3. June
JUNE
“I deserved to know,” I say quietly. “You had eleven years to tell me.”
Sophie stares back at me in a way I barely recognize. Posture stiff, jaw tight. Defensive in a way I’ve only ever seen parents capable of achieving.
“I had eleven years of cleaning up scraped knees, navigating therapy appointments, surviving CPS check-ins, worrying every time he had a panic attack or asked me where his father was.” Sophie’s voice thickens.
“I didn’t have room to manage your grief—or worse, your denial—about a man who lied to us all for years. I just didn’t.”
The words I know I need to say haunt my silence.
I watch as her jaw rolls at my inaction.
“I didn’t come back here today to beg for forgiveness.
All I have ever done is try to do right by him and I will not apologize for that,” she gestures to the guest bedroom where Trent is likely listening at the door.
“I want this to work out, I want you to know him because he is brilliant, June. But I don’t trust you not to hurt him. Not yet.”
Meredith moves, stepping between us slightly as if to buffer us from the inevitable fallout.
I stare at my youngest sister, my own breath caught somewhere between fury and heartbreak.
The words are there. The ones that seek forgiveness and healing.
Instead, the bitterness within me rallies to the surface.
“You don’t trust me,” I repeat. “Well, I’m glad we’re finally on the same page about something. Enjoy my house, Sophie.”
I leave without fanfare, straight out the door.
Channeling anger through the ancient and most revered technique of stomping is perhaps unsurprisingly difficult to do on a floating vessel.
I endeavor to do so anyway.
“June? Is that you?”
I ignore the yacht’s owner, from where he’s probably lounging on the top deck, to beeline for the bar inside. Frustration lacing every yank and pull and pour and gulp.
And yes, it’s probably not the healthiest coping mechanism. A normal person might have responded more maturely than this. But what normal person knows how to react to seeing the ghost of their dead father step off an airplane?
Perhaps worse: what normal person knows how to react to the news that the ghost of your dead father is actually his bastard son who’s been living in secret with your little sister since she was a literal teenager?
The burn of the tequila barely even registers.
“June?”
I pour myself another, it can barely be considered a shot. More of an approximation of a glug and a couple more drops to keep up the charade of measurement.
It goes down harder this time. The choke I make almost masks Ashton’s arrival.
“Hey,” I look up to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, face neutral. “You gonna tell me what’s up, or do you need a hand drinking through my liquor cabinet?”
And I love him for that, I really do.
I snatch up another glass and pour us both another not-shot of clear liquor. He collects it from me with ease, wordlessly downing the contents alongside me, though his cautious eyes never leave my face.
It’s only when both glasses slam back on the bar that I bother speaking again.
“Sophie has a kid.”
An eyebrow shoots up. Surprise, not judgement. “Sophie had a baby?”
“No.”
His nod does a terrible job of masking his confusion. “Sophie… stole a baby?”
“No!”
“It’s just– You’re not giving me anything to go off here.”
I press a finger, hard, to the center of my forehead in an attempt to stave off the headache. “My dad had a baby with someone else. Sophie went to LA and found him. He just showed up at the airport.”
Ashton takes a good ten seconds to process this. “Just now?”
“Yeah.”
He pours us another measure.
“He flew here on his own? How old is this kid?” he says as he hands me my glass.
“Sixteen. His name’s Trent.”
“Okay,” Ashton says slowly. “So, no congratulations?”
“She didn’t tell me she had a kid, Ashton,” my voice comes out far whinier than it would have without the alcohol.
“She left Nantucket over a decade ago. I’ve sent her birthday cards, Christmas cards.
I flew out to LA to see her and…and apologize!
I even met her in Vegas once! Never, nada, not one word about a kid. ”
“Wait, what were you apologizing for?”
“We had this big fight before she left,” I brush off with an absent wave of my hand. “Turns out she knew about the affair even then and just decided, ‘hey, you know what’s a super smart idea? Not telling anyone about this and getting on a plane to deal with this myself!’ like in what world…”
Ashton gently pries the glass out of my hand. Belatedly, I realize I’ve splashed alcohol everywhere with my gesturing. “That does seem misguided.”
“Right?!” I sit down heavily on the bar stool, head in my hands. The headache is really starting to make itself known. For a minute, I just breathe through it. Then my breathing becomes mumbles.
“What was that?” Ashton is closer now, I realize. Sat on the stool next to me.
“I said,” I groan as I twist my head to face him.
