6. June
JUNE
I don’t think I breathe for a full ten seconds. Maybe more.
Trent is a statue in the doorway, gripping the frame so hard the wood might splinter, but I’m the one who goes hollow. All the whys and what-ifs and aftershocks of the worst year of my life collapse at once, compressing the world into a single, impossible truth.
Ashton.
On my porch.
Looking the way only he could—like he’d stepped straight off a magazine cover titled How to Ruin a Woman in Three Easy Steps. Hair slicked back, Burberry jacket—of course—open at the collar, face carved with all the familiar, devastating lines. Not a hair out of place. Not a flicker of doubt.
He’s here. He is really, really here.
I don’t know whether he’s come for me or to confront me.
And I still can’t figure out why I care, why I can’t let go.
Maybe this was the reason. Maybe I was hoping he’d show up, declare his undying love, prove his innocence, and finally prioritize us.
Or maybe I was just as na?ve as I was the day we eloped.
My lungs seize. My body does that thing where it tries to shrink and expand all at once, as if by physically shattering I could maybe bleed out the panic. My hands find the doorframe, bone-white and shaking, like the only way to stay upright is to weld myself to the house.
I want to run. I want to vanish. I want to throw myself at him and demand answers—shove him, hit him, kiss him, anything to make this feel less like a hallucination and more like the reality he promised me.
But my feet stay where they are. Glue on wood.
Then…chaos.
Meredith is instantly at my right, moving so fast that the air shifts around her. She’s a wall, razor-sharp at the edges, eyes narrowed in that lawyer-dagger way as she steps between Ashton and…well, me, I guess. The world bends around her presence.
She doesn’t waste a beat. “You need to leave.” Her voice slices the night and the porch, and probably some dimension of Ashton’s pride. She doesn’t sound angry; she sounds dangerous. Like she’s already considered a dozen ways to have him forcibly removed if he doesn’t comply.
Ashton’s gaze slides from Trent to Meredith. He doesn’t even flinch.
Behind me, Sophie finds my other side, curling a hand around my upper arm. She’s subtle about it, like she’s steadying a drowning sailor without drawing the attention of sharks. But I feel the tremor in her fingers—genuine, solid, human. Not a platitude. A lifeline.
Trent shoots a glare at Ashton that could bend sheet metal, seemingly having shifted his anger from Sophie to the more immediate threat.
Ashton’s focus is absolute. He fixates on me, and for a second, I swear the world rocks. Every part of me vibrates. I can’t look away. I don’t want to. I also don’t want him to leave, while kind of wishing he’d never come.
Meredith plants herself smack in the center of the storm. “You should’ve called ahead if you intended to cause a scene. Now isn’t the time, and frankly, it’s not likely it ever will be.”
But I don’t know if that’s true. I’m typically so decisive, so why does this man make me so conflicted? And why am I standing here, letting my sister fight my battle?
Sophie holds me tighter. My legs keep threatening to buckle, but her grip keeps me from face-planting the doormat.
Ashton shows all the reactions of a stone Buddha. His hands are folded, calm, not even a hint of tension in his posture. “I’m not here for a scene.” His voice remains even. “I’d just like to speak with June.”
Something in my brain unspools, my inner monologue stuttering—You idiot, you absolute fool, this is what you’ve been dreading and craving, and now you’re choking on it. I try to form words. My mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Truly, monumentally embarrassing.
Meredith doesn’t spare me a glance. “She doesn’t owe you anything. Not after—” She stops herself, slicing off the words before they can turn to blood. “Not after the past year, and not tonight, of all nights.”
Behind that, there’s this secondary current. Don’t come any closer. This family is a fortress.
Inside the house, the silence stretches. Chairs askew, dinner ruined on the table. The aftermath of a disaster is like a fingerprint on every surface. And I’m not sure which disaster is worse, mine or Sophie’s.
Ashton finally shifts. The barest tilt of his head, almost puzzled. But his attention never leaves me—not for a heartbeat. “Is this defensive line necessary?” His tone stays calm, but there’s an edge to it now. Maybe even a little wounded. As if he expected better.
Nobody answers him. The question hangs there, sticky as honey and twice as thick.
He tries again—softer, but with enough edge in the undertone to make me actually flinch. “I thought you were braver, June.”
The words rip straight through my defenses.
If I’d had the energy, I might’ve gasped.
Instead, my body betrays me. My shoulders jump, mouth falling open, and I let out a visceral wince as if he’d actually struck me.
A year of silence, two lifetimes’ worth of questions, and he aims right for the jugular.
At least he still knows exactly where it is.
I cling to Sophie’s arm, holding on for dear life, but still, I say nothing.
Meredith doesn’t move. If anything, her form grows even more imposing. “That’s enough.” It’s as cold as the Atlantic and as final as death. “You’ve done more damage than you could possibly comprehend. You don’t get to waltz back in and play the aggrieved party.”
Ashton still doesn’t blink. If anything, he softens just a bit—maybe in deference to the drama of the moment. “I’m not here to play anything. But I see I’ve made a tactical miscalculation.” He says it to Meredith, but the shot is for me.
My mouth is bone-dry. I can’t breathe around the words he left behind.
