Chapter 6 - June
I've been lying in bed for the past two hours staring at the ceiling and pretending I'm trying to sleep.
I'm not. Sleep requires closing your eyes, and every time I close mine I see Jackson's face in candlelight, feel his lips against mine, hear his voice saying *I've been in love with you for twenty years.*
So, I keep them open and stare at the water stain in the corner that's shaped like Ohio and tell myself I made the right choice leaving before dawn.
I didn't. I'm a coward.
My phone sits on the nightstand, silent. I've checked it fifteen times in the past hour even though I know Jackson won't call. I asked for space. Told him I'd reach out when I was ready.
The problem is I don't know if I'll ever be ready. How do you process something like this? How do you reconcile loving your dead husband with being in love with his best friend? How do you move forward when every step feels like a betrayal?
Tommy.
I roll onto my side, pull his pillow against my chest even though it stopped smelling like him years ago. I washed the sheets too many times, trying to erase the emptiness, trying to make the bed feel less like a monument to everything I lost.
It didn't work. The bed still feels empty. The house still feels empty. I still feel empty.
Except last night, for about thirty seconds when Jackson kissed me, I didn't feel empty at all.
I felt terrified, guilty and more alive than I've been in seven years.
My phone buzzes. I grab it so fast I nearly drop it, heart racing against my ribs. It's not Jackson. It's my boss, Carol, responding to the text I sent at 5:30 AM asking if I could take a personal day.
**CAROL:** Of course, honey. Take all the time you need. The spring rush can wait. You doing okay?
I stare at the message, trying to figure out how to answer that. *No, Carol, I'm not okay. I'm in love with my dead husband's best friend and we kissed last night and I ran away like a coward and now I don't know what to do.*
Instead, I type: **Just need a day. Thank you for understanding.**
**CAROL:** Always. Love you.
I set the phone down and press my hands to my face.
Carol's known me since high school, gave me the job at the flower shop when I needed something to fill the empty hours after Tommy died.
She's been nothing but kind and patient, never pushing when I show up with red eyes or need to take a break during particularly hard days.
But I can't tell her this. Can't tell anyone this.
Because how do I explain that I confessed my love to my dead husband's best friend and then ran away before dawn? That I feel like I'm betraying Tommy's memory just by wanting to be happy again? That the guilt is eating me alive but the longing is worse?
A knock at my front door makes me jump.
I sit up, heart racing. It's barely 9 AM. Nobody visits this early unless something's wrong.
Another knock, more insistent.
I swing my legs out of bed, grab the cardigan hanging on the chair, and wrap it around myself. I'm still wearing Jackson’s T-shirt, the one I put on last night in his guest room, the one I couldn't bring myself to leave behind when I ran. It smells like motor oil, detergent and him.
I should've changed. Should've put on my own clothes before answering the door. But the knocking continues, urgent, and I'm already halfway down the stairs.
Through the frosted glass panel beside the door, I can make out a tall figure. Broad shoulders. The build I'd recognize anywhere.
It’s him.
He came anyway. Even though I asked for space, even though I told him I'd call when I was ready, he came.
I unlock the door with shaking hands and pull it open.
Jackson stands on my porch looking like he drove straight here without thinking. His hair's a mess, jaw tight, and there's something in his expression that makes my heart skip a beat.
"I know you asked for time," he says before I can speak. "I know you needed space. But I can't give it to you, June. Not today."
"Jackson…"
"Please." His voice is rough. "Let me in. I need to talk to you."
I step back, pulling the door wider. My heart's hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. "What's wrong? You look—"
"I'm fine." He moves past me into the small entryway, then stops and turns. His eyes take me in—the cardigan, his t-shirt underneath, my bare feet, my hair that I haven't brushed. "You're wearing my shirt."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I… I couldn't leave it. I'm sorry, I'll wash it and get it back to you—"
"Don't." He takes a step closer. "Don't apologize. I like seeing you in it."
I wrap my arms around myself and move toward the living room, needing distance. "What are you doing here, Jackson?"
He follows me, stops by the fireplace. For a moment he just looks at me, and I can see him wrestling with something.
"There's a situation with the club," he finally says.
My stomach clenches. "What kind of situation?"
"The kind that means I'm riding out tonight with my brothers to end this war." He runs a hand through his hair. "We finally have solid intel on where the leader of the rival MC is hiding. We're moving on him at midnight."
I sink onto the edge of the couch, suddenly dizzy. I don't know the details of the war, don't know much about names or specifics, but I know it's been brutal. Know that brothers have been hurt, that the whole club's been on high alert.
"That's... that's good, isn't it?" I ask, even though the fear in his eyes tells me it's not that simple. "If you end it tonight, the war is over."
"If we survive it." Jackson's voice is flat. "We're riding into hostile territory to take out a desperate man and what's left of his crew. Our president told us this morning that some of us might not come back."
I press my hand to my mouth, trying to process. "No…"
"I have until midnight," he continues. "That's it.
