by Emily Henry
“What’s at the library?” I ask.
“Books, June,” he says, then curbs the flirtation in his voice by adding, “I reserved some stuff on craft I think you’ll find helpful.”
It doesn’t matter that my parents and the boys are running late: Toddy fuddles in the kitchen “looking for a snack” until Saul and I are safely out the door. It’s mostly dark out, and the grass crunches with a hint of frost as we make our way to the Saturn. Around the cherry tree, the sprouts Grayson and Shadow planted last week have grown to about a foot tall, stringy but vibrant.
“Books on craft,” I say.
“Some,” Saul replies. “Mostly books on thin places.”
“And with your rigorous schedule you couldn’t get them ahead of time?”
His ears turn the tiniest bit pink, and he scratches his jaw as we pull away. “You seem a little bit freaked out every time I come over,” he says. “I mean, not by the magic stuff.”
“I have been,” I admit.
“Yeah.”
I want to say, I’m not anymore. It’s not quite true. In some ways, I’m more freaked out than ever. Seeing a more complete picture of my father may have freed up my opinions on the Angerts, my feelings for Saul, but it has also fundamentally changed who I’ve always believed I am.
I am a Jack, my father’s daughter. All my life people have told me they see Dad in me, and now that means something different than it used to. My blood feels heavy in my veins.
I want to forget who I am.
I don’t want to be a Jack. I want to be just June.
“We can go back to my house after we pick up the books,” I say. “My parents will literally not do a thing.”
“I want them to like me,” Saul replies.
They won’t, no matter what, I want to tell him, so we might as well break all the rules.
We park outside the library and run through the shrieking cold and skittering leaves to the door. Past the circulation desk, we find the shelves where they keep reserved books, trailing along the A surnames to Angert. Saul pulls out five books rubber-banded together and tagged with his name, and he passes me a couple before leading the way through the warmly lit stacks.
We turn down an aisle toward the study tables, and a blond girl in a houndstooth peacoat straightens from where she was crouched beside the bottom row and turns toward us. Saul stops short.
“Saul,” Ms. deGeest says. “I wondered when I’d run into you.”
“Allison,” Saul says. “Hi. I didn’t know you’d moved back.”
“Yeah, a few months ago.” She grabs his arm and gives a dazzling smile before her sharp blue eyes wander to me and try to blink either me or her confusion away. “Junior. Hi.”
Her expression moves from puzzled to shocked understanding in four-tenths of a second. “You guys know each other.” She looks pointedly at Saul. “Junior’s in my creative writing class at the high school. She’s a super bright kid.”
“Oh,” Saul says. “Cool. Yeah, June’s talented.”
Allison deGeest half-laughs, folds her arms across her chest, and shakes her head to toss her hair over her shoulder. “Yeah, June’s great.”
“Okay, we should get back to work,” I say.
“Oh, are you tutoring her?”
For a second she seems to consider this a real possibility, but then Saul says, “Not tonight. Great to run into you, Allison. Have a good night.”
“We should meet up.” Her eyes dip toward me. “If you have time.”
“Sure,” Saul says. He steers me toward the study tables again. “So that’s a high school friend of mine, Allison, who is a little bit terrifying and also your teacher now.”
“I’ve never heard my own name sound so crude.”
“Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m drawn to laid-back, un-snarky girls.”
“Drawn to?”
A heavy smile tugs at his mouth. “Are you asking me something, June?”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You can.”
“Isn’t she a little old for you?”
His laugh rattles in his throat. “She was the older sister of a friend. There was a brief . . . thing.”
“Oh god. This is so . . . you and Allison deGeest?”
“June, come on. Local legend has it you once kissed Nate behind a slide.”
“First of all, remembering that will never be any source of comfort to me. Second of all, is Nate responsible for your future? Does he give you grades, and if so, on what?”
Saul’s forehead inclines toward me imploringly. “June.”
“Can we leave now? I think the back of my head is two seconds from bursting into flames.”
“It’s not you,” he says, blushing. “I mean, she’s probably worried about you. I didn’t have a great reputation back then. Also she thinks of me as her peer and you as her student.”
“Ugh.”
He gives one scratchy laugh. “Sorry. That was weird.”
“Let’s just go.” We’re silent for the length of the ride home. Saul keeps looking over at me, and I’m reminded of the night he drove me home from the theater. Maybe the reality of running into his former whatever, who also happens to be my teacher, has brought him back to where he was that night: feeling a little pathetic. Anxiety wrings my insides, and an ache of disappointment, embarrassment, and jealousy radiates low in my stomach.
Saul and the closest thing I have to a mentor.
Maybe this is the universe’s last-ditch effort to separate two fatally star-crossed people before their collision destroys everything around them.
The image of the darkness closing in around Dad sizzles across my mind. Leave her alone.
No matter what the universe has to say about it, Saul and I can’t walk away until we understand the Whites’ message. Their warning.
When we get home, we spread the books along the coffee table. Some center around Celtic mythology, others the musings of Catholic priests on places where miracles happened. A couple of collections of essays investigate buildings and natural landmarks where the veil between heaven and earth is so flimsy the authors accidentally passed through and the world transformed before their eyes.
