Jake says he wants to see the sun set over the water, so we walk over to the nearest beach and sit on the sand. It’s there that the tears gather behind my eyes and spill over. It isn’t even that I’m sad. I mean, I am sad, but this feels like a release, like someone has lifted this leaden weight off of my chest and I can finally breathe again.
“Look,” Laney says. She stands up and jogs closer to the shore, then runs a few steps and turns three perfect cartwheels, all in a row. When she lands, she raises her arms over her head showily and cries, “Ta-da!”
I smile and wipe the tears away with my fist. Jake shrugs off his jacket, drapes it over my shaking shoulders.
“Thanks,” I say, snuggling into it. It’s still warm with his body heat, and it smells like him, too.
“So what do you want to do now?” he asks quietly.
I hug my legs up to my chest, rest my chin on my knees and look out toward the water, where Laney is doing a handstand. “Go back home, I guess. Hope my mother won’t kill me on the spot. What about you?”
“I’ve got the Oleo waiting for me,” he says. “That’s pretty much the extent of my future plans. I like to keep my options open.”
“What about college?”
“What about it?”
“Aren’t you planning on going?”
He laughs like I’ve just suggested he join the Ringling Brothers. “Me? College? Uh, I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” I ask. “You’re a smart guy, Jake. I mean, yeah, sure, maybe you don’t have to shoot for Ivy League, but you could always get into the community college—”
“Yeah, maybe,” he says curtly, and I can tell by his tone that this is one subject I shouldn’t push.
As the last rays of dusk disappear behind the horizon, I ease myself between Jake’s legs, tangle my hands in his hair and meet his mouth with mine. We kiss, slow and languid. It’s not like before; there’s no desperation here. After a while I settle my head against his chest and listen to the waves, to his heart beating.
He feels so alive. And I feel alive, too, like—really, really alive. I don’t know why but realizing that makes the tears well up all over again.
We walk back to Joplin in the dark. Jake holds on to my right hand, and Laney grasps my left, and on the ride back to Carmen’s, there is no music, just the wind rushing in through the open windows. The silence seems louder, somehow.
That night, I sleep for what feels like forever. And it’s a deeper, more restful sleep than I’ve had since—well, it’s been a while. When I wake up, I feel sated, my limbs heavy and warm. I don’t know what time it is, but sunlight is streaming in through the window, bright and yellow. Laney isn’t on her side of the bed, so I assume it has to be way late, since no one sleeps more than she does. I stretch my body out like a cat and let myself lie there for a while, enjoying the feeling.
Eventually I drag myself out to the kitchen. I expect to see Jake and Laney eating breakfast, but instead I’m met with Jake and Carmen. They’re sitting at the kitchen table, no food in sight, speaking in hushed tones, and as soon as they see me in the doorway, they both fall silent.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I cover a long yawn. “Carmen, don’t you work today?”
“Someone’s covering my appointments,” she explains. She glances at Jake and then at me. “I’ll, uh, be in my room. Let you two talk.”
She exits the kitchen quickly, and I turn to Jake with my eyebrows raised. “That was…weird. So where’s Laney?”
“In the bathroom, packing,” he says. He isn’t smiling.
“Oh. We’re driving back today?”
“No. You and Laney are flying back to Michigan today.”
For a second I think I’ve misheard him, but I look at his expression and realize he’s serious. My stomach plummets to my feet. “What? How—”
“I called your parents this morning. They already bought the plane tickets,” he says. “Carmen’s going to drive you to the airport. Your flight leaves around four.”
I feel like someone just sucker punched me in the gut. It takes a while for me to do anything other than gape at him, stunned. Finally I find my voice long enough to choke out, “Why? Why would you do that?”
Jake pushes back his chair and walks over to me. “You said I was hiding something,” he says. “You were right.”
“What are you talking about?”
Something in his expression is scaring me. Rattling me down to my bones.
“The last time I saw June—it was the day before. before everything. She was helping me study for finals, and I ended up taking one of her notebooks home by mistake. I was going to give it back to her the next day, and then…”
He trails off, like he can’t bear to say it, and he doesn’t have to, because of course I know what happened. Why he didn’t have the chance.
“Anyway,” he says, “I found this in it.”
Suddenly he shoves something into my hands. I look down. It’s an envelope—slightly bent from being pressed in pages, a crisp white except for my name, written along the back in careful, pretty cursive. Harper.
It’s June’s handwriting.
“I should’ve given it to you earlier,” he continues. “I meant to, at the wake. It’s why I went. But when we talked outside, it didn’t seem right. I even went back to find you, upstairs, and that’s when I overheard you and Laney talking about California. I thought maybe…maybe coming out here, it’d be a good way to do it, I guess.”
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. The envelope is heavy in my hands as I run my thumb across where she’d put the pen down and etched out my name. “And you waited until now to tell me?”
“I meant to say something earlier. A million times I meant to, I just. There was never a good time.”
“Never a good time,” I echo, my voice hollow in my own ears. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“I knew you’d be mad.”
“Shut up. You don’t know anything.” Least of all me.
