Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
June instructs me to get to her place at ten on Saturday morning before we make the ninety-minute drive to Wildwood.
When I arrive, I text her that I’m out front, then wait for her to make her way outside.
I remind myself I just need to make it through the drive there, the festival, and the drive back.
We’ll park in the hotel's lot, then leave our bags there until we check in after the concert. I was able to reserve two hotel rooms on opposite sides of the hotel, a forethought I’m grateful for when she steps out of her apartment building.
She’s always gorgeous, but right now, casual and ready for a day in the sun, she’s my own brand of cruel temptation.
Her lips are painted a bright red, and her hair is half up, half down, with two small pigtails on top of her head.
There are a dozen colorful gems glued somehow to the top of her hair and along her eyes, making her look like a little disco ball.
With the wide grin lighting her up from the inside, it’s the perfect embodiment of the ray of sunshine that is June Taylor.
She’s in a red bathing suit top barely hidden beneath a loose-knit, white cover-up tee and a pair of frayed, tight jean shorts.
As I step out of the car to grab her bag, I realize my plan of acting natural and just may just be a fool’s errand.
How the hell am I supposed to act natural when she looks like this?
She waves at me eagerly, as if she isn’t completely blowing me away before starting to run toward me despite wearing a pair of flimsy-looking flip-flops. When she trips, I snap back into reality and step toward her, steadying her with a hand on her lower back.
“Jesus, June, don’t run in those,” I say, but she just giggles.
“Sorry, I’m just so excited!” I take the duffel bag from her and slide it into the trunk next to my small suitcase. When I slide into the front seat, she turns to me, beaming and nearly jumping in her seat. “Are you excited?”
I don’t have any other choice.
I smile back, giving her something that is both a lie and the complete truth.
“Yeah, June.”
“Can you take my picture?” June asks hours later as we walk past a colorful mural emblazoned with the festival's name. She chatted the entire drive, which was fine since it kept my mind occupied, but now that we’re walking along the sand, bouncing around from stage to stage, it’s impossible to ignore how fucking gorgeous she is.
I welcome the distraction and the bit of space I’ll earn and nod, taking her phone from her hands before she runs to the mural.
I take a dozen photos as she effortlessly shifts poses and expressions before giving me a thumbs-up, my mission complete.
“Good?”
“Yeah, I think I got some,” I say.
“Thank you! You’re the best!” she says, moving to me and hugging me. It’s her new go-to, and even though I’ve noticed she does it with everyone, I cherish each one, deluding myself into thinking it’s something more, something precious.
“Do you two want me to take your picture together?” a woman asks. I look over June’s shoulder to see a group of three women, one in the front giving June a wide grin, her hand outstretched to take her phone.
“Oh, no, that’s—” I start, but June untangles from me, stepping toward the woman with a nod.
“YES! Oh, my god, that would be amazing!” June says, handing over her phone before her small fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging me toward the mural. “Come on, Graham.”
“June—”
“Friends take pictures to commemorate their outings together,” she says, and who am I to argue?
I’m incapable of saying no to her, it seems, especially when she’s giving me that happy look.
She settles me in front of the mural and stands beside me.
On instinct, I slip a hand behind her, setting it on her back, and her arm moves around my shoulder.
“Try to look like you’re not completely miserable to be here,” she says, smiling and staring at the woman holding the camera, and I can't help but grin. After a moment, the stranger waves her hands closer together.
“Get closer! I’ll get a few like that, too.
” My heart skips with nerves, but June is unfazed as always, instead shifting her body toward me, sliding her arm from my shoulders to my waist, and setting a hand on my chest. On instinct, my hand slides to her hip, pulling her into my side. “Cute!” the woman says.
“Try to look like you’re not completely miserable to be here,” I say low, and with my words, June’s head tips back with a loud, full laugh. I smile down at her, enthralled by her joy, as always.
“That’s the one! Oh my god, that was perfect!” the woman says.
“Thank you so much!” June says before she slips from my grip, moving across the sand to grab her phone.
My arms feel empty without her, so I cross them over my chest, watching as June returns the favor, spending almost five minutes taking photos of the women, chattering on and laughing as she does.
