The Enemy (It Happened in Charleston 2)

Jennie: “Is there a chance you already have a family that you don’t know about?” What the heck?

I glance back to the place where June just disappeared and consider shooting a flare up into the sky for help. Come back! I’m sorry! I’ll never choose your mom over you for dodgeball again!

But I’m a man. It’s time to grow a pair and give these women what they want. I roll my shoulders once and tilt my head side to side. Then, I take turns looking around the gang of women that I would never want to face in a dark alley alone.

I point to Evie first. “I’m not going to answer that because that’s a pretty personal question.” Boom. Moving on to Jennie. “A speeding ticket but no criminal record.” Julia. “Haven’t had a serious relationship because I’ve been married to my job.” Now I look at Mrs. Broaden as I answer the remaining questions, because I feel like her opinion matters most. “I’m more serious about June than I’ve ever been about anything in my life, and yes, I want a family. And no, there’s not a chance I have any illegitimate children floating around. Did I answer everything?”

They all stand stunned for a full minute, glancing back and forth between each other before smiles slowly crack across their devious faces, and we all laugh. Bonnie claps me on my shoulder. “I always knew I liked you, Ryan. You’re gonna fit in with us perfectly.”

“I think I have to convince June of that first.”

This is the part where Bonnie should smile and say something encouraging like oh you’ve got nothing to worry about, sugar. She doesn’t. She actually looks a little apologetic. “You’re right about that. And it won’t be easy. She’s pretty set in her ways. I love my baby girl and will support her until the day I die, but I’ve gotta be honest, Ryan…I hope you can convince her, because I’d kill to see what a baby between you and June would look like.”

We’ve jumped from getting past date number one to wheeling June out of a hospital with a baby in her arms. Moms truly are a force to be reckoned with. But here’s the thing, does it make me less of a man if I say I’ve been dreaming of the same thing? Last night, I pictured June in a house of our own, with a kid on her hip, singing and making pancakes. When I told her the other day that I’ve been having dreams that would make her blush, I’m willing to bet she had no idea they were the PG kind about our life as a family.

But I’m thirty-one years old. I’m ready for all of it. A family. Diaper changes. Late-night runs to get whatever insane thing June is craving from the store. The whole nine yards. I can see it perfectly. And although I know that even IF June and I make this work, we won’t actually be in a place to get married for a while, I can still easily picture it.

“Do you have any advice for me?” I ask Bonnie.

She tells the sisters to give us a minute alone and then turns to me and smiles. It perfectly resembles the sort of smile June gave me before she slipped a laxative in my coke in the cafeteria (I didn’t know it until later, of course).

“Fortify yourself,” she says ominously. “June has never been one to give up without a fight. Batten down the hatches, and if you really want her, prepare to hold on in rough waters, because mark my words, sugar, there will be rough waters ahead.”

“Not the most encouraging advice.”

She pats my arms. “‘Cause I like you, I’ll tell you something a little more practical to pair with the metaphorical. June doesn't like jumping into cold water. Never has, never will. In the summer, she proceeds inch for inch into the pool until, finally, before she knows it, she’s up to her hair.”

I squint. “This still feels metaphorical.”

“Don’t make her jump into the cold pool, Ryan. Inch her in and let her see for herself that the water’s fine.” She reaches up and pats my cheek, and it makes my stomach ache from how much the action reminds me of my mom.

Bonnie walks out of the kitchen, and I lean back against the counter, trying to let her words settle into my thoughts.

A minute later, June peeks her head into the kitchen. “You still alive in here?” Her brown hair is tied into a cute messy bun at the back of her head, and little wisps are hanging loose around her temples. Her face is free of makeup, letting me see all the freckles on her cheekbones and that her lips are naturally cotton-candy pink. I love cotton candy.

A few days ago, she never would have let me see her without her makeup on. Mrs. Broaden’s words poke me, and I wonder if the water is up to June’s knees or hips right now.

I extend my hand toward her, and she takes it hesitantly. I yank her in close and settle my hands on her hips. Her eyes pop up to mine, and I lean down, ready to have a full serving of cotton candy. I barely brush my lips over hers before she turns her head and whispers in my ear. “Betcha wish you could kiss me. That’s one point for me, sucker.”

She ducks under my arm and saunters out of the kitchen, only pausing to wink at me over her shoulder.

Five hours later (yes, five), June closes the front door behind her family. After spending the entire day with the Broadens, I feel like I’ve just finished a triathlon that I hadn’t trained for. I’m worn out, but in the best way. It’s been too long since I’ve been around family. I almost forgot what it was like. Years of non-stop work almost had me believing that I didn’t even need a family. Like my pots and pans would come to life Beauty-and-the-Beast style, and I’d have all the company I need in the kitchen.

Now I see how deprived I’ve been.

I’m a man who has been locked up with only bread for a decade and was just presented with an entire feast fit for a king. I want more of this. Going back to that stale bread sounds miserable.

June locks the door dramatically, puts her back against it, and sinks to the floor. The new I heart Nick socks Bonnie gave her are pulled up her legs, stopping mid-calves. “Gosh, I thought they were going to try to spend the night.”

I smile before going to sit down beside her. We’re shoulder to shoulder now, and every inch of me is aware of every inch of June. I look down at her, and my eye is drawn to the way her loose sweatshirt drapes off her shoulder a bit. I slip it back up into place. “Now I see where all the swag comes from,” I say, gesturing toward her socks.

June wiggles her toes, and two light-pink spots hit the apples of her cheeks as she looks down at her lap. “Yeah. Mama’s been giving me this stuff for years.” A chuckle rolls through her, and she looks lighter than she has all week. “It’s our inside joke that Nick Lachey is my perfect man.”

“Stiff competition.”

“Oh, there’s no competition.” She looks up at me dead pan. “He wins, hands down.”

Now we’re both laughing. It feels good. Right.