“We can start with reading and then try some Whites, or we can do the opposite,” Saul says. “Preference?”
“Reading.” I’m still sick over the last two memories I saw. Still so confused and frustrated with Dad that I can’t imagine facing him, though his words loop endlessly in my mind. She’s not like us. Leave her alone. Please show her.
We can’t put off the past forever. Tonight, I want to pretend we can.
Saul and I each pick a book and sit on the couch, backs propped against opposite ends, knees bent up and facing each other in the middle. I start skimming Thin Places: Transformed by the Edge of Heaven only to fall immediately into a Saul/Ms. deGeest spiral. I don’t notice I’m drumming my fingers against the back of the couch until Saul sets his hand on them. “That’s fairly distracting,” he whispers.
“Saul,” I whisper.
“June.”
“Did I end up making you feel like a creep?”
He laughs. “Why would I feel like a creep?”
“You want me to say it?”
He looks at me. It’s Serious Saul, not Flirting Saul. “Kind of.”
“Because you like me, and I’m a super bright kid.”
He glances at the book propped against his knees. “I don’t.”
“Oh-kay.”
“I don’t feel like a creep,” he clarifies. After a few lapsed seconds, he says, “Anything else?” I shake my head, and he goes back to reading. I turn my hand over, and Saul’s fingers trace slowly up my palm, then fall into the gaps between my fingers. He looks up again, and after a moment, his body shifts with a tired laugh. “I can leave, if you want
.”
Neither of us moves, though, and the silence stretches indefinitely. My stomach feels like it’s slowly filling with lava, warm and thick, piling toward my throat.
“Okay,” Saul says finally, standing. “Okay.” I follow him toward the door, but he stops by the sunroom and faces me. “I do like you.” He rubs his jaw anxiously. “I don’t know if I said that part.”
The heat has fully flooded my stomach, my chest, my esophagus. It’s found its way through my legs. Beyond the open windows, owls hoot, the wind bats the trees, and a sudden vacuum has seemingly opened, sucking the universe and its many obstacles between Saul Angert and me from the house.
“I meant to,” he says. “But in case I didn’t,” he nods, “I do.”
I mean to say, I like you.
I manage only: “Oh.”
Saul laughs and scratches at the back of his head. He turns to leave, and I grab his hand, tugging him into the dark sunroom, out of sight from the front door. He stares at me, so still he must be holding his breath. Or waiting for lightning to strike us. I touch his waist.
He touches my elbows. “June?”
“Saul?”
He draws me closer, a sliver of smile beginning in the corner of his mouth. “I’m worried you don’t realize this isn’t the way out.”
“It’s not?”
“The other thing is”—he takes the sides of my neck gingerly in his hands—“I’m getting sort of mixed signals here, so I want to clarify: What should I be doing right now?”
I knot my fingers into his shirt and step into him. “I like you, Saul. If you’re on a roll, you can keep talking, or you can stop and kiss me.”
His laugh is warm and coarse. His mouth is warm and coarse.
Twenty-One
SAUL’S laugh is still grating through him when his mouth catches mine. It travels through my cheeks and my stomach, hips, and fingers.
His hands slide around my back, catching bare skin and conjuring goose bumps as he pulls me closer in increments of millimeters. It’s possible I’ve spent my whole life flexing every muscle in my stomach and now, relaxing for the first time, I might liquefy.
His arms tighten as he steps me back to the wall and presses his mouth, unhurried and deliberate, against my throat. His palms climb down my hips and thighs, back up to my neck like they can’t sit still, and I don’t want them to.
We’re both a little clumsy, and I keep laughing because he feels so good. His smile widens, and our teeth bump together, but neither of us cares. The warmth of his stomach melts into my skin, but he’s still too far away. His hands skim my back, press into my legs, rise up; they circle my waist beneath my shirt and settle at the bottom of my ribs, fingers gliding along the grooves between them.
He kisses me again, for the span of four sharp heartbeats, and when he pulls away, his hair is almost messy. He lifts my wrist and kisses the inside of it. “Are you going to disappear again?”
“What do you mean?”
“Will it be days before I hear from you?”
“It depends what grade I get on my next story.”
“June.”
“No, Saul. It won’t be days.”
He folds his arms around my waist and draws my stomach into his. “Now all we have to do is figure out how to navigate a thin place and tell your parents.”
“No problem. I’ll write them a note: Dear Mom and Toddy, My tutor and I made out in the sunroom. Here is a diagram indicating which wall and pieces of furniture you should consider burning. Best wishes.”
His laugh turns into a pseudo-groan as he slides his hands down my legs. “Maybe we should start by telling them my real name.”
“God, sometimes you can be such a Mike.”
He rolls his thumb across my bottom lip thoughtfully, then sinks into me again, his teeth skating across my lip. At the front of the house, the door whines open, keys jangle, and a jumble of voices flood inside.
Saul and I run into the living room and toss ourselves onto opposite couches, swiping books off the coffee table as my family’s parading in.
“Shadow won!” Grayson shouts, storming toward us. “Hey, Mike, do you want to play video games?”
Saul looks at me, smirking, and adjusts the book over his lap. “I think I need to get home. Can I play next time?”
