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Not what I would have imagined, but Juni Jacobs has some nice alliteration going on. Not that a form of figurative language is imperative when naming kids or couples, but there’s a nice ring to it.

Shit.

Before I have a chance to justify my stance, I’m devil advocating against myself.

Corbin Christiansen.

Cookie Christiansen.

Dalen Dalery.

Ethan Everest.

Jackson St. James.That might be a stretch, but then the couples come into play. Cookie & Corbin. Nick & Natalie. Andrew & Juni . . .

Nope.Doesn’t work. That’s why being friends with each other does.

With my finger on the trigger, I hold the bottle of air freshener in the air, ready to press it. I had the displeasure of my neighbor cooking again, still completely disregarding how it affects others through what I can only figure is an outdated ventilation system.

Although there’s no rhyme or reason that allows me to prepare for these international cooking fests, it occurs to me that this person follows some patterns.

They like cooking past what’s considered dinnertime to the average American and always after ten PM. Sometimes as late as one in the morning—or early, depending on how you view such times of the day.

They like to set the scene with music to match the theme. I’m curious if they decorate as well.

Also, it’s never something simple like a burger being cooked. There’s an international flair to these meals. Mexican food last week. Indian over the weekend—in the middle of the night when I was trying to prevent a hangover from invading my head. And Italian tonight.

The scent of marinara wafted through the vents along withLa bohèmeplayed at an offensive volume. Not a note was missed, not even in my apartment with those three closed vents.Unfortunately.

I went to bed early and in a sour mood.

The thing is, I’m not sure why. My grandparents used to drag us to the opera, so listening to it is not torture. I actually kind of enjoyed hearing it again since it’s been so long. But my night was off, and I think I narrowed it down to something inside me.

I miss Juni.

Her pesky little tangents and the way she sees the world are totally different than I do. I’ve been a realist. Dreamers were younger siblings and people who weren’t committed to a path before they knew how to walk.

There’s a reason everyone calls me uptight, and it’s not because of my own choosing. It’s because I stepped up to the expectation plate and hit a homer for the home team—the Christiansens and our close to three hundred employees. CWM’s books have never been better.

But what if . . .

What if I start living for me? Not give up my work ethic, but sneak in something that’s not for others, something that’s personal for me.Juni.

Nobody has to know unless we want them to. I put down the air freshener because maybe the smell is better than I want to admit. It might even be delicious.

Sitting on the couch, I pick up the phone and do the one thing we haven’t done since the night we exchanged numbers. I text her again:What are you up to?

I fall back, realizing I just redefined the term lame.

But then three little dots roll across the screen, giving me hope I didn’t blow it. And disappear.

Reappear as if to wave hello and boom—a message appears:Nothing.

Narrowing my eyes, I reread the message again. That can’t be all there is. That took a long damn time to type one word. Call me pushy, but I reply:Literally nothing or just nothing worth mentioning?

Juni:If you must know, I have an apricot mask on my face, and I’m in a hot bubble bath. Didn’t think you wanted those kinds of details since you’re my boss, so I deleted it, but now I’ve put it out there, so do what you may with the information.

Despite pointing out that I’m her boss, she teases me with no fear of repercussion. Sitting by myself at eleven-oh-six on a Monday night, I’m here smiling like an idiot.