

“I am sorry,” he says after a moment, looking thoughtful. “I was fucked up from my brother. But it’s better now.”

There’s something about his face…about the look on it. It tugs at my heart. “That’s good,” I murmur.

“AUNT JUNE!” Oliver’s voice precedes his body by about a half a second. Then he rockets out the living room door and onto the porch, trailed by Mario and Peach. He sees Burke first, and then his gaze snaps to the lawn.

His jaw drops. “Is that a pool?”

“A pool!” Margot bounds out, too, still in her nightgown.

Burke says, in a low voice, “Do you want a pool?”

The kids start screaming, jumping up and down. After their rejoicing, I send them back inside to put on real clothes.

“After they put it together,” Burke says, “then we’ll have to fill it up. They told me on the phone that even with this special model that has the foundation underneath it and all that, it’ll probably be this afternoon before it’s swimmable.”

So we’ll go to breakfast. The kids are too amped up to sit at home, and I don’t want them running around while the workers try to do their thing.

“There’s a place a few miles outside town…this little shack that serves homemade biscuits with bacon and pimento cheese. That might sound bizarre, but it’s heaven.”

“Sold,” Burke says. “Do you guys want to take the Jeep?”

Of course, the kids want nothing more than to ride in the POS Jeep, so into the Jeep we go. I sit in front by Burke and try to maintain a polite neutral face and avoid looking at him for too long while he drives, and Margot and Oliver talk his ears off about everything from school to Hot Rocket to therapy with Dr. Weber.