Trent, who’s been standing just behind and to the side, hisses, “Are you finished?” It’s a low, guttural challenge.
The kid is vibrating with outrage—admittedly, I don’t know if it’s leftover from Sophie’s announcement or Ashton’s interruption—but for a second, I’m proud enough to weep.
My little brother, standing between me and the man who nearly destroyed me.
The porch light throws everything into hard contrast, bleaching Ashton’s hair and painting deep shadows in the lines around his mouth.
He glances at Trent, gives a minimal nod—man to man, or maybe criminal to victim, depending on whose version you believe.
Then, measured, he says, “I’ll leave you to your evening. ”
No apology. No admission. Just that same unshakable calm, the conviction of someone who knows the story isn’t over, no matter how hard the heroine tries to slam the book shut.
In a perfect world, I’d have found my voice right there.
I’d have said something clever, something final, or at least something.
Instead, I say nothing. My throat is welded shut.
I watch the only guy I’ve ever loved step down my porch with the deliberate grace of a man who’s never been challenged in his life—until now.
Sophie keeps her grip on me.
All I can hear, even with the hush that follows, is I thought you were braver, June. It ricochets through my skull.
If there’s a way to forget that, I don’t know it yet.
Noah appears, silent as a shadow, standing in the kitchen archway. He doesn’t say anything at first, just waits for the world to right itself. Then, quietly, he mutters, “I’ll get the boys home.”
Danny is already heading for the exit, mumbling something about homework, as if the last ten minutes haven’t unwound our entire reality.
Trent plants himself right beside me. “I’m not leaving.” The way he folds his arms—chin tipped up, eyes still trained on the empty spot where Ashton vanished—makes it clear this is the hill he’ll die on tonight.
Noah doesn’t argue. He just nods, rests a brief hand on Trent’s shoulder, and then shepherds Danny out the door. Danny doesn’t look back. Why would he? This isn’t his battlefield.
The door closes, sealing off the rest of the world.
And then it’s just us. The Holloway siblings…and Eddie.
Sophie pulls me tighter, and Meredith folds herself against the wall, directly across from us, her eyes finding mine in the wash of the overhead light.
We don’t say anything at first. The air is electric, and the silence is so dense it hurts.
I stare at the closed door, where Ashton had stood not three minutes ago. Everything about this feels unreal, like my brain is still stuck in a freeze frame that refuses to advance.
Trent’s at my elbow now—he’s not touching me, but I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the anger rolling through him in messy, dissonant waves.
I try to breathe. I really, really do.
My first inhale is a shudder. My second is just air, harsh and cold and unhelpful.
Meredith speaks first, her voice low. “You don’t have to see him. You don’t have to talk to him. Not unless you want to, June.” Her words are hard-edged, but a tremble of worry lies beneath. She keeps one eye on the door, as if expecting a second assault.
Sophie tries to help. “He’s gone now. You’re safe. He won’t set foot on your porch again.”
For a second, the idea that I need protection makes me want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. No one asked me if I wanted to see him or talk to him. The decision was made for me, and I just stood here, letting it happen.
I look down at my hands. They’re still shaking, like my blood can’t decide if it wants to freeze solid or boil out of my veins.
Relief and shame are both chewing holes in my ribcage.
I should’ve said something. I should’ve been braver.
But all I did was stand there and let other people fight my battles and make my decisions.
Trent shifts, just enough that I notice. “If he comes near you again, I’ll—” He doesn’t finish, which is good, because I have no idea what comes after that. Still, the sentiment lands.
Another beat of silence.
Then, quietly, Meredith says, “You did fine. He tried to catch you off guard. That’s his move. It’s about time he realizes that doesn’t work on you anymore.”
Sophie picks up the thread. “You don’t have to be strong every minute. Not for us.”
For a while, we just stand there. No words. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the mess of our failed dinner party glowing behind us.
I twist, glancing at the now-empty table.
It’s a disaster. Plates and cutlery scattered everywhere, a spill of red wine pooling under a glass, somebody’s phone left in the middle of the carnage. Chairs are pushed at odd angles like a crime scene diagram.
Somehow, there’s comfort in the mess. At least it makes sense.
We huddle together, three sisters holding tight to each other—physically, emotionally—like we’re all bracing for whatever comes next.
Meredith’s voice is steadier now. “If you decide to see him, I’ll be at your side. If not, I’ll stand in the driveway.”
Sophie’s hand smooths up and down my arm, a rhythm as old as childhood. “He can’t hurt you. Not anymore.”
I try to believe her. I really do.
My gaze drifts back to the closed door. He’s really gone.
But not gone. Not from me. The challenge he left behind—that line about bravery—curdles in my stomach, stubborn and mean. Maybe bravery is overrated. Maybe survival is its own form of courage.
“I’m not sure what I want.” The words hang there, honest and embarrassing, but real.
Meredith doesn’t argue. She just nods like she understands.
Trent leans against the kitchen archway, face grim. But the way he looks at me—like he’s checking for signs of life, for willingness to fight—makes something in my chest finally click back into place.
Maybe I will be brave. Just not tonight.
Even in this ugly aftermath, even with the mess still swirling behind us, we are solid.
Together.