Chapter 16 #2
“Isn’t it?” Laura’s voice was gentle and relentless. “I’m not saying she’s Ember. I’m saying you have a pattern of giving everything to people who have more power than you do, and I’m asking you to look at that clearly.”
“I’m not vulnerable. I’m—” June’s voice cracked. “I was happy. Before all of this.”
“I know you were, sweetheart. I could hear it.” Laura’s voice softened. “I just want you to be safe. And right now I’m not sure you are.”
June hung up and sat at the kitchen island, staring at the window where Lila was outside watering the sunflowers.
Her mother’s words had done what her father’s anger hadn’t—gotten underneath her defenses, found the part of her that wasn’t entirely sure this was different.
That wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t making the same mistake in a different shape.
Another older woman. Another position of power. Another situation where you’re the vulnerable one.
She loved Melissa. She knew she did, had known it for weeks. But knowing it and trusting it were different things. And right now, with the article and the library whispers and her father’s silence still ringing in her ears, the distance between those two things felt very wide.
The back door opened and Melissa stepped into the kitchen, looking like she hadn’t stopped moving all day—hair escaping its twist, tension in her jaw, phone in hand.
“Lila’s asking for a snack,” she said. “I told her I’d send you out.”
“Okay.”
Neither of them moved.
“June.” Melissa’s voice was raw. “We need to talk about this.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been on the phone with David all day.
And Rachel. And my lawyer.” Melissa set her phone on the counter—face up, June noticed, where she could see the screen.
“The article is getting traction. Other outlets are picking it up. There’s going to be a press conference on Monday. I have to address it publicly.”
“What are you going to say?”
“That my personal life is private. That the speculation is unfounded. That my focus remains on the infrastructure bill and serving my constituents.”
“Unfounded.” June heard the word come out flat. “So you’re going to deny it.”
“I’m going to protect you. If I confirm anything, they’ll—”
“They’ll what, say more things that are true? Because what they’re saying is true, so far, and you could steer the story instead of deny.”
“You don’t know how this works,” Melissa snapped. “You don’t know what they’re like. The press, they’re like piranhas. They smell blood and they go after it and—”
“And if they get to dictate the story, then they’ll invent lies.” June’s voice was rising. “I went to the library and the librarian gave me a pamphlet for abuse victims.”
Melissa’s face crumpled. “I’m sorry. I’m so—”
Her phone lit up on the counter. David’s name, bright on the screen.
Melissa glanced at it. Just a glance, involuntary, the reflex of someone whose entire professional life had trained her to never miss a call at a moment like this.
She looked back at June.
She reached for the phone.
“Melissa.” June’s voice came out very quiet.
“I have to—it’s David, he’s been trying to—just one minute—”
She turned away, and June heard her voice drop into the measured, controlled register that meant Senator Brandt was speaking. “Yes. I saw it. No, not yet. Tell them… Yes, Monday morning. Good.”
June stood very still, listening. The kitchen felt very large and very quiet.
Melissa hung up and turned back. “I’m sorry. I had to—”
“I know.” June kept her voice even. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? Your work comes first. Your bill comes first. Whatever this is, it’s just second, or even lesser.”
“That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair. You as a politician should know that life isn’t fair.”
“I’m trying to protect—”
“You’re protecting yourself.” The words came out before June could stop them, harder than she’d meant. “And maybe that’s the right thing to do. Maybe your career is worth more than—” She stopped, shook her head. “You know what? Forget it.”
“Say it.” Melissa’s voice was sharp now too. “Finish the sentence.”
“Maybe your career is worth more than I am.” June heard herself say it and watched Melissa’s face go very still.
“That’s what it feels like. Every time you’ve pulled back, every time you’ve kept your distance in public, every time you’ve made sure nothing could be traced back to you—I understood it.
I made excuses for it. But this—” She gestured at the phone on the counter.
“You took that call in the middle of this conversation, Melissa. You stood right here and you took it.”
“I had to—”
“I know you had to. That’s exactly what I’m saying.
” June wrapped her arms around herself. “I told you from the beginning I couldn’t be someone’s secret.
I told you what I needed. And you promised—with your hands and your mouth and everything—you promised I wasn’t.
And maybe you meant it. Maybe you still mean it.
But right now you’re going to stand up in front of everyone and tell them I’m nothing, and the worst part is I don’t even know if you’re wrong. ”
Melissa stood very still, her face pale. “That’s not… I never said you were nothing.”
“You didn’t have to say it.”
The silence between them was different now—not heavy with unsaid things but with things that had been said and couldn’t be taken back. June felt the shape of them, her own words sitting in her chest like swallowed glass.
“I should check on Lila,” she said.
“June—”
“I need some time. To think.” She looked at Melissa—really looked, for a moment, at the exhaustion and the fear and the genuine anguish in her face—and felt the complicated truth of loving someone who was failing you. “We can talk more later. I just can’t right now.”
She walked out into the backyard where Lila was still watering the sunflowers, humming something to herself, unbothered and golden in the afternoon light. June stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her, and thought about her mother’s voice: another situation where you’re the vulnerable one.
Maybe. Maybe that was true.
But she also thought about Melissa’s hand on the small of her back this morning, certain and warm. About I’m lying here thinking about you specifically. About the way Melissa had looked at her across their sleeping daughter in the candlelight, wanting and restrained and entirely present.
People could fail you and still love you. June knew that. She’d always known that.
It didn’t make the failing hurt less.
“Miss Hollis?” Lila called. “Can you help me with the hose? It’s being weird.”
“Coming, sweetheart,” June said, and made herself walk out into the sunlight.