by Vivien Vale
June’s gone.
The best thing that’s happened to me in a long time—probably fucking ever—and I let it slip through my fingers, like sand just running through my hand. The only thing is, I won’t be able to pick her up again.
I’ve totally fucked up.
I mean, she’s gone. Packed her bag and handed back the key type of gone—if I’d have given her a key.
Fucking fool.
“Hey, dickhead,” a familiar voice calls. “There’s still plenty of pussy to get, you know. I mean…”
He doesn’t get any further. Like a raging mad bull, I throw myself at the bastard and grab him by the lapels of his shirt.
Then I spin him around and slam him into the wall.
Unfortunately, he’s prepared.
Instead of his head hitting the wall, he brings his chin to his chest and pushes against me. At the same time, his right leg hooks around my left and unbalances me.
I fall.
Clearly, I’m not at my best. Any other day, I would’ve been on top of Lawrence already. But now, I’m approaching the ground at rapid fucking speed.
Smack!
I slam onto the pavement.
The fall knocks the wind right out of me. For a few seconds, I can’t even breathe. It feels as if a metal vice has gripped my lungs and is squeezing every last bit of air out of me.
Naturally, Lawrence uses this moment to his advantage.
Before I know what’s happening, his right fist connects with my face. Luckily, I wise up to his next move when I see the flesh of his fist from the corner of my right eye.
Unable to counter the attack, I pursue the only option I can see. I turn my head quickly at the last minute.
Instead of connecting with most of my face, his next punch only makes contact with the side of my head before his fist slams hard into the ground.
Now he’s unbalanced, and I’ve got my breath back.
I bring my knees up under me and roll.
“What the fuck do you want, Lawrence?” I yell, scrambling back to my feet.
Lawrence lunges for my legs, misses, and lands splat on his face.
This gives me enough time to take a deep breath and prepare for the next onslaught. It comes all too quick.
While I’m busy breathing and trying to gather myself, I spot my brother inching toward me on his hands and knees, but I notice too fucking late, and he’s already close enough to jab his fist right into my gut.
Again, I’m winded, and my body folds in half like a Swiss Army knife.
“I want what you’ve got,” he pants, his arms lunging wildly for me.
As I avoid one of his punches, another one connects with my mouth. It splits my lip open, and I can taste blood.
“What the fuck?” I say, spitting it out.
“You always get everything. You got Chantal when I’d been trying to get into her pants months before you even met her.”
His rage is still fucking building.
“Fuck, man,” I put my hands up in defense.
Lawrence just punches wildly at me. Occasionally, one of them connects, usually with my face—a couple times with my eyes, right and left.
“And then you end up with this gorgeous chick, the one who’s just fucking perfect, the one dad loves.” On this last word, I turn my face a little too far to the right to look at him, and wham, his fist collides forcefully with my cheek.
There’s a crack. I think he might have broken my cheekbone.
“And, you know what’s worse, you prick?” Lawrence has halted punching me. “You’re being a total prick. Instead of chasing after her, admitting your mistake, and begging her to take you back, you’re acting like you’re all of five years old.
“Man, look at yourself. You’re beating the crap out of me, and why? Because you’re so fucking busy trying not to be me. News flash, asshole: you’re exactly like me.”
All I can do is stare at him. I’m not even feeling any pain in my fucking face—it’s all in his words.
“I take it back. You’re nothing like me. If you were, you wouldn’t be here beating the shit out of me, you’d be chasing after June, doing absolutely fucking everything to get her back.”
Fuck it, I don’t care what else Lawrence has to say. I run, breaking into a sprint to my car. How fucking stupid, am I? And why was it Lawrence who had to tell me?
Fuck.
Of course I should have been chasing after her. It pains me to admit this, but my brother is one hundred percent right.
When I get to my car, I fumble with my keys. Finally, I unlock the door and jump in, getting ready to fucking floor it.
I’m easing out of the goddamn parking spot impatiently when the passenger door opens and Lawrence jumps in.
“Who said you could come?” I growl, stepping on the accelerator.
“I did,” he replies, and I can see his smug grin when I glance sideways at him. “I mean, how else are you going to have any fucking chance of getting this girl back?”
Fucking arrogant prick.
I chuckle.
“Remember in eighth grade?”
I shake my head.
Is he kidding? Eighth grade is a lifetime ago.
“You already had the girls eating out the palm of your hand, and I was left to pick up the crumbs.”
Silence.
For some reason, I wasn’t sure what to say to this.
“And you know what was worse?”
Again, I shake my head.
“You had no fucking idea how easy it was for you to pick up a girl and how hard it was for me.”
“If I didn’t know you better—” I start, but he interrupts me.
“Don’t go down Fifth Avenue man, you’ll be there all fucking day getting to the airport. If you want to catch this girl, you better take the fast route.”
I’m torn. Should I trust Lawrence, or is he trying to lead me astray? Is this some weird plot on his part to throw me off?
“Come on, man, you’ve got to go east down 57th and then straight onto the bridge.” He takes a breath. “I thought this wasn’t about us, but about getting June back.”
