Chapter 3 - Diesel
The coffee's too hot to drink but I take a sip anyway, letting it burn my tongue so I have something to focus on besides June sitting on my couch looking soft, worried and completely unaware of what she's doing to me.
This is a mistake. I should've insisted she wait it out in the garage, should've kept the boundaries I've spent years maintaining. But the thought of her driving home in visibility near zero, roads flooding, alone, made something primal kick in my chest that overrode common sense.
So now she's here. In my space. Drinking coffee I made her, wearing a sweater that's still damp from the rain, looking at me like she's trying to solve a puzzle I've been hiding pieces of.
"How long have you lived up here?" she asks, glancing around the small apartment.
"Since my dad died. Didn't make sense to keep the house after that." I take another sip of coffee, ignore the burn. "Sold it, moved into the apartment. Everything I need is right here."
It's not exactly true. The apartment's functional: place to sleep, eat, shower, but it's not a home. Never tried to make it one. Home requires an investment I haven't been willing to make, a future I can't quite see.
"Do you miss it?" June asks. "The house?"
"Sometimes." I set my mug down on the coffee table, lean back into the couch. "Miss the garage more. Dad had a full workshop in the basement, twice the size of what's down there now. Could spread a project out, take my time. Up here it's just maintenance and fast turnarounds."
"You could expand."
"Could." I shrug. "Haven't gotten around to it."
The truth is I could've expanded years ago.
Got the money, got the space. But expansion means commitment, means believing I'll be here in five years, ten years, twenty.
And I've spent so long in a holding pattern…
Waiting for June to move on, waiting for permission I'll never get, waiting for something to change, that permanence feels like a trap.
June takes a sip of her coffee, winces slightly. "Still make it strong enough to strip paint, I see."
"You used to drink it the same way."
"I've evolved." But she's smiling when she says it, and the tension that's been sitting between us since the diner eases just slightly.
Thunder cracks overhead, so loud it rattles the windows. June flinches, coffee sloshing in her mug. I reach over automatically to steady it, my hand covering hers for just a second before I pull back.
"Sorry," I mutter.
"It's fine." She sets the mug down, folds her hands in her lap. "I hate storms like this. They remind me of—"
She doesn't finish, but she doesn't have to. Tommy died on a day like this. Not quite this bad, but close. Rain coming down hard, roads slick, visibility terrible. The lumber mill accident happened at shift change, when everyone was rushing to get home before the weather got worse.
I was the one who got the call from the hospital. They couldn't reach June. Her phone was dead, she was at the grocery store, so they called me as next of kin proxy. Emergency contact. Best friend.
I drove to the hospital doing ninety in a forty-five, hydroplaned twice, didn't care. Got there to find doctors who looked too young and too tired telling me Tommy didn't make it, that the injuries were too severe, that there was nothing they could do.
I had to be the one to tell June. Had to watch her face break when I said the words. Had to hold her while she screamed and cried and tried to make sense of a world that suddenly didn't have Tommy in it.
Seven years later and I can still feel the weight of her against my chest, still hear the sound she made when the grief hit.
"I'm sorry," June says, pulling me back to the present. "I shouldn't have brought it up."
"You didn't. The storm did." I pick up my coffee again, need something to do with my hands. "And it's okay. We don't have to pretend he didn't exist."
"No. We don't." She tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear. "But sometimes I wonder if we talk about him too much. If these dinners are... I don't know. Healthy."
My chest tightens. "You want to stop?"
"No." The answer comes fast, almost panicked. "No, I just... I wonder if we're stuck, you know? Both of us. Living in the past instead of moving forward."
"Are you?" I ask. "Moving forward?"
June looks away, stares at the rain streaking down the window. "I'm trying. Some days are better than others."
"Anyone special helping with that?" The question comes out more bitter than I intended. I've spent years bracing myself for the day June tells me she's seeing someone, that she's ready to try again, that some other man gets to be what I can't.
"No." She turns back to me. "There's been... interest. A few people have asked. But it never feels right."
I should want her to be happy, should want her to find someone who can give her the life she deserves. But the selfish part of me, the part that's loved her for two decades, can't stand the thought of someone else touching her, holding her, being what I've convinced myself I can never be.
"Why not?" I ask, even though I shouldn't.
June's quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the rim of her coffee mug. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Because they're not him."
Not Tommy. She's still in love with a ghost, still comparing every man to a memory that's been seven years frozen in time.
And I'm sitting here in love with her, knowing I can't compete with that. Won't even try.
"He'd want you to be happy," I say, because it's what Tommy would've wanted. He loved June completely, would've wanted her to have a full life even without him in it.
"I know." June's eyes are bright with unshed tears. "But knowing what he'd want and being able to do it are two different things."
Thunder rolls again, longer this time, and the lights flicker. June tenses, and I find myself shifting closer without conscious decision, some instinct to protect, to comfort, to be whatever she needs in this moment.
"You're safe here," I tell her. "Power might go out, but the generator will kick in. And even if it doesn't, I've got candles and flashlights. We're fine."
"I know." But she doesn't look fine. She looks small, scared and heartbreakingly vulnerable in a way I rarely see from her. June's spent seven years being strong, holding herself together, taking care of everyone else while her own grief went unprocessed.
"When's the last time you let yourself fall apart?" I ask.
She blinks at me. "What?"
"Fall apart. Cry, scream, whatever you need. When's the last time you did that?"
