nothing exciting, though. Some gum, her credit card and ID, a tube of lipstick, a hair tie, a guy’s phone number (oops, it flutters right out of my fingers and into the wind), her cell phone, and keys.
After unlocking the front door, I scoop June up again and carry her through, amused at how much she would recoil at the idea of her greatest enemy carrying her over the threshold of her home like a syrupy-sweet couple, fresh from the wedding chapel. I consider placing a band on her ring finger just to mess with her when she wakes up.
Once we’re inside, I use my foot to shut the door behind us, plunging us into darkness. Truthfully, at the start of this evening, I might have briefly imagined taking June back to her place at the end of it. Needless to say, my fantasy looked MUCH different than this.
I flip a switch and turn on the lights. June’s house is simple but comfortable. I like it. It’s completely opposite of my apartment in Chicago. Where mine is all dark furniture, hard surfaces, and a sprawling view of the city, June has a plush yellow couch, a mid-century coffee table, a thriving fiddle-leaf fig tree that proves she remembers to water it, and picture frames full of her smiling with friends and family.
Also…wait. Is that a throw pillow with Nick Lachey’s face on it? Yep. Definitely is. More disturbing, I think there’s a blanket folded up on the end of the couch to match it. I’d go check, but honestly, I’m scared. I’m not ready to find out that June is a secret Nick Lachey mega-groupie and has been clipping letters out of magazines to send him creepy fan mail all these years. Better to assume there’s a reasonable explanation and move on.
Besides seeing Lachey’s face on way too many surfaces, the whole vibe in here makes me want to kick off my shoes, unbutton my cuffs, roll up my sleeves, sink into that couch, and sleep until noon tomorrow. It’s an urge I can’t say I’ve ever had when looking at my black leather couch. But something tells me that if I did sleep here tonight, I would wake up in the morning to June hovering over my body with a butcher knife. So instead, I make my way through her house, passing a bathroom, an office, and a kitchen before finding her room.
I turn on the light and smile at the coral, ruffled throw pillows on her bed. No man lives here. And there wasn’t a single framed photo of her with any dudes, so I don’t think she has a boyfriend. I think I’m cheating in our game right now. I’m behind enemy lines, getting an eyeful of her battle plans.
And if June’s plans have anything to do with the lacy blue bra I see hanging on her bathroom door, I’m a goner. But I’m also a gentleman, so I don’t look at that bra above four times before I set June on her bed and make my way to her dresser. I pull out a cotton t-shirt and some PJ shorts and toss them onto her lap. She’s still sitting up, but her eyes are shut, shoulders sagging.
“Put those on and yell when you’re dressed.”
Her heavy eyelids crack open, and she frowns. “I don’t like you.”
“Yeah, I got that.” I shove my hands into my pockets.
“I don’t think you do.” Her words are still slurring heavily, but I understand her perfectly. Her hair is hanging over one of her shoulders, and she’s sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing my suit jacket like a blanket. It looks way too good on her. “I haaattteee you.”
“Why?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t but also unable to resist getting this unfiltered truth.
She lifts a shoulder and drops it. “Because it’s what we’ve always done. Hate each other.”
She’s right, and the realization makes me oddly sad. June and I fought over everything in high school. We had no choice but to be around each other a lot since our best friends were dating, but we made it a point during those forced hangouts to annoy each other as much as possible. If June wanted to go to the movies, I convinced everyone we should go bowling. If I planned a New Year's Eve party, she planned a bigger, better one. If Stacy and Logan convinced us all to have a friends dinner (meaning just the four of us), I would