Chapter 2 #3
As I watch June sweep, her humming floating across on the wind, I realize she's part of our orbit already, and I know—keeping my distance isn't going to be half as easy as I pretend.
***
It's almost eight when dusk settles across the windows, soft and blue.
I stand in my kitchen, hands damp from washing dinner dishes, the house quiet around me.
Emma's bathed and tucked in, her universe condensed to a pile of pillows, a fortress of picture books, and one exhausted dad beside her until she finally fell asleep.
Now, with the silence full and heavy, I go through the motions—wiping counters, checking locks, double-checking her nightlight.
Routine helps. But tonight, the order doesn't quiet the restlessness.
I open a cupboard, reaching for a clean dish towel, and spot something on the shelf. A familiar cake stand wedged behind my mixing bowls. It's June's. My pulse jumps like I've tripped a wire.
I pull it out, cradling it in my hands. There's a fingerprint on the rim, a pale whorl in dried vanilla.
The scent lingers—sweet, warm, blooming up into memory.
Vanilla and sugar with a hint of orange blossom, the perfume she wore yesterday.
It's stupid how clearly I remember it, how I wanted that scent to stick.
I imagine June getting up before dawn, setting out trays, her hands confident and quick, placing cakes and pastries with careful intention.
I thumb the edge, picturing how many times she's held it, washed it, polished it for the next batch.
There's something intimate in that—a domestic detail, an unguarded piece of her tucked inside my kitchen.
I know I should return it. Walk next door, ring the bell, hand it over and let that be the boundary. A friendly neighbor, nothing more. Only, I stay rooted on the kitchen tile, unable to move or let go.
Through the window, June's house glows—kitchen lights burning against the dark, her silhouette moving as she tidies up, maybe making tea or a late snack. It's quieter now, a gentle sort of energy. I imagine her decompressing from the bakery rush, enjoying the stillness in her private sanctuary.
For a moment, I wonder how it would feel to step into that gentle light, to share the quiet with her.
To wrap my arms around her, kiss her neck and ask about her day—
My words to Emma earlier echo—"June is lovely"—and for a moment I let the wanting in.
I should put the cake stand on the step and forget it.
But now that it's here, I can't help but imagine June in her kitchen, laughing softly, singing off-key, dreaming the next day's possibilities.
I wonder if she's thought about who helped steady her yesterday—or if I'm nothing more than a neighbor to her. Her best friend's older brother.
I set the stand back on the counter, the taste of longing sharp and unwelcome. I tell myself it's simple. Boundaries, stability, nothing that could unravel the fragile new life I've pieced together for Emma. Still, I catch myself looking at June's window, and the ache in my chest knows the truth.
Returning the cake stand should be easy, but I can't seem to do it. Not yet. Not when it means facing everything I might want—and everything I'm afraid to lose.
I try to focus on the practical—checking the back door, washing that last mug. But my gaze drifts back to the cake stand, and without thinking, I'm crossing the kitchen.
It's not careful this time—it's pure impulse. I grab the cake stand and head out the door before I can reconsider.
June's porch light glows softly, pooling warm light across the lawn. I glance up and there she is—stepping onto her porch, mug in hand, wavy hair tousled. She sees me through the darkness. Surprise flickers across her face. Then a smile, slow and certain, tracing her mouth.
The space between us is nothing, just a few steps and the rush of my heart. I pause at the edge of my porch, suddenly self-conscious.
She lifts her hand—a greeting, a question—and my resolve finds its shape.
"Hey, June." I hold up the cake stand, voice rougher than I mean. "You left this behind yesterday."
Her face lights up, open and real in the golden glow. "Thank you! I was wondering if it got mixed in with all the moving madness." She comes down her steps, the distance closing, the air between us shifting as she moves.
I cross over, meeting her halfway. The world narrows—just the night, her smile, my pulse beating in my throat.
I pass her the cake stand, fingers brushing hers, an unintended intimacy. "Sorry I didn't bring it by sooner. It's been… a lot."
She laughs, soft and full of understanding. "Moving is mayhem."
We linger, the silence filling with possibility, no fences to block what could come next. I want to ask if she's okay. I want to tell her she feels like the first breath of oxygen after months underground.
But Emma calls me from inside—a muffled "Daddy?"—and I step back, reality tugging me away.
"See you around?" she asks, voice gentle, eyes bright.
"Yeah," I say, feeling the ache return but lighter, threaded through with hope. "See you."
I walk back toward my door, feeling the night breathe with promise. Maybe I'm not as broken as I thought.