33. June
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
JUNE
“I have to go,” I say against his lips.
He kisses me again instead of answering. I think I’m about to melt.
I slept here last night, curled against him on that narrow twin bed with my face pressed into his neck, and I slept so deeply I didn’t even dream.
I never sleep without dreaming. We spent the morning tangled together too, his fingers tracing patterns on my arm while I watched the light change on his ceiling from cool grey to gold. I could’ve stayed the entire day.
“Dorien.” I push his chest lightly. “I really need to get ready for class.”
He catches my wrist and pulls me back, kissing the corner of my mouth, my jaw, then the spot below my ear that makes my knees unreliable.
A group of students passes behind us and someone lets out a long whistle. Someone else goes, “Get it, Dorien!”
“Oh my god,” I breathe and tuck my face into Dorien’s chest, which is shaking because he’s laughing.
“I hate you,” I mumble into his shirt.
“You don’t.” He’s still laughing.
I push him back with both palms flat on his stomach. “I really need to get ready for class. For real this time.”
He lets me step back but keeps one hand on my hip. The laughter fades and he studies me with those coppery hazel eyes that destroy my ability to make responsible decisions.
“I need to focus on some assignments,” he says. “Finals, end-of-semester projects. I might not see you again until Thanksgiving next week. Just wanted to get as much of you as I could to make it through the days apart.”
Damn, why does he have to say such beautiful things?
He grins as I pull him down for another long kiss.
A week without him sounds impossibly long, and I’ve only been with him for, what, a little over a week?
This is mortifying. This is the kind of clinginess I’d roast someone else for.
But the thought of going days without touching him makes my body hurt.
“It sucks, but I need to focus on schoolwork too,” I say. “I’m excited for the holiday weekend. You could stay at my house.”
His eyebrows lift. “Your mom won’t mind?”
“Please.” I grin. “She’ll be so excited she won’t know what to do with herself.”
He kisses me so deeply it leaves an imprint on my entire nervous system. “See you then.”
I take a painful step back. “Bye.”
“Wait.”
I turn around.
He cups my face with both hands. “I love you,” he says.
“I love you too.” My voice comes out a little cracked, like the words are too big for my throat.
I’ll never get tired of hearing him say it. I’ll never get tired of saying it back.
He drops his hands, and I force myself to turn and walk down the hallway before I lose another hour in his arms.
The campus is golden this morning. November in New York usually means everything turns dull and colorless, but today the sun is out and the last remaining leaves on the oaks along the main path are twirling to the ground. I walk through them feeling like my feet aren’t fully touching the ground.
I’m replaying everything. The way he confessed his feelings. The way his hands felt on my face. The way my whole name, my whole self, felt different.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket and I smile, reaching for it. It’s probably him already. We do this. I leave and within minutes one of us cracks and sends the first message.
I stop in the middle of the walkway, thumb hovering over the screen.
It’s not Dorien.
New unknown number.
My smile drops and every muscle in my body tightens for battle. How many phones does Aubrey have? This has gone past petty and childish and is now genuinely unhinged. If Aubrey has a problem with me, she should say it to my face.
I release an irritated sigh and open the messages. They’re images. The first one loads and I literally cry out from the shock.
It’s a photo of my diary cover. I swipe to the next image. A full page of my handwriting. Chunks of text are circled in red.
My mouth goes dry and I start typing with fingers that are clumsy in my rage. You stole it?? What the hell is wrong with you—
But a new message appears before I can hit send.
Unknown Number: Aeron’s gonna hate you bitch
Aeron?
I start actually reading the circled text as my heart is in borderline panic attack mode. Every circled section has something about Aeron, my private, unfiltered entries about my brother. They’re things I wrote in the safety of my own diary because I was trying to process complicated feelings.
One image shows the entry about Mom’s confession, and I let out another alarmed cry. That night she had wine and told me Aeron was unplanned.
“I never wanted to be a boy mom. I only wanted one child. Just a girl.”
If Aeron ever sees these images, he’s going to be devastated.
But not even because of those words; he’s going to feel hurt because he’s not seeing the rest of what’s in my diary.
The image cuts off right before the next paragraph where I wrote about how Mom started crying after confessing that.
She sobbed about how she hated herself for ever thinking that.