He’s hit the fucking nail on the head.
And so, without giving it another thought, I make a fast, manic, rubber-burning left turn onto 57th.
Some impatient dick blows his horn at me, and I show him the finger.
I’m on a fucking mission.
Chapter 34
June
“Seriously, Diane? You’re taking the bridge at this hour? Are you nuts?”
“Ah, calm your tits. The upper level won’t be too crowded.”
Diane swings the minivan with fervor onto the ramp of whatever freaking bridge this is on the way to the airport. With the entire backseat to myself, I stretch out my limbs into a strangely contorted yet absurdly comfortable position, watching the forest of skyscrapers fade into the distance behind us.
Not too long ago, when I drove my blue pickup east down the rural route for maybe the last time, the Greater Wheatfield Area was looking even more barren than usual.
Even on the warm Midwestern afternoon, with welcoming sunshine beaming luminously onto all the Greatest of Plains, I had what seemed like the entire world to myself for endless miles all the way out to the state route. Even then, I saw only one or two other vehicles—a grain truck here, a fellow pickup truck there—until I finally made it out onto the interstate: Route 80.
Route 80—after that drive, it was burned into my consciousness for eternity and beyond.
Just thousands and thousands of the endless miles of Route 80.
Hours upon hours, days upon freaking days of Route-freaking-80.
And, no matter how long I drove and how infinitely the highway kept stretching in front of me, it just kept getting more and more fucking crowded all the fucking way across the fucking country.
All the way until the George Washington Bridge, the final gateway into New York City, where I sat in traffic for two gosh-darn-hours.
“Excuse me, this isn’t the George Washington Bridge, is it?” I ask from my little nest in the back.
“No, sweetheart, that goes in the other direction—across the Hudson,” answers Diane, glancing briefly in the rearview before giving a moderately long and a more-than-moderately loving look at her wife, Stephanie, in the passenger seat.
“Can you imagine if we were driving across the GW right now, Steph? Now that would be b—”
“Diane, watch out!” My yelped warning jolts Diane into slamming on the brakes with the indescribable force that only a protective mother can provide.
Thanks to my yell and Diane’s quick brake, we managed to avoid slamming into the sea of stopped traffic in front of us.
“Hey, nice work, Diane!” Stephanie shouts angrily. “You do realize that there are three pregnant women in the car, right?”
“I’m aware of that, Steph. I’m one of them, remember? And I can see.” Without taking her eyes off the road again, Diane points back in the direction of my belly bump. “Looking good, June…from what I can remember.”
Gazing lovingly straight down, I treat my belly to a couple gentle pats.
“Thanks. I think so, too.”
Stephanie turns around for a moment to smile at me warmly.
“And thank you for saving us from my wife’s recklessness.”
“Hey, I hit the brakes on time!” protests Diane. “But, seriously, thanks for saving our lives, sweetheart.”
“Anytime.” My hand is just resting on my belly now, and a bitter sweet little smile doesn’t leave my face.
“Bittersweet smile,” I catch myself saying quietly—and Stephanie catches it, too.
“What was that?” she asks, turning around. “Is that a song or something?”
“We don’t keep up with that modern pop music.” Diane’s almost shouting as she comments, but her eyes are fixed securely on the windshield as the traffic inches forward.
“Speak for yourself, Diannnne.” Stephanie draws out the last syllable in her wife’s name mockingly. It seems like an inside joke, something between them that’s not for me to understand, but it makes me laugh a little, anyway. “What are you, a hundred years old? Cause that’s what you sound like.”
The traffic starts easing up in fits and starts, and the cluster of goliath towers and claustrophobic concrete canyons grows even further behind us in the distance.
“You can’t hold on to your youth forever,” jokes Diane. I notice that both my hands are resting on my bump at this point.
“Like I said, speak for yourself.” Stephanie’s voice is now soft and sweet. As the traffic clears up entirely, Stephanie leans over to give Diane a small peck on the cheek.
Diane’s face is still set squarely on the road—as I imagine it might be until the end of time at this point—but I can see her cheeks stir slightly in what I can tell is a subtle yet ecstatic smile.
We’re not even in the middle of the span yet, and another impenetrable wall of traffic emerges ahead of us. Diane eases on the brakes and we roll to a stop so gentle that I hardly feel it.
“Great job, Diane,” I say merrily, “and I’m being serious.”
At long last, Diane takes her eyes off the windshield to send a cheekily smug look in her wife’s direction.
“You see, Steph? Real, genuine appreciation for the driver—who happens to be doing an amazing job, as always.”
Stephanie ignores Diane and turns around to scowl at me with a hammily sour face.
That alone is enough to coax a couple of unruly giggles from me—no simple task after the day I’ve had.
“I thought you were on my side, kid. Grr!”
That grr really gets me, and all I can do is chortle like a woman who’s lost her druthers.
As the latest crop of traffic clears away, I want to stop laughing, but that darn Stephanie won’t wipe that zany sourpuss off her mug.
Without breaking character, Stephanie turns back around as the last few laughs escape me.
