Hate You Not

It’s so clever, so articulate…and her voice is such a soft, sweet drawl. I want to throw my head back laughing, but that’s rude as hell, so when she turns to face me, I just let my mouth hang open a little. I laugh, reaching out to squeeze her shoulders.

“June Lawler—a noble Gryffindor and a damn good politician.”

I’m being sincere—I love that she has such clever political opinions—but clearly, it doesn’t translate. She gives my chest a hard shove and says, “Don’t be lighting yourself on fire, Sly.”

And, like a hot wind through the kudzu leaves, she’s gone.***I feel like a stalker for it, but I watch June throughout the party. I’m mostly in the pool with the kids—the only adult not snarfing down the huge spread of food on three card tables.

I play the role of Evil Noodle, a monster that has three foam noodle arms and likes to whack kids (lightly) in the shoulders or the back of the head. When the kids steal all my noodle arms, I submerge myself, pinch at their ankles, and then snatch the noodles back. But between enacting my evil agenda, my eyes are glued to her.

I’ve never met a woman like June. Those fucking looks she gives me—sort of pissed off, a little flustered sometimes—are because she does think I’m attractive; I can tell. She’s so…unexpected. Being with her is an open-ended question, always. And I’m not even really her friend. I don’t know her well, and still, I feel drawn to her like a magnet.

Maybe it’s because of how she feels about me. In the past, with other women, I felt…obligated. With June, I’m the puppy nipping at her heels, hoping for the time of day.

I’m pushing off the pool’s floor as that thought runs through my mind. As I break through the surface and the noise of the party hits my ears again, I realize I must be crazy.

Other women? Like I’m with June?

I know I’m not with her. But I have opinions about her. She’s a woman, after all, and I’m a man. Last time we were around each other…

Let’s just say I can’t help being attuned to what she’s doing as she moves around the yard.

When it’s time to do cake and presents, I help the kids out of the pool, wrap them in towels, and end up at the cake table with Margot sitting on my knee.

“You help me blow out the candles,” she says. “I’m not very good at dragon breath.”

I refrain from pointing out that dragons blow fire, not wind to put out fire. “I don’t think you’ll need my help. You’re a big girl.”

June is flitting all around, her loose jumper flowing around her tanned legs and her hair flowing around her shoulders.

“Need anything?” I ask when she steps by me.

“I can’t find a lighter.”

“I’ll grab the one I used for the grill.” I plunk Margot down in our seat and go get it.

By the time I’m back, everyone is gathered around the cake. Margot holds her arms out to me, like she did when she was little, so I pass the lighter to June and go to her.

“You said you would help me!”

“Yeah, for sure.”

I do a quick head count as we sing Happy Birthday: nineteen people. There’s a man who stepped out of the house in the last few minutes. I think he’s June’s dad, because he has her eyes and tanned skin. The woman beside him must be Leah’s mom, because Leah is beside her.

Leah and June cut and serve the cake, and I help hand it out to people at the other two tables. I get a few glances—I’m still shirtless, with a towel draped around my neck—but none from June. She’s in her own world, talking to everyone in that grateful, effusive manner that parents have when you’re doing something kind for their kids. A few times I catch her tossing prideful, happy glances at Margot and Oliver—the way a mom would.

She reminds me of Sutton, which is pretty weird. And then I start thinking about Asher. He never said much about Sutton’s family, and I wonder why. There’s so much to say.

I’m talking to Mary Helen and her friend, tracking June as she stuffs wrapping paper into trash bags, when someone’s hand covers my shoulder. Shawn.

“Come over here…” He waves me toward the porch, where I find all four dogs—and a guy with bleached blond hair.

“Remember him from last time?” Shawn asks me, jerking his thumb at the guy as we walk up to him. “Marcus?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Good to see you again, man.”

Shawn dips inside the living room, but he’s right back out. He’s holding a glass pitcher filled with something I can smell when he’s still three feet away.

His face lights up just as the door opens and his dad steps out onto the little porch behind him. At the exact same moment, they say, “Moonshine.”