3. June
JUNE
She Used to Be Mine - Waitress
Age spots fleck my father’s hands as they rest on the steering wheel, darker in the flickering street lamps. I don’t remember his hands like that the last time I saw him, and a seed of worry plants itself in my chest.
We’re idling on the curb in front of Shaker’s, the speakers humming with Maria Callas’s lilting voice singing about how she lived for art, she lived for love. I’m not the biggest opera fan, but my dad loves Tosca. My worry dissipates because some things never change.
“We’re happy you’re home this summer, Junie,” he says.
I swallow my irritation, once again, at his pet name. “Thanks, Dad.”
Junie Danielowicz is a soccer mom and president of her kids’ PTA.
Juniper Daniels has at least one original cast recording under her belt.
Juniper is my given name, but my dad, Tomas, still refuses to use it.
He never liked that I dropped the -owicz from my last name on my Actor’s Equity card, so he calls me Junie every opportunity he gets.
“Don’t be a stranger, either. You’ll be busy, I know, I know. But it’s nice to have you in one place for so long.” All this staying in one place for so long is stressing me out, but I’ve missed my family, too.
“I promise.” I exit the car and step onto the crumbling sidewalk, but turn around as the car’s automatic window slides down.
“I love you! Make good choices!” he calls.
I manage a wave and shoot him a death glare reminiscent of my high school days when his booming voice used to single me out.
Choir directors, man. They sure know how to project.
Satisfied in his embarrassment, he waves back and drives away.
I breathe in the rapidly cooling air of a Sadlersburg summer night.
Music blares behind the dented blue metal door to Shaker’s—it vibrates beneath my fingers as I push it open, apprehension and excitement warring in my stomach.
Fried food, stale beer, and the faint, bitter taste of cigarette smoke stuff itself up my nose.
I blow out a breath, scanning the bar for Mal, or any other friendly face.
But after twelve years, who’ll remember me?
The bar itself is a giant oval in the middle of the space, with TVs suspended on all four sides. Two pool tables are nestled in a corner, then a collection of high-top tables and an open space for what I assume is dancing, though that’s a loose interpretation of what people are doing.
Apprehension wins out as I freeze at the entrance.
All the faces blend together until I’m staring at a sea of strangers.
My hometown hasn’t been home for a long time.
The Conservatory welcomed me when I’d been a camper, but there’s so much more to prove now, and a whole new crop of people to prove it to.
“Juniper!” Shelley Williams strides over, both arms open, and my shoulders relax. Shelley is the Conservatory founder and president, and while she acts sweet, all the hard decisions are hers to make. Her smile is bright, but her brown eyes hold a streak of ruthlessness that I both fear and envy.
“Shelley! I’m so glad to be here. Thank you for the opportunity.” I gratefully walk into her hug, inner turmoil receding. At least some things stayed the same, like the floral and amber scent of Shelley’s rich lady perfume. And her sensible yet subtly luxurious pantsuit.
Shelley’s older than I remember, too, but I’m not as surprised. When you’re a teenager, every adult over thirty looks ancient. She’s still rocking the bangs and bob combo. Her hair’s the same rich cinnamon brown, but maybe she dyes it because Shelley’s got to be in her mid-fifties now.
“Twelve years!” she crows—too loudly, in my opinion. “It’s perfect that we’re doing Les Mis again. That was your last show with us, wasn’t it? Feels like fate.”
More like desperation, but sure, let’s go with that. “It does.”
“I can’t wait for you to perform again. Such a talent!”
My heart twists in a bittersweet way. I haven’t gotten a compliment like that in a long time—that’s the sweet—but it’s because I came back to my small town. Ah, bitterness. “Oh, well, I’ll be so busy with the campers, and they should be the ones in the spotlight?—”
“Nonsense. Show ’em how it’s done, girl. Let’s get you a drink, and—ah, perfect.” Shelley guides me over to the bar, then drags a man in front of me. “This is Ethan Caris. He conducts Chamber Orchestra. And he’s one hell of a drummer. Ethan, this is Juniper Daniels, our new voice instructor.”
“Really?” The triumphant note in his question gives me pause, but he leans on the bar, making his black T-shirt pull tight across his bicep.
That in and of itself is sufficiently distracting, but he’s also got a full sleeve of tattoos starting at the back of his hand and traveling up to disappear beneath his shirt.
He smiles, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Really.” I smile back, but it’s half-hearted.
Shelley slides a glass of white wine to me and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I’ve got to circulate, but I’m sure Ethan will introduce you to everyone.”