Holy cow, I can’t remember the last time I laughed quite like that.
Not since I was a little kid, possibly. Not since…
Diane steers the van a bit wildly, but with deft reflexes then eases down the off ramp and onto a freeway of some kind.
Sweetheart.
Kid.
The little pet names these women use to call me are interesting. I don’t usually cotton to that type of stuff from strangers, or even good-humored acquaintances such as these two ladies.
They’re older than me, as well, but obviously not that old.
For some unknown reason, it doesn’t feel condescending from either side of this couple. The real corker of it all is that it evokes a feeling of—for an honest-to-goodness lack of better terms—warmth and comfort.
I’m not feeling heavy-eyed or sluggish or anything of the sort right now, but I still let my eyes close for a moment as the minivan picks up a bit of speed.
For that one moment, I’m back in Wheatfield. Not with the truck or with Kody or any of that type of bullpucky, but earlier.
Much earlier.
For just a moment, I’m not on some east coast city highway speeding towards an airport, but I’m living in one of my earliest, sweetest memories.
It’s a memory, which I think of often, usually when I’m lying in bed in Wheatfield or New York or anywhere.
“No matter how big you get, sweetheart, no matter how far you go, and no matter what happens, you’ll always be my little Junebug.”
The blast of a nearby car horn is almost enough to jolt me back to the present, to a minivan in New York. But out of all the times I’ve tried to live in this memory—even just for the tiniest instant—this time was the closest, the most vivid.
“Always. Don’t you ever forget that.”
My mother’s voice, momentarily so clear it was like she was right there next to me, fades slowly like a ghost merging gently back into the normal scenery of the world.
My eyes open to a sky just beginning to darken through the minivan windows. The van makes a sharp left and swiftly reduces speed as we pass under a set of high-powered arc lights.
“Welcome to LaGuardia, sleepy lady.” Even from my vantage point, I can tell that Diane is smiling happily again.
So is Stephanie, who’s staring unabashedly at Diane with an adoration so clear and so genuine that I feel like I need to look out the window as not to intrude on a private moment.
I do just that, taking in the view as we pull into a parking garage.
No wonder Diane was smiling like that…no wonder they both were. To find someone who looks at you like that…and vice versa.
Semi-consciously, I give my belly a little rub as we pull into a parking spot.
Whether I’ll ever find somebody like that, have it for real, and have it last…well, I have no idea.
Pretty soon, I have to stop thinking about myself all the time. The last thing I want to become is self-absorbed.
Diane opens the sliding door and helps me out of the van.
“May I ask where you’re going with all that luggage?”
It takes me a second of looking around for suitcases I didn’t know I had before I get Diane’s joke.
She’s got her own distinct style. It complements Stephanie’s sense of humor nicely.
“Well…would you believe that I’m not sure?”
Stephanie heard that, and before I know what’s what, she was standing right next to her wife, both of them observing me with faces full of concern.
“Nebraska. That’s where I’m from, and that’s where I’d go. I’m just not sure if...”
“Who is it?” Stephanie asks with a sudden maternal seriousness.
“Who is who?” I know darn well what she’s asking, but my first instinct is to play dumb, and it’s almost like I can’t stop myself.
“Who is he, June? Or, she…”
“He,” I begin with a
dramatic sigh. “It’s a he.”
“Hold that thought.” Stephanie instructs me while walking around to the back of the van. “We’ve got luggage, and a flight to catch, but you can regale us with your country girl adventure story on the way to the terminal.”
“She can start now.” Diane gestures to me as she joins her spouse in unpacking luggage. “The acoustics are great in this garage.”
“So, okay…” Diane’s right, my voice is so loud…but I begin. “There was this contract…well, before that, there was this boy, in Wheatfield, Nebraska…”
It’s a long walk from the garage to Terminal B, with me lugging an especially heavy piece of Diane and Stephanie’s luggage while they roll their suitcases with ease.
I’d ask why they don’t have all-wheeled luggage since they seem like moderately sophisticated city folk, but I’m too busy telling my story, and they’re too busy listening politely, reacting silently at all the right moments, even laughing a couple of times.
As I walk my two wonderful listeners up to the check-in counter for their flight, my story has almost caught up with the present.
“The first ever images of our child…” I’m trying to tell the story matter-of-factly, but some wounds are too fresh, and my voice cracks with those last few words.
Once my story is over, it’s like we’re back in the parking garage, with both Diane and Stephanie considering me with a concern that’s touching and maybe a wee bit mortifying.
“There’s nothing like spilling your guts in public.”
My attempt to break the silence is ignored as Diane launches right in.
“What are you doing?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure…wait, where are you going again?”
The two lovely, pregnant ladies share an immediate, knowing look.
But I don’t know.
“Sorry, did I ask something…”
“Mesa,” says Diane.
“Arizona!” I shout. “That’s closer to Nebraska than here.”
“I’m from Mesa,” Stephanie adds. “Diane’s from here.”
“Steph still gets a little weird about visiting the fam.”
Steph’s incredible self-possession drops instantly while she looks at the floor.
While I can speculate about this, I don’t.