It’s strange to see how quickly June can make friends of strangers.
“Can we sit in the sand? I want to post a few of these,” she asks, and we do, finding a spot on the sand out of the way of foot traffic.
She starts tapping her screen, then smiles at me and explains.
“If you tag the festival, you’re entered to win tickets for next year.
” I let out a loud laugh. I should probably feel nervous that she might be disappointed if she doesn’t win, but something in my gut knows I’d do it again next year.
The idea settles in me uncomfortably, since I don’t know where I’ll be then.
I will probably be assigned some new location by then, and for the first time in my life, the thought settles sourly in my gut.
I can’t help but think I’d miss Seaside Point.
Not even just because I’d miss June, either; the entire town is growing on me in a way I didn’t expect.
I’m still lost in my thoughts when she shows me the photo on her phone, now in the company’s tagged section. A shot of her and me is the most recent, but there have to be hundreds of tags for the last hour alone, all in front of that mural.
“Is that the point of that mural?” I ask, confused. “A marketing tool?”
She nods.
“It’s a popular tactic, making a backdrop for an event or a city, then using it as a checkpoint for guests or tourists.
It’s kind of like the Hollywood sign or the Walk of Fame.
People go just to take their pictures.” I nod, understanding, and scroll endlessly.
“Then people see it on their feeds and get it stuck in their mind that they have to go next year.”
“It’s smart,” I say, handing her phone back.
“You know, that would be a really good idea for Daytrip,” she says absentmindedly, now sending photos to her friends.
My attention shifts back to the mural, watching as another group of girls stand in one spot and smile.
There’s a small line now winding along the art installation, people lined up for their shot. “A photo op. Or two, maybe?”
“Oh?” I ask, turning to her, intrigued.
“Yeah, imagine, a mural on the exterior of the building. You could have one inside, exclusive to guests, then another outside, maybe along the side of the building on the beach? Nearby, you could have some signage about more photo locations inside and pamphlets displaying the amenities, making it so people would want to grab a day pass to enjoy a luxurious beach day, and have the fun photos to share on socials.” She bites her lip, lost in her thoughts as she stares off down the shoreline.
“A temporary one would be perfect for the social media influencers. Or maybe a permanent one and then a seasonal one that changes, so there are reasons to come over and over?”
She looks a bit uncertain, but it makes perfect sense to me, though there’s only one person I would trust with the project.
‘Would you do it for me?” I ask. That gets her full attention, her head snapping to me with confusion written clearly across it.
“I’m sorry?”
“The murals. Would you paint them for me?”
Her face goes soft, apologetic almost.
“Oh, Graham, I didn’t mean…I don’t—”
“I’ve seen what you can do. If we commissioned someone, I would only want you to do it.”
She shakes her head.
“You don’t have to do this just because we’re friends, Graham.”
“This isn’t because we’re friends,” I say, serious, but she’s already flipped the switch, trying to deflect, a smile on her lips. I never know just what she’s going to say when she gets like this, desperate to shift the attention off of her and her talent.
“Because we’re more than friends?” she asks, and my brain short-circuits.
”June—”
“I’m just picking on you, Graham,” she says, pushing my shoulder playfully.
“Unless…” I wonder if it’s being away from the office or the sun that has her wiggling her eyebrows at me suggestively, but either way, I don’t know how to respond.
After a moment, her head tips back, and a laugh leaves her lips, full and joy-filled, completely entertained.
She’s joking with me.
I don’t know if I should be relieved or disappointed, and that might be the most concerning part of all.
“Jesus, June–”
“Sorry, sorry, I’m out of the confines of the office, so I feel the need to push all of your buttons,” she says, and I wonder if she knows just how much she constantly pushes my buttons, even when she’s just sitting at her desk, chewing on the end of a pen, lost in her work.
“I’m serious,” I say, after a moment. “I want you to think about it. Doing murals for Daytrip.”
“Graham—”
“Just sit on it. We’re not here for work, but on Monday, I’ll be asking again.” She pauses for a moment, but must see the firm look on my face, the fact that I absolutely will bug her about this next week, because she sighs and rolls her eyes dramatically.
“Next week, we’ll talk about it.”