And with that, she walks off. I’m dazed from the Shelley whirlwind, but my heart swells, too. It’s a small thing, the way she sweeps in and out of conversations, but my memories of Shelley match the present, and that’s enough.
Ethan inches closer once she’s gone. “I’m happy to introduce you to everybody. But I’m not gonna lie, I’d be happier keeping you all to myself.”
He’s direct, I’ll give him that. Unfortunately, the tattooed playboy drummer isn’t doing it for me.
I’d need a few more daddy issues first. So I’ll ask him to introduce me to Natalia Rivera, who’s standing on the opposite side of the bar.
Yes, I’ve stalked her enough on sosh meeds that I can pick her out of a crowd.
No, it’s not weird. Okay, it’s weird. But not like, holding her captive at the bottom of a dry well in my basement weird. Right? “Listen?—”
My mouth snaps shut as another man approaches.
He’s familiar, but in Sadlersburg, almost everyone is. And I’d never forget someone so insanely attractive—wavy, dark hair, hazel eyes burning into me, and broad shoulders I could climb like my own personal Mount Everest.
He stares at me intently before turning to Ethan. “Hey.”
“ Hey .” Ethan drags that one syllable out, fighting some unspoken battle with his friend. He sighs and says, “Nick, this is Juniper. Juniper, this is Nick.”
“Nick? Wait.” My high school memories catch up to me, but there’s no way. “Nick Harper ?”
He smiles and looks at his feet. “That’s me.”
“I—yeah. Hi.” Real smooth, June. But damn, he was a quiet, lanky teen, and now? He’s taller and broader, muscles lean yet defined. Coupled with the five o’clock shadow and the way his hazel eyes have darkened, Nick Harper is officially a brooding hottie.
“Are you teaching at Conservatory this summer?” His gaze pins me in place—intense, breathless.
“She’s the new voice teacher,” Ethan interrupts. “Are you also teaching Mal’s class?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes,” I answer, smiling politely.
Ethan focuses his attention on Nick, asking, “How do you know each other?”
“Junie and I went to River Valley together.”
I should’ve expected the nickname, that’s what everyone called me in high school.
But I’ve heard it so many times today from my dad and sister, and something about a very grown up—and very sexy—Nick Harper using it makes irritation bubble under the surface of my skin. “I go by Juniper now. Or June,” I snap.
“Oh. Sorry.” Nick shifts on his feet.
Shit .
I grab my drink, but my throat squeezes tight with guilt as I take a sip. “I’m?—”
“There she is!” Mal heads my way.
My gaze is still locked on Nick’s, eyes pleading in a silent apology. I totally unleashed my frustration on the last person who deserves it.
But Mal reaches for a hug, and Nick’s chatting with Mal’s husband, Phillip, and the moment slips away. Apologizing now would make it weird.
Mal’s steady gaze soothes the niggling guilt; he’s always been an anchor for me. That’s why he’s an amazing vocal coach—he helps you find the heart of the song and sing it honestly.
A cramp twists my stomach. The Conservatory kids deserve someone like him, not me. Despite Mal’s assurances when he suggested I apply for the job, I’ve never taught before. I can sing, and I remember how awful those hormonal years can be, but that doesn’t mean I’m good enough to teach.
I keep up my end of the conversation, valiantly pretending I’m not shriveling with existential dread, and sneaking glances at Nick while he’s not looking. I can’t even be polite to someone I went to high school with, now I’m going to teach high schoolers?
“I’ll be right back.” I excuse myself, needing a quick bathroom pep talk to pull me out of this spiral. I can’t meet Natalia Rivera like this. There’s a short hallway at the back of the bar and I slip into the women’s room there.
The cracked bathroom mirror isn’t exactly boosting my confidence, though. “Woof. This overhead lighting does me no favors.”
With a sigh, I retwist my hair into its claw clip and swipe at the mascara smudges under my eyes. “You’re Junipers Daniels.” I square my shoulders. “And that bitch doesn’t quit.”
Professional acting is basically professional rejection.
Juniper Daniels takes every dismissal and criticism in stride because she’s a badass bitch—unlike Junie Danielowicz, who still feels like a tender-hearted teen some days.
Is it a little United States of Tara ? Maybe.
But Toni Collette is a goddess and I’ll take the weird comparison.
With one more glance in the mirror, I lift my chin and exit the bathroom, heading for Mal to ask him to introduce me to Natalia. He’s deep in conversation with Nick at the bar, though. Ugh, this won’t be pretty.