“Am I the only one without some big, devastating secret? Like… like Meredith has her big marriage and divorce, and Sophie has this secret kid, and Mom has her diagnosis, and Dad was apparently just sowing his wild oats across California. I’m just so, so, so sick of being blindsided left and right all the time. ”
Ashton reaches for me then, lifting me bodily onto his lap.
It’s probably a pretty awkward position for him, but it’s comfortable for me.
There’s something just so perfect about being able to curl up into his chest, burying my hand in his shirt.
Inhaling the ever-present smell of wax jacket and sunscreen and something woodier that I can’t quite name.
“You don’t need a big secret, June.”
This kiss to the forehead, just below the hairline, makes me feel nothing short of treasured.
I hum happily, the alcohol doing its job perfectly. “It would be funny, though.”
“What would?”
“If we just, like, elope and not tell anyone.”
The arms around me stiffen. “Yeah, that sounds hilarious.”
I pull away, playfully batting against his chest. “I’m serious! We could just show up one day and be like ‘surprise’!” I make a little gesture by wiggling my fingers to really hammer the point home.
“You know what I think?”
“What do you think?”
“That you’re too drunk to be saying things like that.”
The pout I put on is only half for show. “You saying you don’t wanna marry me anymore?”
“June, I would take you to Town Hall and marry you right now, that’s not the problem,” he says, rolling his eyes. “The problem is that you’ll regret your family not being there the second you sober up.”
“Wait, really?”
Ashton rolls his eyes. “June, all you’ve ever talked about since the moment we met is your sisters, of course you’ll–”
“No,” I interrupt uncaringly. “The other thing.”
He frowns slightly. “About taking you to Town Hall?”
“Is that true?”
“Of course it is,” Ashton seems to sense the idea formulating in my mind, because he suddenly looks incredibly guarded. “June, I really don’t think–”
“Then do it.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Tempt me.”
“But that’s what I’m trying to do,” I bat my eyelashes.
His hand reaches out to cup my cheek. “I just don’t want you to regret this later.”
I turn my head to press a kiss to the palm of his hand. Reveling in the way he watches me do it, the sheer devotion in his eyes.
“I’m not sure I could ever regret you, Ashton Parker.”
August 2025
The courtroom hums with a low murmur as we await the arrival of the judge. I find my eyes straying toward the door they’ll enter from more than once, fiddling with the too-long sleeves of my jumpsuit (a fresh one, despite not sleeping).
I’m not even sure what time it’s supposed to be.
Back in the visitation room, Mark had talked for what felt like hours.
And talked. And talked. And repeated himself, then talked again.
If there’s one thing I now know about the man, it’s that he loves the sound of his own voice.
“Remember, don’t speak unless spoken to directly.”
And I’m really starting to hate it.
I try to keep my expression neutral as I whisper back. “I know. You told me fifty times already.”
Next to me on the defense table, Mark scans through his notes one more time. “Then heed it.”
“I’m not paying you by the word, you know.”
He snorts. “You’re not paying me at all.”
“You don’t strike me as the type to offer pro bono,” I say, taking his perfectly tailored suit. Completely different from the one I met him in (when did he have time to change?).
“Friends and family rates.”
“We’re not family,” I counter.
Finally, Mark drops his notes and turns to me. Infuriating little smile tugging on his lips. “Aren’t we?”
Before I can reply, the Clerk suddenly rises from his seat. “All rise. The United States District Court for the Southern District of New York is now in session, the Honorable Judge Carter presiding.”
As instructed (multiple times), I find myself rising to my feet next to my attorney, who squeezes my arm once in a manner that I’m sure is supposed to be very reassuring.
Our little argument had distracted me from the impending doom of this very moment, but there’s no escaping it now. Not as I watch Judge Carter take her seat and instruct us all to sit back down. My legs are too weak to do anything but collapse as I comply.
Vaguely, I wonder if Mark picked a fight with me on purpose for this very reason.
“We convene today for the arraignment of Ms. June Parker, charged with conspiracy to distribute and sell counterfeit merchandise and related offenses. Ms. Parker, you’ve been advised of the charges and your constitutional rights. How do you plead?”
Another small squeeze and I’m on my feet again.
“Not guilty, Your Honor,” it comes out more confidently than it has any right to.
Then I’m sitting down again. My speaking part is now effectively over. It would be a relief if my livelihood didn’t now rest on the shoulders of a man who would probably bore the room to death before saying anything of substance.