“I did not win.” Shadow tromps in. “I scored, but my team lost.”
Scored, Saul mouths at me, and I badly hide a laugh within a cough. “Well, at least you did well, right, bud?”
“Next time’s fine, Mike!” Grayson shouts over his shoulder as he turns the TV on.
Mom and Toddy filter in last, slowly appraising the situation. “Back from the library already, huh?” Toddy says.
“Too loud,” I say without looking up.
“I hope that’s okay.” Saul looks over the back of the couch into the kitchen. His ears don’t even flush pink. “I thought it might be less distracting here.”
“Yeah,” Mom says vaguely. “So, you guys had fun?”
“Mhm,” I murmur into my hand, then turn the page. “Studying’s a blast.”
Saul stands and lifts his backpack. “Read as much as you’re able, and let me know when you want to meet up again.”
“Yep,” I reply. “Thanks for your help.”
Somehow, that’s the thing that makes his ears color.
“Thank you, Mike,” Mom says.
“Get home safe,” Toddy allows.
“Good night,” Saul says.
Five minutes after he leaves, I close my book, pick the stack up, and announce I’m going to bed. I haven’t even started my writing assignment for tomorrow, but I decide to put it off until study hall and climb into bed. Five minutes after that, I get Saul’s first e-mail.
Felt a little bit more like a creep once I was trying to escape without accidentally teaching your little brothers about boners. I hope you’re not reading this in the midst of giving a birds-and-the-bees talk.
No, I type out, my mom thought it would be best if you gave that lecture yourself. P.S. What’s a boner? Asking for a friend.
Are you hitting on me, June? And if so, can I have your phone number?
Yes and yes.
I’m so happy I’m grinning into my pillow. I’m so happy the feeling can’t fit in my body.
And then, out of nowhere, it happens. Something pink glistens in the corner of my room and—
Ping: My dad’s dead.
Ping: He might be trying to tell me something from beyond the grave.
Ping: I never really knew him.
Ping: There’s a dark, writhing, nameless thing that watches my house.
This is how grief works. It watches; it waits; it hollows you out, again and again.
• • •
My classmates pour out of the creative writing room as the bell rings, but I hang back. Stephen is packing his things with the speed of a geriatric sloth, and I offer him five bucks to pick up the pace.
“Twenty if you keep your best friend from ruining my best friend’s life,” he retorts.
“Han’s not going to ruin Nate’s life. She likes him.”
“She also likes Stanford. Which do you think she’ll choose, Junior?”
“Stanford? Hannah’s not looking at Stanford,” I say. “That’s in California.” She’s looking at schools in the area. Maybe not the immediate area, but within a bearable drive: University of Michigan, University of Chicago, Northwestern.
Stephen’s eyebrows flick upward. “If you say so.” He pulls his books into his chest and walks out, leaving me alone with the person I least want to talk to.
“Ms. deGeest,” I stammer. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
She faces me and rests her fingers on the tabletop. “If it’s about your writing or this class, of course.”
“It’s about my future in this class, and whether it exists.” Not that it really matters, since I didn’t end up turning anything in today.
She nods. “I’m an adult, Junior.”
I stifle my laugh too late. “Okay.”
She winces. “I meant, I’m a professional. My offer stands.”
“Wait, really?”
“June.” She shifts uncomfortably against the edge of the table. “June, your personal life isn’t my business. I just want you to hear me say this: You’re talented. And I know you and Saul Angert have similar interests, and you’re both clever and capable, and you’ve been through similar situations, but your life’s just beginning. You have every opportunity in the world ahead of you. People from this town have a habit of sticking around, but if any part of you wants to try college, you should pursue it. And Saul—he’s not here to stay. Once he gets back on track, this town won’t be enough for him. Don’t give yourself a reason not to reach your potential. Especially not a reason that’s temporary.”
I swallow a knot. “Is that all?”
“That’s all,” she says. “I want you to consider what you want from life.”
I walk, stunned, into the library, where Hannah and Nate are making out. I pass them without a word to let them wrap things up, but Hannah calls, “See you!” to Nate and jogs after me. “How was claaaaass?”
“Good. My teacher told me not to date Saul.”
“Wait, what? Is there any context for this?”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s the best part. They had a thing in high school.”
“No,” Hannah gasps, latching on to my arm. “Junie, that’s awful. So she was, like, trying to stake a claim?”
“I don’t think so. She basically told me Saul shouldn’t keep me from going to college, and she also implied I’m his quarter-life-crisis booty call. Apparently this town isn’t enough for people like Saul.” Like you, Hannah, I think, tears springing into my eyes. “Once they’re on track, they’ll get out of here and leave the rest of us behind.”
“Hey.” Hannah yanks me to a halt outside the front doors. It’s freezing and semi-dark, all the school’s windows either aglow with light or blue and glare-streaked by the street lamps. “Maybe you are Saul’s quarter-life crisis, but so what? Maybe he’s yours. Or maybe you two are the luckiest people in the world and you’ve already found your fireworks-in-the-sky, holding-hands-until-you-die Forever Person. Guess what? There are drawbacks either way.
