Chapter 21
21
Tatum
June picks me up at seven on the dot. There are three short knocks on the door, and a long stretch of silence afterward. Dawn makes no move from the couch where both of us sit.
“You can’t be serious,” she says, staring me down.
“I was kind of hoping you’d get it,” I whisper.
“It’s not my date,” she says back loudly.
I spring up, smoothing down the yellow shift dress Dawn has lent me. She even curled my hair for me, taming my curls into loose tendrils that flow away from my face. I haven’t gotten put together like this in years.
I look nice.
There’s a moment when I’m caught, standing with my hand hovering over Dawn’s doorknob. Opening this door changes everything. That should scare me. I’ve spent a whole year believing it would. Instead I’m exhilarated, almost too eager for my own good.
Everything’s already changed anyway. It’s time for me to take charge of the direction.
I throw the door open.
June holds out a bouquet of flowers. “Coral roses,” she says, thumbing one of the soft orange petals. “They represent a first date.”
“Did you learn that on the internet?”
“From my mom, actually.”
I stare at the flowers, so nervous about seeing her face that it’s easier to put all my attention on the roses first, needing to take in each detail. “They’re really pretty.”
She hands them over. “I told you. Yellow is a great color on you,” she says.
My whole body flushes. I was hoping she’d notice. That she’d put together why I chose this. “It’s Dawn’s.” I twist from side to side to show off the dress at every angle.
“Looks perfect.” Her eyes linger on me so long that the hairs on my arms prick up.
She wears a black silk tank tucked into dark jeans. The low cut of the shirt accentuates her collarbone, where she’s put a shimmering highlight. She has her bob slicked down, hair tucked behind her ears to show off her collection of studded earrings. There are stars, moons, and gemstones, with a small hoop at the top of her left earlobe.
“You look…” I search for the right words. They never come to me with June. Because to see her is to understand what it means to be speechless. “Perfect,” I decide.
Still, she blushes, tucking back a piece of hair that needs no actual adjusting. We call out a goodbye to Dawn, then take the elevator to the ground floor, where the doorman we’ve come to know gives us a nod.
“You first,” June says, waving me inside the vehicle. I crawl into the driver’s-side back seat, making room for June to get in next to me. My hands are so slick with sweat that they leave a damp imprint on the leather seat. “We’re going to an Italian restaurant. I figured the best first date is a classic one, so I’m trying to check all the boxes.”
She is so assured that it has the magical effect of making me relax a bit myself. This night can go in so many directions that I find myself wanting to sprint, eager to find out where we will land. June has a way of grounding me, showing me the value in taking each moment as it comes.
She takes me to an Italian restaurant not very far from Eleanor’s place, where the tables are made of a sturdy wood, covered in red-checkered cloths, and the decor does little to detract from the purpose of the meal, which is to enjoy pasta and drink wine. It isn’t what I expect New York to look like, but my vision of this place has always been a skyscraping, jet-setting stereotype. People taking work calls during dinner inside sexy, smoky restaurants. I think I thought all of New York was like Times Square. And it’s really not. It’s so many different things. It’s whatever you want it to be, really.
June pulls out my chair, then tucks me back in before taking her spot across the table.
“You’re really giving me the red carpet treatment,” I say.
“I’ve been on a lot of dates in my life,” she tells me. “Not many of them have been good. This is my chance to try to do for you what so few have ever successfully done for me.”
When she settles into her seat, we lock eyes again, and it’s the kind of feeling I want to bottle. The promise of this beginning. Because we’re both going for this with the same hope, the same care, that we give each other at the diner. I don’t know why I thought that was some sort of courtesy she paid me because I was her server. It’s just who she is. Who we are to each other, really.
“You’re already leagues above the rest,” I say. “And that’s not just flattery.”
“I think it is flattery. But I guess now is a good time to tell you that I like being flattered.”
“Good thing I have a lot of compliments for you that I’ve never said. I didn’t think it was right to tell you how beautiful you are after I was the one who turned you down. But you’re so, so beautiful.”