"I don't…" She stops, reconsiders. "I don't remember."
"June."
"What do you want me to say?" There's frustration in her voice now, defensive. "That I cry myself to sleep sometimes? That I have bad days where I can barely function? I do. But I can't stay in that place, Jackson. I have responsibilities, people depending on me. I don't get to fall apart."
"Everyone gets to fall apart sometimes."
"Do you?" She turns the question on me, eyes sharp. "When's the last time you let yourself grieve? Really grieve, not just work yourself to exhaustion so you don't have to feel it?"
Fair point. I've spent seven years doing exactly what she described—staying busy, staying functional, never letting the grief or the longing or the guilt sit long enough to process it.
"Touché," I mutter.
"We're both stuck," June says quietly. "Aren't we? Both pretending we're fine when we're not."
"Maybe."
"Definitely." She sets her coffee down, turns to face me. "Can I ask you something? And will you give me an honest answer?"
"Depends on the question," I tell her.
"Do you ever think about what your life would look like if things were different? If Tommy hadn't died, or if you'd made different choices somewhere along the way?"
There are so many answers to that question, most of them dangerous.
"Sometimes," I admit.
"What do you see?"
*You*, I want to say. *I see you, have always seen you, will probably see you until the day I die.* But that's not an answer I can give, not without destroying whatever fragile thing exists between us.
"I see the garage bigger," I say instead, choosing safety. "Maybe a house instead of this apartment. A life that's not on hold."
"Your life is on hold?"
"Isn't yours?"
June's quiet, absorbing that. Outside, the rain continues its assault on the building, relentless and unforgiving.
"Yes," she finally says. "I think it is."
We sit in that admission. Two people who've been treading water for seven years, going through motions, existing instead of living.
The lights flicker again, longer this time, and then die completely. The apartment plunges into darkness, broken only by the faint glow of streetlights through the rain-streaked windows.
"Generator should kick in," I say, standing. "Give it a minute."
But a minute passes, then two, and nothing happens. I move to the window, peer out at the street below. The whole block is dark. Power's out everywhere.
"Looks like the whole grid went down," I report. "Might be a while before it's back."
"Okay." June's voice comes from the darkness behind me, steady despite the situation. "You mentioned candles?"
"Yeah. Hang on."
I navigate the apartment by memory and the dim light from outside, find the emergency kit I keep under the kitchen sink.
Flashlight, candles, matches, battery-powered radio.
I light three candles and set them around the living room, creating small pools of warm light that push back the darkness without quite defeating it.
June's face in candlelight looks softer, younger. Like the girl I fell in love with twenty years ago, before life got complicated, before people died and everything got so goddamn heavy.
"Better?" I ask.
"Better." She pulls her legs up onto the couch, wraps her arms around her knees. "This feels like something from high school. Remember when the power went out during that ice storm senior year?"
I do. The whole town was dark for three days. Tommy, June, and I spent most of it at Tommy's house, playing cards by candlelight and eating whatever didn't need refrigeration.
"You cheated at poker," I say.
"I did not."
"You absolutely did. Tommy and I both caught you looking at the discards."
June laughs, and the sound fills something in my chest that's been empty for too long. "Okay, fine. I cheated. But you two were terrible at bluffing, so it wasn't really fair anyway."
"Terrible at bluffing or just honest?"
"Same thing when it comes to poker."
We fall into easier conversation after that. Stories from high school, stupid things we did, people we knew who've since moved away or stayed and settled into the same patterns we have. It's comfortable, familiar, the kind of talk that doesn't require pretense.
But underneath it, I'm aware of everything. The way candlelight catches in June's hair. The sound of her voice in the darkness. The fact that she's here, in my space, and I've got no good excuse to maintain the distance I usually keep.
"I should probably check the guest room," I say eventually, when the conversation lulls. "Make sure everything's set up."
"Jackson." June catches my wrist as I start to stand, her fingers warm against my skin. "Wait."
I freeze, heart kicking hard in my chest. "Yeah?"
She doesn't let go. Just holds my wrist, thumb against my pulse point, and I wonder if she can feel how fast my heart's beating.
"Thank you," she says. "For this. For letting me stay. For always being there when I need you."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know. But I want to." She releases my wrist, and the loss of contact feels disproportionately significant. "You're a good man, Jackson Reed. I hope you know that."
Being good means keeping boundaries. Means protecting her from feelings she didn't ask for. Means dying with this truth buried if that's what it takes to preserve Tommy's memory and June's peace of mind.
"I'll check that room," I say, standing before I do something stupid like tell her everything.
The guest room is fine. Bed made with clean sheets, extra blankets in the closet, towels folded on the dresser. I do a quick sweep anyway, give myself time to get my head straight.
When I return to the living room, June's standing at the window, watching the rain. The candlelight throws her shadow long across the floor, makes her look like something from a dream.
"Room's good," I report. "You need anything else?"
"No." She doesn't turn around. "How long do you think the rain will last?"
"Couple hours at least. Maybe more." I check my phone. Still has battery, but no service. The storm must've taken out the cell towers too. "You okay with staying the night? Roads won't be safe until morning at this rate."
"Yeah." Her voice is quiet. "I'm okay with it." June turns from the window, and in the candlelight her eyes are dark and serious. "Can I ask you one more question?"
"Sure."
"And will you be honest?"
"I'll try."
She takes a breath, seems to steady herself. "Do you ever wish things were different between us?"