“I knew June,” he says, and it hits me harder than anything, because I don’t want it to be true.
He has to be wrong about that, too. Because he didn’t know June. None of us knew June. If we had we wouldn’t be here right now.
“So what? Were you, like, in love with her?” My voice shakes as it rises. “Did you fuck her, too?”
“Not everything is about sex, Harper.”
“That is so not an answer.” I reach out and shove his shoulders, hard. He rocks back on his heels but doesn’t move. Shoving him feels good, being angry feels good, easier, easier than being sad, than having my heart crushed, so I hold on to that and push him again, harder, until he stumbles back a step. “Tell me, goddammit! Be honest with me, for once in your life!”
I am beyond mad. I am beyond furious. I can’t believe I was such an idiot, to think Jake was different, to trust him with my secrets, with my body. With my heart.
“No!” he says vehemently. “Of course not. I told you already, nothing happened.”
“But you wanted to, didn’t you?” I ask. “Did you—did you only want me because I was the closest you could get, or something?”
He looks so betrayed and disgusted that for the briefest of seconds my anger falters. “I can’t believe you’d think that. After everything.”
“What am I supposed to think? Seriously, tell me. Because I really don’t know.”
“You’re nothing like your sister,” he tells me. “She meant a lot to me, okay? It’s true. But the things I like about you have nothing to do with her. You—you are so strong and stubborn it drives me crazy. You’re the one going through all this and you still put Laney first every time, instead of throwing yourself the pity party we both know you deserve. You call me out on my shit, and I like that, because sometimes I need someone to call me out on my shit. And you get Johnny Cash, and you take these incredible photos, and everything about you makes me hurt, in a good way, and it blows my mind that someone can be so amazing
and not even see it.”
I’m shaking too hard to answer. Is that how he really sees me?
“If I wanted a replacement for June, it could never be you,” he says. “The only thing you have in common with her is the fact that she didn’t treat me like I was stupid, and she wasn’t scared of me, either. I was never in love with her. We were friends, and that’s it. But she treated me like I was a decent person. Like I mattered.”
“Well, isn’t that great for you,” I snap.
“You don’t know what it’s like! You have Laney, and your family, and you hate them for having these expectations, but at least they want things for you. Do you know what I would give for that? No one in my life ever expected anything from me except for me to screw up. But June did. She was the first person to believe I could be somebody, and I needed that.”
“You needed that?” I mimic spitefully. “Well, you knew what I needed. You knew how I felt, how it killed me that she didn’t say anything. You knew. And still, you had this the whole time. You’re nothing but a coward. You were too scared to give me this, you’re too scared to write your own music, you’re too scared to get off your ass and do something with your life. Other people didn’t push you? No one there to pat you on the back or hold your hand? Boo-fucking-hoo. That’s just an excuse for you being a fucking coward.”
I punctuate the last sentence with a vicious jab of the envelope to his chest. There are tears now, running down my face faster than I can wipe them away. I don’t even try.
Jake starts forward, his eyes like liquid, but I back away with my hand held up to ward off whatever he’s thinking of trying.
“I hate you!” I’m screaming at him, seriously screaming, the words clawing out of my throat like a wild animal. “Get the fuck away from me! I fucking hate you! You piece of shit!”
His arms drop to his sides. “I know.”
He can’t know, he can’t possibly know. I hate him, I hate him so much, and it’s more real than anything I’ve felt in a long time.
“I’m going to go,” he says, his voice hoarse and tight. “I left her notebook on the table for you. I’m—I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t mean anything, but I am. I’m really sorry.”
He leaves, and I don’t dare breathe again until I hear the front door slam. I hold on to the kitchen table to keep myself from falling over, and when the tears stop, I only stand there, body trembling from head to toe.
Jake’s right. Sorry isn’t enough.
Not this time.
chapter sixteen
June is over. July dawns bright and relentlessly hot; there’s no escaping it.
Being home again is a shock to the system. Not because I’m returning to chaos—quite the opposite. Everything is shockingly mundane. Even the stupid puppy calendar I stare down every morning in the kitchen is a constant reminder that life goes on, the white squares filled with my mother’s doctor appointments and knitting club meetings and the birthdays of family friends. No sign of June anywhere.
I spend my days sealed inside air-conditioning, sucking on ice cubes and watching reruns of M*A*S*H. I wish Laney was around so we could analyze in detail the plain-as-day homoerotic subtext between Hawkeye and B.J., and work on our tans at the park, and drive to Duncan’s for late-night sundaes. Unfortunately for us, though our return home was met initially with relief and joy from our parents, it didn’t take long for that rush of goodwill to sour into a full month’s grounding for us both.
I know that as far as punishments go, I got off with a light sentence. Being under house arrest isn’t too bad. It gives me a convenient excuse not to interact with anyone, which is good, since I don’t even want to think about when—or if—I’ll see Jake face-to-face again. The worst is worrying about Laney. Mom disconnected my internet and confiscated my cell phone, but I did manage to find the internet cord and connect while she was running errands. I sent Laney an email asking what was going on, in the vaguest terms possible, since I don’t know if her parents are monitoring her account.