She was so depressed after giving birth and deep in postpartum that it took her awhile to come out of it, but one day she looked at her baby and just realized how much she truly loved him and was thankful for having a son.
She’s always felt like a horrible mother because she struggles to connect with him the way she connects with me.
She said he was the most adorable, sweet baby, and her biggest regret is not building a better bond.
She loves him so much.
None of that is in the photo. Whoever took these knew exactly where to crop. Every image captures the parts that sound so ugly and mean because they’re taken out of context.
Another image: “Thinking about when Mom said Aeron wasn’t planned. I love my brother but I was thinking, what if he was never born? My life would be so different.”
And that’s where the photo stops. The very next line in my diary reads: “The house would feel so empty. Even if I grew up as an only child, I’d have a longing to have a sibling, especially a brother. I don’t care if it was an ‘accident.’ I’m really happy Aeron’s my brother.”
Of course, that’s not in the picture. My words have been twisted to sound horrible.
Every single image is a fragment designed to make me look like I resent Aeron. Like I wish he didn’t exist or like Mom doesn’t want him.
I erase my half-typed message and my thumbs fly over the screen: You fucking bitch! You’re a psycho! Why are you doing this??? Don’t you fucking dare send these to my brother!
The response comes immediately.
Unknown Number: lol that’s all you can come up with? Already sent. At least he knows the truth about you
My entire body goes cold. Fingers, arms, the back of my neck, all the blood draining down and away from me.
Please, God, no.
June: You didn’t.
Unknown Number: lol
I break into a sprint.
My sneakers slap the cobblestone as I run through campus, dodging a student carrying a portfolio case and nearly slamming into someone coming out of the library. I call Carter while I’m running.
He picks up on the second ring. “Hey, cuz—”
“Have you seen Aeron?” I’m breathing so hard the words come out forced. “Is he home? Have you seen him?”
“Yeah.” Carter sounds bewildered. “He’s in the kitchen with your mom.”
I hang up.
Oh no. Are they having it out? Did he confront her? Is my mother sitting at the kitchen island in tears trying to explain herself while Aeron throws those twisted diary entries at her?
I run as fast as my legs can go. My lungs and thighs are screaming. The maples along the street blur past.
If he read them without context, if he thinks Mom never wanted him, if he thinks I wish he was never born, it will break him. But none of it is true the way those images present it; I have to tell him that.
I reach the house and burst through the front door.
Carter is on the couch in gym shorts and a faded tee, his legs stretched across the cushions, hair still messy from sleep. He’s holding a glass of orange juice that he shakes so violently at my entrance it sloshes across his shirt and lap.
“Jesus!” He sits upright, juice dripping from his hand onto the couch. “What’s the—”
I don’t stop. I’m already through the living room and rounding the corner into the kitchen.
I freeze.
The kitchen is bathed in soft yellow light from the overhead fixture Mom keeps on its warmest setting.
The room smells like butter and maple syrup.
Aeron is sitting at the kitchen island with a plate of eggs and waffles, a fork halfway to his mouth.
Mom is across the island from him, leaning on her elbows with her coffee mug cradled in both hands, curly hair pulled up in a messy clip.
She’s wearing her lavender cardigan, the one that’s pilled at the elbows from years of wear.
They were laughing about something a second ago.
The tail end of it is still on both their faces.
When I burst in, Mom gasps and straightens. Her coffee sloshes. “What’s wrong, honey?”
I am speechless.
“Uh…” I blink at Aeron.
He’s not in a hoodie. He’s in a plain grey T-shirt and his face is fully visible. The hollowness in his cheeks is still there, but his expression is different. His eyes have color in them again and he looks rested. He looks like my brother from three months ago.
Actually, he looks like a much happier version.
He raises an eyebrow and then smirks. “What’s up? You’re acting like the house is on fire.”
I let out a breath that was trapped. My legs are trembling from the sprint and from relief.
I walk closer, trying to let my face relax. “Uh… did you get any strange texts this morning?”
He frowns. “No.”
Mom sets her mug down and comes around the island. “Honey, what is this about?” She pulls out the stool next to Aeron and guides me into it, then goes to the cabinet for a glass. She always brings me water when I’m flustered, as if hydration cures hysteria.
“So… nothing?” I ask Aeron. “No weird texts or calls?”