Back then, I would have swum with all my strength to catch her as fast as possible. No one else was ever my target. And honestly, it was like that everywhere we went. Like I was a bloodhound—trained to sniff out her scent. I would arrive at a party, and my eyes would immediately snap to wherever she was in a room.
I find it interesting (and disappointing) that she still hasn’t realized that I only chased her in that pool for an excuse to wrap my arms around her. She hated me so much back then that coming clean and telling her how I felt about her seemed like too much of an insurmountable obstacle. There was no use telling her I was crazy for her, because I’m fairly certain she was crazy for my blood—spilled all over the pavement with a chalk drawing outlining it.
But things are different now. I’m older. Wiser. Trustworthy is the name of the game this time, and the rules are simple: don’t turn around.
“Ryan…” says June. “Go jum
p in the river.”
Hmm. Okay, so maybe this will take a little more work. It’s time for some good old-fashioned goading.
“Oh, come on, June,” I say, moving closer to the changing stall again. “You’re not afraid, are you? The girl I used to know would have already been halfway across the room by now just to prove that she could move faster than me.”
I’m smiling in the silence, waiting for her zingy comeback, but the more time that passes, my smile fades. “June?” Shoot. I’m not totally sure, but I think June is sniffling in there. I lean against the side of the stall to listen closer. “Are you...crying?”
A sharp sniffle. “What! NO. Just...” She’s definitely talking through tears. “Ugh, Ryan. Please, just...I don’t want to come out there like this. Can you for once do something nice for me and give me my clothes!”
The urgency in her voice shocks me. June—the bold, give-it-right-back woman—has a tremble in her voice that I’m pretty sure is because of tears streaming down her cheeks. I feel horrible. The worst of the worst. What I thought was nothing but a fun little teasing exercise is making her full-on cry.
One thing is for certain: June is not the same girl I used to know. She’s a woman, and I suddenly feel like a punk teenager who deserves to have his butt kicked for keeping a woman’s clothes from her.
I don’t hesitate. Crossing the room in five quick strides, I pick up June’s clothes and then toss them over to her. Neither of us speak during the time it takes for her to dress, because I’m not sure what to say, and I don’t think she wants to say anything. But I do manage to run this scenario over again and again in my mind at least fifteen times and wonder how it tore her up so easily. I would have expected June to march out in her underwear and kick me in the pants before I expected her to cry.
A moment later, the door to the stall flies open, and June barrels out—more representative of the woman I was expecting than who she was in that changing room. Gone is the vulnerable June from a moment ago. She squares her shoulders and levels me with white-hot anger. But honestly, it’s hard to focus on her threat when she smells sweet like an orange grove and has skin that looks soft as velvet. I want to run my hand down her arm and see if it feels as soft as it looks.
“I told you not to mess with me, Ryan, and I meant it. We’re grown adults now, and what you just did was childish!” She pokes me hard in the chest, but I don’t teeter. I wonder if she’d be mad if I ran my finger across the bridge of her nose, drawing a line through her freckles. “But you know what else? I’ve got a killer body, and you would have been lucky to see it. So, if you were planning on turnin’ around and surprising me, making me blush or cry, you would’ve been disappointed.”
She’s throwing tough words at me now that she’s clothed and the situation is neutralized, but I can still hear the same shake in her voice from earlier. She’s like a kid trying to convince her friend that she’s not afraid of monsters anymore while walking into a pitch-black room, hiding behind a pillow.
And it’s the tremble in her voice that makes me think there’s more to June’s story—more to those tears and hatred—than just me.
I look down into her bright-green eyes and realize I need to change my tactic. She meets my gaze and lifts that defiant chin of hers into the air, but her facade is no use—I can clearly see the hurt now. It’s hurt I didn’t put there, and I want to find out who did.
A second later, the door chimes, and June and I both swivel our heads to see Stacy storm into the shop. She shoves her phone into her pocket and huffs out a sigh. “You’re never going to believe who I just got off the phone with.”
June frowns. “I thought you were on your way to pick up Logan?”
Uh oh.
Yeah, so I lied. Put another tick in my bad guy journal.
I could try to shoot Stacy a look right now that pleads for her to play along with my charade, but I won’t. I can see now that my original plan was misguided, and I don’t need to be playing games with June. It’s time to be straight with her.
Stacy frowns. “No. Why would I go pick up Logan? I drove you here.”
“Because…” June’s eyes cut to me, and I see murder in them. She takes off her shoe and chucks it at my head. I have plenty of time to duck away from it, though, which only makes the smoke billowing out of her ears increase. “You liar!” June charges toward me, and if she wasn’t the size of a toddler, I’d be a little more concerned.
She crosses the room in a flash and rears back her hand to slap me, but I catch her by the wrist with a loose grip. I hold it level with my chest and step closer. Her elbow brushes against my stomach, and I like having her this close to me.
June’s eyes blaze brighter, and her fist opens up just enough to point her index finger. “You lied to me.”
I won’t deny it. I’m a criminal in court pleading guilty because I want a shorter sentence.
“I lied, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.” My truth must shock her, because I see June’s shoulders drop. My grip on her wrist is featherlight, giving her all the chances in the world to move away, but she doesn’t even try.
June is looking at me now like she just discovered Bigfoot. Her eyes are wide, and she looks as if she can’t believe I apologized. I can’t decide if this is because she still expects me to act like the boy I used to be, or if it’s because of the piece I’m missing to her puzzle.
Regardless, my intentions are changing from here on out. I plan to show June just how different I am from the teenager she remembers me as.