Page 16 of June

There she was.

Just past the porch light, standing like a painting in motion beneath the gentle hush of a streetlamp's glow.

June.

Wrapped in the arms of another man. It was intimate. Too intimate.

The bouquet in my hands suddenly felt foolish.

Like an apology whispered too late into an empty room.

Like offering flowers at a grave and pretending it might bring someone back.

I stepped out of the car, every breath burning like paper in my lungs, My heart rattling in my chest like a loose screw in a collapsing machine. I made it halfway up the sidewalk— A few more steps and I'd be in the light. A few more and I could've said her name.

But then—

"Don't take another step."

Her dad's voice. Low. Clear. Unshaking. It cut cleaner than any slap could have.

I stopped.

He stood on the porch. Shadows cut deep into the lines of his face. His arms were crossed, a trash bag dangling in one hand. Not even the mundane domesticity of that could soften him now.

"I just want to talk to her,"

I said, though my voice barely made it past my throat. It came out strangled, like even the words were ashamed of themselves.

"Talk?"

he echoed, and the disbelief in his voice stung more than a shout.

"Is that what you think she needs from you right now?"

"I—"

"Drop the damn flowers,"

he snapped, stepping forward like a wall of judgment.

"This isn't a birthday you forgot. It's not an anniversary you're trying to make up for. This isn't that kind of wound."

I looked down at the bouquet in my hand. Sunflowers—bright, stupid, hopeful things. The stems shook with the breeze, petals shivering like they knew they didn't belong. Like they were embarrassed to be here, too.

I let them fall. They hit the concrete with a dull, wet sound, scattering yellow across the grey like spilled light. Pointless light.

"It's a life you destroyed, Aaron. Her life. And you don't get to fix that with white ribbon and regret."

My breath stuttered. I looked past him, at her. She still hadn't moved. Still cradled in the arms of someone who wasn't me. Still trusting him with a part of herself I once thought belonged only to me. Her face was turned away. From me. From all of it.

And then he stepped into view. Her father. A man I used to laugh with. A man who once toasted my name like it belonged beside hers. Now he stood between us like a verdict.

"Turn around,"

he said, voice steady and final.

"Whatever you came here to say, it's too late to say it tonight."

I swallowed, my throat dry with questions I had no right to ask.

"Is she..."

I tried. My voice cracked.

"Is she seeing someone?"

His eyes narrowed, dark and sharp.

"That's none of your business."

"But—"

"If she is,"

he said coldly.

"at least she had the decency to wait until she was single."

I flinched. No scream could've done more damage. I wanted to say I didn't sleep with Selene. I wanted to say I loved her the whole time. But all that would've done was make it about me again.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe it always had been. So I stood there, empty-handed, with nothing but the wind in my throat and the sound of silence filling the night. And then I went back to my hotel. I barely slept. Spent the night watching the ceiling, replaying every mistake I made like a film I couldn't pause.

By morning, I was at her door.

The sky hadn't even warmed yet—just that bleak pre-dawn gray that sits heavy on the world, like the day itself wasn't sure it wanted to begin. I stood there with my heart pounding like it was trying to punch through my ribs. I don't even remember the drive. Just the sound of tires on pavement and the way her name echoed in my head over and over like a plea, a prayer, a punishment.

When she opened the door, it wasn't a moment from a movie. There was no gasp. No shock. No flicker of hope lighting her eyes.

She looked like she'd been expecting me. Hair pulled into a loose knot, face washed clean of sleep or softness, wrapped in one of those oversized sweatshirts I used to steal just to breathe her in. Her expression wasn't cold—it was colder. Tired. Like grief had hollowed her out and left only walls behind.

"What do you want?"

she asked, her voice flat, arms folded across her chest like armor.

Before I could speak, her father appeared behind her—again. Always there. Like some silent sentinel guarding her from the man who broke her heart.

"June,"

he said, low and steady.

"remember what we talked about."

She didn't look at him. Didn't look at me either. But after a long beat, she stepped aside.

"You've got five minutes,"

she said, voice clipped.

"I have a class at ten."

Her father stared me down as I passed, and his words carved themselves straight into my spine.

"If she tells you to leave,"

he said.

"you leave. Immediately."

"I will,"

I managed. He didn't answer. Just turned and walked away like he couldn't bear to look at me another second.

And then it was just me and June but the distance between us felt like entire continents had cracked open. .

But she didn't offer me a seat. Didn't offer me anything.

"So?"

she said, folding her arms tighter.

"Go ahead. Say what you came to say."

I took a shaky breath. My throat burned. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. But I'd come this far.

"June, this isn't something we can rush. This is... this is our future."

Her eyes went wide—then narrowed like knives. And she laughed. A bitter, jagged sound that cut through me like glass.

"You really are the most arrogant, delusional man I've ever known,"

she snapped.

"Our future? What future? The one we built together—and you shattered without blinking?"

"I know how that sounds. That was arrogant. But I'm desperate, okay? Just—just give me a second. Please."

She didn't answer. Didn't blink. Just stared. Waiting. Daring me to dig the grave deeper.

"I'm sorry,"

I said.