This has the effect I hoped it would—June’s eyes darting to her hands and then back to me.
“And quite excellent at first-date selections,” I continue. “The first date I ever went on was my junior year of high school. This girl wanted to rent out a movie theater for us, but she couldn’t afford it, so instead she made us skip school to have our date at ten a.m. on a Wednesday. She thought nobody would be at the theater then. Instead the entire place was packed with senior citizens. Filled to the brim. Needless to say we didn’t really have the hot-and-heavy experience we both imagined. Not for us, at least. Some of the seniors were having a good time, though.”
“My first date was going to a movie too,” June tells me. “No heavy petting between the elderly though. Not that I noticed.”
“A movie date is really the classic high school move,” I say.
“My first date was actually right after I graduated.”
This takes me by surprise. For some reason I assumed June would’ve started dating in middle school or something. Probably because I’d guess everyone would want to ask her out.
“We saw The Fault in Our Stars in the theater,” she continues. “I cried so hard that a rash broke out across my entire face and neck. My eyes swelled up until my lashes started to stick together because my mascara was so tacky with tears.”
“Relatable.”
“If that wasn’t bad enough, I was out with a guy I didn’t even like,” she says. “I just felt so behind then, I agreed to go out with him to catch up to my friends. Even though I’d cried enough to look like I needed to be admitted to the emergency room for an allergic reaction, and we’d said maybe ten words to each other before and after the movie, he still kissed me in the parking lot of the theater.”
Before I can process my own reaction to this, June puts her hand on mine.
“Don’t worry, I told him he could,” she assures me. “But it was a very bad kiss. Although it did confirm that I prefer girls, so that was nice of him. It also proved that I really didn’t need to be in any kind of rush to date someone. I wasn’t missing out on much.”
“Didn’t you tell me you’re a serial monogamist?”
“Yeah,” she confirms with a sad laugh. “Just because I knew that doesn’t mean I followed it.” She gives an even sadder laugh this time. “I proceeded to date that same guy for an entire year. I haven’t been single for longer than a month since.”
I believed her when she told me she wasn’t good at being alone, and that she was always dating someone. I just didn’t conceptualize it fully like I am now, understanding the exact expanse of time she has spent partnered with someone else. All the life milestones she’s lived with another person at her side. The same ones I’ve spent in avoidance, not letting someone live them with me. Looking back at it, I feel acutely aware of how long that time has stretched on, how far I’ve let this go. And for the first time, I’m wondering if I’ve really planned to live this way forever.
Is that actually what I want? To be alone for everything?
As we eat our meal, we swap stories of our respective high schools. June grew up a few towns over from Trove Hills, and we have enough overlap to be able to appreciate the shared language of the area. She talks about a few more of her past relationships. Another guy after high school. The first woman she dated.
By the time we’ve finished our food and closed out our bill, she’s telling me how one of her girlfriends actually proposed to her when she was twenty-two, and she had to say no. This is less surprising to me, that the people June has dated would want to be with her forever.
“I can’t believe you didn’t go through with it,” I tease. “If for no reason other than getting to pick out a dress.”
“I know,” she says, not at all offended. “The thing is, I was obsessed with hats then. I wore them all the time. I probably would have gotten married in one. And that would be tough to look back on now.”
“Are we talking like a beret, or a newsboy cap situation?” I ask.
“I hate to say it, but it was a full-on Willy Wonka situation.”
“ June ,” I say, scandalized.
“I know. What about you? Any proposals?”
“I haven’t let any of my ex-girlfriends get anywhere near that question,” I say. “I like to scare them off in that sweet spot after we’ve spent a lot of fun time together, but right before they tell me they love me.”
June cocks her head. In this appraisal, I know she’s recalibrating me again, placing this information beside all the other pieces I’ve given her. It’s hard to take the pressure of this change. At the same time, it’s the truth.
I gaze back, handing her a piece of my fragile, jagged trust, understanding that she will care for it the same way she’s cared for everything else.