Phoenix told everyone to spend the time with their families, get their affairs in order, say whatever needs to be said.
" He takes a step toward me. "So, I got on my bike and I came here.
Because you told me you loved me last night, and then you ran before we could figure out what that means. "
Tears blur my vision. "Don't talk like you're going to die."
"I might." He kneels in front of the couch, and the position, him on his knees looking up at me, makes me want things I shouldn’t. "And I can't ride out there knowing you're sitting here drowning in guilt while I'm wondering if you meant what you said."
"Of course I meant it." My voice cracks. "I wouldn't have said it if I didn't mean it."
"Then why did you run?"
I look away, staring at the framed photo of Tommy and me on our wedding day that still sits on the mantel. "Because I'm terrified. Because saying I love you out loud makes it real, and making it real means I have to face what that means for Tommy's memory."
"June." Jackson's hand finds mine. "Look at me."
I do, reluctantly.
"Tommy's been gone seven years," he says.
"Seven years of you putting your life on hold, refusing to move forward, carrying guilt that was never yours to carry.
And I've been doing the same thing. Loving you from a distance, telling myself I didn't deserve you, that wanting you was a betrayal.
" His grip tightens. "But I can't do it anymore.
Not when I might die tonight. Not when we finally told each other the truth. "
"What if you don't come back?" The question comes out broken. "What if I let myself have this and you die and I have to bury another person I love?"
"Then at least we had today." His voice is firm. "At least we stopped lying to ourselves for a few hours. That's more than we've had in twenty years, June."
I'm crying now, tears streaming down my face. "I don't know how to do this. How to love you without feeling like I'm erasing him."
"You're not erasing him. You're just making room for something new.
" Jackson stands, pulls me up with him. "Tommy was your husband.
You loved him, built a life with him, and that doesn't disappear just because you're ready to move forward.
But you are ready, June. You told me you loved me.
That wasn't the guilt talking. That was you. "
He's right. Last night in his apartment, in the candlelight and rain, I told him the truth. Not because the storm made me sentimental or because I was caught up in confessions, but because I finally couldn't hold it in anymore.
"I am ready," I whisper. "I'm just scared."
"So am I." He cups my face in his hands. "But I'm here right now. We're both here. And we have until midnight to figure out what this is."
I look up at him, this man who's been my constant for decades, who held me together when I fell apart, who loved me silently while I grieved. This man who might ride out tonight and never come back.
"What do you want to do with the time?" I ask.
Jackson's eyes search mine, and I can see the war in them: the desire, the restraint, the fear of pushing too hard.
"I want to stop wasting it," he tells me. "I want to be with you, really be with you, without the space and the guilt and the running. Just us. For however many hours we have left."
"Then stay." I slide my hands up his chest, feel his heart racing under my palm. "Stay with me. No more running. No more space. Just... this. Whatever this is."
He pulls me against him, wraps his arms around me, and holds me like I'm the only thing keeping him anchored.
"I love you," he murmurs into my hair. "God, June, I love you so much."
"I love you too." The words come easier this time. "I'm still scared, but I love you."
"We'll figure out the scared part together." He pulls back just enough to look at me. "But right now, I just want to hold you. Can I do that?"
I nod, and he leads me to the couch, sits down, and pulls me into his lap. I curl against his chest, my head tucked under his chin, and for the first time in a long time I let myself just feel safe.
We sit like that for a long time. No talking, just breathing together, his hand running slowly up and down my back. The morning light filters through the windows, soft and gray, and I can hear the distant sound of traffic on Main Street.
Normal life continuing while ours shifts into something completely different.
"Tell me about the mission," I finally say. "Not the details if you can't. Just... help me understand what you're riding into."
Jackson's quiet for a moment, his hand stilling on my back.
"As you know, we've been at war for months with another MC.
They've hurt people we care about, threatened our families, tried to destroy everything we've built.
Tonight, we finally have the chance to end it.
Take out their leader, scatter what's left of their crew, make sure they can never come after us again. "
"It sounds dangerous."
"It is." He doesn't sugarcoat it. "But it's necessary. And I trust my brothers to have my back."
"What happens if..." I can't finish the question.
"Then Phoenix makes sure you're taken care of. The club looks after its own, and that includes the people we love."
"I don't want to be taken care of by your club." My voice breaks. "I want you to come home."
"I will." He tilts my face up, looks me straight in the eye. "I'm coming home to you, June. I promise."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me." There's a fierceness in his expression that I've never seen before. "I've waited twenty years for you. I'm not dying now that I finally have you."
I kiss him then, and he kisses me back just as hard, his hands sliding into my hair, and for a few perfect moments the fear recedes and there's only this.
Only us.
"How much time do we have?" I ask.
Jackson checks his phone. "About sixteen hours."
Sixteen hours. It's not enough. It'll never be enough.
But it's what we have.
"Then let's not waste a single minute," I say.