Chapter 19: Dinner and Denial
The late afternoon sun slanted through the dining room window, turning the motes of dust above the table into flecks of spinning gold. It caught the faded blues and roses of the wallpaper, the old portraits of stern-looking ancestors Cass had never bothered to take down, and the rich amber of the iced tea in Jessica’s glass. The air hummed with the lazy, contented buzz of a big meal settling.
June pushed the last bit of black-eyed peas around her plate with a fork. “So Dr. Pembroke says the large animal rotation is the hardest, but that’s just because he’s bitter he didn’t get the small animal residency in Dallas.”
“I still think you should specialize in horses,” Jessica said, leaning back in her chair and stretching her arms. A silver bracelet glinted on her wrist, a recent purchase from the mall two towns over. “Way more romantic. And you already know everything about them.”
“Knowing everything is the problem,” June said, a smile playing on her lips. “I want to learn something I don’t know. Like… llamas. Or zoo animals. Maybe a giraffe will need its hoof trimmed.”
“A giraffe’s hoof,” Jessica snorted, kicking June’s chair leg gently under the table. “You’re ridiculous.”
From the other end of the long table, near the head where Wade sat silently nursing his second cup of coffee, a low voice cut through their laughter. “A giraffe’s leg is called a cannon bone, same as a horse. Anatomy’s not that different.”
June’s eyes flicked up. Archer sat across from her, one arm slung over the back of his chair, a faint, knowing smirk on his face. He’d been quiet through most of dinner, a quiet presence that somehow took up more space than his lean frame should allow. He’d shown up two months ago, answering Wade’s ad for a hired hand who knew engines and didn’t mind dawn. He was good with the machinery, kept to himself, and had a way of looking at things—fences, cattle, people—like he was tallying a list of repairs.
“Thank you, Professor,” June said, her voice dripping a sweetness she didn’t feel. She focused on Jessica. “Anyway, the application’s due in October. Mom said she’d help me with the essay part.”
“Your mom the famous writer,” Jessica sighed dramatically. “Must be nice.”
Cass, carrying a platter of leftover cornbread from the kitchen, caught the tail end of the comment. She set the platter down with a soft thump. “Famous is a strong word. ‘Published’ is the one we use. And the essay is about you, Junebug. I’m just the spell-check.” Her smile was warm, but her eyes held a familiar, weathered caution as they briefly touched Archer’s face. He was an unknown variable in her carefully balanced equation.
Under the table, the toe of a worn work boot brushed against June’s ankle. It wasn’t an accident. The touch was deliberate, a slow scrape of rough leather against her skin. She jerked her foot back.
“Sorry,” Archer murmured, not sounding sorry at all. He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes on her over the rim of the mug. They were a peculiar, light hazel, almost gold in this light.
“You’re in my space,” June said, her voice tight.
“Plenty of space under there,” he replied, his smirk widening a fraction. “Just stretching.”
Without looking, June kicked out. She meant to connect with his shin, a sharp, reprimanding tap. But he moved, shifting his leg just as her foot lashed out. Her boot hooked behind his calf instead, and with a yelp of surprised effort, she tugged.
His chair legs screeched against the old wooden floor. He slammed a hand down on the table to steady himself, but the jolt was enough. The plate of cornbread at the table’s center trembled, then tipped. Two golden squares tumbled through the air, landing with two soft, sad thumps on the braided rug.
The room went still.
Wade set his coffee cup down with deliberate precision. “Something the matter?”
Jessica bit her lip, trying to stifle a giggle. Cass closed her eyes for a brief second, a portrait of maternal patience.
Archer looked from the cornbread carcasses on the floor to June’s flushed, defiant face. A low, rumbling chuckle started in his chest. It wasn’t a mean sound, but it was full of a provoking amusement that made the heat in June’s cheeks burn hotter. “Guess the giraffe’s got a kick on her after all.”
“You started it,” she hissed, leaning forward.
“I was stretching. You declared war.”
“Your stretching is invasive!”
“Your defense is overly aggressive. Poor tactical move. Left your flank wide open.” He leaned forward too, mirroring her posture across the tablecloth. The scent of him—sun, diesel, and plain soap—crossed the space between them.
“Children.” Cass’s voice, dry and firm, cut the tension. She bent to pick up the cornbread. “That’s enough. For heaven’s sake, the way you two go at each other, anyone would think you were long-lost siblings.” She said it lightly, a common mother’s refrain, but the words hung in the air for a beat too long.
Wade’s gaze moved from June to Archer, his expression unreadable. There was a similarity there, he’d noted it before. Not in features, but in the set of the jaw, the stubborn light in the eyes. A certain readiness for conflict.
“He’s not my brother,” June muttered, slumping back in her chair, suddenly aware of everyone looking at her.
“Thank God for small mercies,” Archer said, but his chuckle had faded. He looked away, out the window to where the long shadows of the barn stretched across the yard. A muscle in his jaw tightened.
The moment broke. Jessica launched into a story about a mishap at the drive-in, her hands painting pictures in the air. Wade asked Cass about the leaky faucet in the tack room. Normal sounds resumed.
But June sat stiffly, the ghost of that leather brush against her ankle lingering. She watched Archer as he stood, taking his plate and cup to the kitchen without being asked. He moved with an efficient, un-wasted grace. He paused at the doorway, glancing back. His eyes met hers, just for a second. The gold in them seemed to catch the dying sun, and in that brief, unguarded glance, she didn’t see mockery. She saw something more complicated. A challenge, yes, but also a recognition, as if he saw the same restless, fighting spirit in her that he carried in himself.