“What would you have done if they said it?” She’s leaned into the table, head resting in her hand the way she usually looks at her notebook at the diner. Now I’m the problem she’s solving, and her face even wears the same scrunch of concentration I recognize from years of observing her at a distance.
“Probably told them it wasn’t a good idea,” I joke, a callback to my rejection of her.
“Love is rarely a good idea,” June challenges. “That’s not the point. There’s always going to be a reason it won’t work. There’s always going to be some baggage to work through. But what I love— ha —about love is that you’re asking someone to do it with you anyway.”
“What if the journey has too much unexpected turbulence? You’re afraid of flying…” I peter out, not sure why I’m trying to relate this to us. We’re not talking about us. How could we be? This is only a first date.
“C’mon,” June says gently. “Let’s go get dessert. There’s an ice-cream place not too far from here.”
She comes around to my side of the table to pull my chair out. It’s over-the-top, even a little ridiculous, but I still love it all the same. She offers me her arm, gesturing for me to thread my hand through her elbow, so we can walk out side by side.
Off we go, through the restaurant and out the door. No one in Trove Hills associates us together, but all these strangers in New York are getting a snapshot into a life where June and I are linked. Where I’m the person June orders drinks for. The one she comes home to, even if the home we have here is temporary. It’s still ours.
I hold her tight, breathing in the scent of her, basking in a closeness that doesn’t have to be hidden behind pretending to want to smell her perfume, as June makes plans for us to visit some of the places we pass. What is this future she speaks of, where she and I will be back here in New York together?
Still, I commit to it, even if I don’t understand the hows or whys. It’s not difficult to do, sketching the outline of my life here. Every location she pitches for us to try, I’m in. Doesn’t matter that the amount of time it would take to do all of this far exceeds the time we have remaining here. It’s easy to imagine a world beyond right now, even if it’s not what’s true.
When we make it to the ice-cream shop, we learn it is, tragically, closed.
“Shit,” June says in disbelief. “I checked on Yelp and everything.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. “This date is still the best first date I’ve been on. No ice cream required.”
Under the soft glow of night, with the endless hum of traffic surrounding the ice-cream shop, June spins me toward her.
“You know, you were never going to be my friend,” I say, my breath catching as she steps one of her feet between mine.
“I’ve always been your friend.” She brushes one of the wavy tendrils off my cheek. “And hopefully, I always will be.”
The word but hangs in the air.
She doesn’t say it. She looks at me, her purpose clear, gaze flickering from my lips to my eyes.
“But you want more?” I fill in. She tilts her face down. Before her lips can touch mine, I press my finger there, keeping a single inch between our faces. Her breath blows gently onto me.
“You’ve been single for only a few days,” I whisper.
“And you’re afraid of hurting me,” she whispers back. “We could go through an entire list of reasons this shouldn’t be right now.” She places her hand on the small of my back, pulling my body against hers. “I think we’ve spent far too long doing that, don’t you?”
Instead of answering with words, I take my finger off her mouth and place my lips there instead.
Kissing June, I become alive with want—with need . I run my hand up and down her back, gliding between the silk of her shirt and the softness of her skin. When I land on the spot behind her neck, she lets out a faint gasp, so I hold her there, cradling her head as my tongue slips into her mouth with a sigh.
She moves her hand to my chest. That pressure keeps me steady. My heart beats against her hand. All hers to have.
Why did I ever fight this?
And how did I hold off this long?
“I don’t know where we’re going,” I say, not sure if I mean right now, or altogether. The words fall out of me, almost panted, like all this time I’ve been running, and only now, for the very first time, I’ve stopped to catch my breath.
“Neither do I.” She moves her mouth to my ear. “But let’s keep going together. Let’s find out.”
I don’t know what comes next, but I know I want to keep feeling this way, like I’ve been cracked open, and all this bright, frantic need is pouring into me, filling all the dark places where I’ve kept my desires hidden away, forcing them to the surface.
I want June in every way I can have her.