"I was wrong. Completely wrong. I think—I know I did cheat. Emotionally. I let something start with Selene. But it was over months ago. It only lasted a month."

She smiled. It was the saddest thing I'd ever seen on her face.

"Congratulations,"

she said quietly.

"Do you want a medal?"

"I didn't sleep with her."

"Oh, fantastic,"

she snapped, her voice rising, trembling.

"Should I order you a trophy? A fucking parade?"

"I know how much it hurts. I know. I don't blame you for being furious—I deserve every ounce of it. But I need you to understand. I wasn't chasing her. I was chasing some version of myself I thought I'd lost."

The silence was louder than any scream.

"But I love you Junie,"

I whispered.

"More than anything. I just didn't know how to be the man you deserved. But I want to be. I'm trying to be."

She said nothing.

"There's something I need to tell you,"

I said, and my voice felt like it was being dragged out of my throat with a rusted hook.

She didn't answer. Didn't even blink. But something in her jaw shifted—tightened—like she was bracing herself for the blow.

"I kept something from you,"

I admitted.

"Something big."

June stood there, waiting—stoic and silent, the way someone waits for a storm they already know is coming.

"I was drowning,"

I said, my voice cracking under the weight of it.

"In debt. In fear. In shame. It wasn't just money—it was everything. The numbers stopped making sense. The business was bleeding and I didn't know how to stop it. I was making up answers, lying to the bank, lying to myself—lying to you. Every single day."

I took a breath, but it felt like inhaling glass.

"I couldn't sleep. I couldn't breathe. I'd lie awake next to you every night, staring at the ceiling, watching the woman I loved sleep peacefully beside me—and all I could think about was how I was going to destroy your life. That I was going to be the reason you lost everything. The studio. The wedding. The future we planned. I'd look at you and feel like a fraud wearing a ring he hadn't earned."

I tried to laugh, but it came out choked.

"Do you even know how humiliating that is? I'm an accountant, June. An accountant. Numbers were supposed to be the one thing I could control. The one thing I was good at. And I still failed."

I rubbed my face, ashamed to look at her.

"I was supposed to be the safe one. The steady one. And I was coming apart at the seams..."

She swallowed hard, but again said nothing.

"And then Selene showed up,"

I continued.

"At that exact moment. Just... there. Offering something easy. No history. No weight. No disappointment. I didn't run to her because I loved her, June. I ran to her because she reminded me of who I used to be. Young. Invincible. Not a man failing the woman he loves."

I looked up, praying for something in her eyes. But what I saw there wasn't hope. It was heartbreak.

"So Selene knows?"

she asked, her voice small, fragile—but sharp enough to bleed.

"Yes,"

I said.

"I told her everything."

Her eyes widened—not with shock, but with a deeper kind of devastation. The kind you don't scream about. The kind that settles behind your ribs and slowly poisons everything soft in you.

She turned away for a second. Just a second. Like she couldn't bear to look at me.

And I should've stopped there. God, I should've. But the guilt had cracked me open too far to stop the bleeding.

"I also..."

I swallowed.

"I lived with her. For a month. After you left."

Her voice trembled, but it cut straight through me like a blade.

"I suspected it,"

she said slowly, like the words were burning her mouth.

"But to hear it confirmed... you actually moved in with her."

Her eyes searched mine, begging for some explanation that wouldn't break her—but I had none.

"You shared a home with her. Our home was still full of boxes and dreams and pictures of us and—you just left and started a new life like I meant nothing."

She shook her head, laughter catching on a sob.

"God. You didn't even wait. You didn't grieve us. You didn't try to fight for me. You moved on like I was just a phase you outgrew. Like our six years were a detour before you got back to the person you really wanted to be."

Her voice cracked on the next words, full of raw betrayal.

"And now you're standing here—here—talking to me about our future?"

She was crying now, silent and furious and heartbroken all at once. Her hands trembled, but she didn't wipe away the tears.

"Do you know how cruel that is?"

she whispered.

"To come back after all that and ask me to pretend like it didn't happen? Like you didn't build something new with someone else while I was still trying to breathe through the wreckage you left me in?"

"It wasn't—God, June, it wasn't what it sounds like. I was broken. I had nowhere to go—"

"YOU HAD EVERYWHERE TO GO,"

she snapped, tears finally spilling down her cheeks.

"You had friends. Family. A million other options. You didn't go to her because you had nowhere else—you went to her because that's who you chose."

She shook her head. Stepped back like my presence physically hurt.

"And now you want to stand here in my house and beg for forgiveness like I'm supposed to be proud you didn't sleep with her? You want a gold star because you only gave her your secrets and your nights and your broken pieces? you want a reward because you only lived with for a month?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat had closed around the shame and there was nothing left but the sound of her breathing—shattered and shallow.

"Do you realize,"

she said, her voice trembling, barely containing the quake beneath her skin.

"that while you were in her bed—sharing her bed—confiding in her, playing house like it was some fucking fairytale..."

Her eyes finally met mine, and God, they burned.

"I was having panic attacks? trying to remember how to breathe. I was at my mother's grave, sobbing into dirt, asking her what I did wrong. What I did to make you stop loving me."

I flinched. Every word hit like a blade.