Her response was only one line: Everything’s okay. I’ll talk to you when I can. xoxo.
I miss her the most when I sit alone on the roof, observing the kids down the street as they lick ice cream cones and wage war with water balloons. This is ice cream weather, run- around-in-sprinklers weather, weather meant to be enjoyed with friends.
For my mother, it’s gardening weather. She’s returned to work part-time, easing back into her schedule, and spends her afternoons and evenings digging around in the backyard with cotton gloves and a trowel in hand. I helped her out one weekend with the weeding—there was a lot to be done, and I found it oddly satisfying, ripping each one out by its roots. We worked side by side for hours on our hands and knees, sometimes talking, sometimes not. She never pushed, but I could tell that when I did talk, she listened intently. Maybe that was why I felt okay with letting some details slip—I told her about Laney and me visiting the arch, Fridgehenge, the Arizona stars, the way the water looked in California when I saw the ocean for the first time.
I didn’t mention Jake. Some things are better kept to myself.
A few things changed during my absence. Aunt Helen moved out, and though she occasionally stops by for dinner, she seems to be consciously holding her tongue. There’s no more booze in the house; I even made sure by checking all the hiding spots, like my mom’s shoe closet and inside bottles of vitamin water. And Mom seems different—she isn’t totally together, and sometimes she still cries, but she isn’t the broken mess I remember. She’s trying. I’ve decided that I need to try, too.
And it isn’t like Mom is the only one who ever gets sad, either. Once the garden was cleared of all the weeds and new soil had been put in, she started coming home from work with a new box of flowers from the greenhouse every day. On the day she brought home carnations, I cried in the shower for an hour, feeling foolish and brokenhearted, and missing June more than ever.
Today, it’s daisies. Daisies, at least, don’t inspire any emotional meltdowns.
“Aren’t they gorgeous?” she gushes as I hand her a tall, frosted glass of lemonade. “They complement the magnolias perfectly.”
I stand back to better admire the row of deep pink flowers, the tips of their petals tinged with white.
“You know, I’m not a big fan of pink,” I say, “but in this case, yes. I approve.”
I sit back down on the porch steps, arms folded over my knees. Mom stands up, brushes the dirt off her jeans and joins me. I don’t mean to but I can’t help but stare at her. I’m still getting used to this new incarnation of my mother, this woman who is trying to be so careful with me, who isn’t falling apart, and while she isn’t completely together, she’s rebuilding herself, day by day. She’s so much stronger than I ever gave her credit for.
I thought she’d be angry with me when she found out what I’d done with June’s ashes. My father was. He didn’t say it to my face, but he called me the day after I came home, and he came by that night to take me out to dinner. He wanted to know what had happened. I supplied him with evasive answers over Chinese, never saying more than I absolutely had to. I could tell he was frustrated by my reticence, but he didn’t call me out on it. Our awkward silences hung heavy with all the things we didn’t dare say.
When he took me home, he walked me to the door, and before I opened it he asked me if I was okay. I told him yes without knowing if it was an honest answer or not; I knew it was what he wanted to hear. He didn’t ask again. He waited until I’d gone upstairs to talk to Mom in the foyer. I sat on the floor at the top of the steps, hidden behind the banister like a little kid as I listened to the two of them talk.
“I can’t believe what she did. I had a right, you know,” he said, and the anger in his voice was more emotion than I’d heard from him in a long time. “She was my daughter.”
I knew from the way he said “daughter” he meant June, not me, and that he meant what I had done with her ashes. It was something I hadn’t considered much—wh
at, exactly, I was taking away from him by stealing the urn. It was another thing to feel bad about, on top of everything else.
“I know,” Mom said to him. “She was mine, too.” Neither of them spoke for a moment, but I knew what they must be thinking. That this was a pain the two of them shared that no one else could touch. Not even me. And they would share it for the rest of their lives, even if they weren’t together. I couldn’t think of a more terrible thing to bind two people.
“I wish I’d known,” he said. “I would have stopped her. You should have stopped her.”
I expected the conversation to escalate into another one of their arguments, but all Mom said was, “It’s over. What’s done is done. You’re going to have to let it go.”
Now she sits beside me with her eyes to the sky, wistful. “It’s a beautiful day,” she says.
I look at her for a long time. “Did you read the letter?”
I know the question will ruin the moment, but I have to know. And when my mother’s eyes meet mine, I know. She did.
I haven’t. I almost did, on the plane ride—but I couldn’t bring myself to tear open the envelope while crammed in a seat in coach, with Laney nodded off in the seat next to me. I did flip through the rest of her notebook; nothing was there except for calculus notes. I did notice they stopped a few days before she died. Maybe she’d made up her mind by then, and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
I held on to the letter until Mom and I got home. When she threw her car keys onto the kitchen counter with a sigh and just stared at them, rubbing her temples, I slid the envelope next to the key ring and said, “June wrote this,” before walking out of the room.
We haven’t discussed it since.
“I think you should read it,” she says.
“Why? It won’t change anything. It won’t change what she did.”