Then he was gone, the screen door slapping softly behind him as he headed back toward the machinery shed.
“He’s weird,” Jessica whispered, leaning close.
June didn’t answer. She looked down at her hands, at the small, neat scars from nicks and bites and childhood adventures. She thought of the application in her desk upstairs, of the clean, sterile future it promised. It suddenly felt very far away from this sun-drenched, cornbread-scented room, from the simmering, irritating presence of a hired hand who knew what a giraffe’s leg bone was called and looked at her like he could read the riot act written in her soul.
“Yeah,” June finally said, her voice quiet. “Weird.”
Outside, the rhythmic clang of a hammer on metal began, steady and purposeful, beating time against the quiet settling of the evening. It was a sound that felt like an answer to a question she hadn’t asked out loud.
It was a sound that felt like an answer to a question she hadn’t asked out loud. The relentless hammering finally stopped, leaving a silence that seemed louder. June pushed her plate away and gathered her courage with a slow inhale.
“Mom? Dad?” she began, her voice carefully neutral. “Me and Jess were thinking of driving into Williamsburg on Saturday. There’s a big bookstore there, and the library has some veterinary journals I can’t get online.” She felt Jessica’s supportive foot press against hers under the table. “We’d study, maybe do a little shopping. Be back late.”
Wade set his fork down. He looked at her, then at Jessica’s carefully composed, innocent face. The look in his eyes wasn’t suspicion, exactly; it was the deep, weary knowledge of a man who’d once been twenty-one himself. “Williamsburg,” he repeated. “An hour there, an hour back. That’s a lot of ‘studying’ in a city with all those neon distractions.”
“We’re adults,” June said, the phrase tasting rehearsed and thin.
“You are,” Cass agreed, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her tone was milder than Wade’s, threaded with an understanding that came from her own past rebellions. “And you live here. Your dad’s rule stands. Under this roof, you follow the house rules. It’s about respect, not permission.”
June held her breath. Wade’s gaze was a physical weight. “Midnight,” he said finally, the word a grudging concession. “Not a minute past. And you call when you’re leaving the city, and again when you hit the county line. Truck better be in the drive at 12:01.”
“It will be,” June said, the relief making her giddy. “Promise. Thanks, Dad.”
“Thank you, Mr. Collins!” Jessica chirped, her smile brilliant.
Cass gave a small, knowing nod, her eyes lingering on the eager light in her daughter’s face. She remembered the feel of city air, the thrill of a secret self presented to a anonymous crowd. “Be smart,” she added, a quiet codicil to Wade’s law.
The girls cleared the table with unprecedented speed, their eyes meeting in silent, victorious triumph as they stacked plates in the kitchen sink.
Two nights later, the barn loft was a whirlwind of discarded denim and the sharp, sweet scent of body spray. June stood in her bra and shorts, shimmying into a short, black dress that shimmered under the single hanging bulb. Jessica, already zipped into a tight crimson bandage dress, expertly applied a second coat of mascara in the foggy mirror propped on the old writing desk.
“They bought it so easy,” Jessica laughed, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. She pulled a bulky, faded Graydon High School t-shirt over her shimmering dress, the fabric instantly swallowing her frame into shapeless innocence. June did the same with an old flannel shirt, leaving it unbuttoned over her own dark sequins.
They clattered down the loft ladder, their cowboy boots echoing in the barn’s hollow below. In the farmhouse doorway, they presented their wholesome disguises. “Bookstore closes at nine, library at ten!” June called, kissing Cass’s cheek. “We’ll call!”
Wade gave a short nod from his armchair, his eyes narrowing slightly at the unusual shine on June’s lips. “Drive careful. Midnight.” Her younger brother, Jackson, barely looked up from his video game, offering a silent, shy wave from the couch.
The moment the truck doors shut, the real transformation began. The flannel and t-shirts were balled and tossed behind the seats as June fired up the old Ford. The radio blared a pounding hip-hop beat, shaking the dusty dashboard. They sped down the dark county roads, the yellow lines hypnotic, the city’s glow a smudge of promise on the horizon.
An hour later, they stepped into another universe. The bass from The Grotto hit them first, a physical vibration in the chest. Then came the smell of spilled beer, cloying perfume, and human sweat. A massive bouncer scanned their IDs with a disinterested flick of his flashlight, then waved them into the swirling, strobe-cut darkness.
Jessica vanished into the crowd, returning with two neon-green drinks. June took one sip, the sugary liquor burning her throat, and set it aside on a ledge. Her mother’s stories, her grandfather’s legacy in a Lubbock rehab, echoed like a sober mantra in her skull. She watched Jessica drain her cup and grab another.
The music was a living thing. June let it move her, at first just a sway, then a full surrender to the rhythm. A man in a dark shirt materialized in front of her, his smile white in the black light. He was handsome in a generic way. His hands settled on her hips, guiding her movement against his. She let him, closing her eyes, losing herself in the anonymous, percussive release.
Near the bar, Jessica whooped, holding her phone aloft to capture the scene—June’s head thrown back, the stranger’s hands roaming lower on her back. The video would be on her story in minutes, a burst of glittering chaos unseen by the blocked accounts of Wade and Cassidy.
The man’s lips brushed her ear, his breath hot. June was about to pull back, the first prickle of real discomfort cutting through the buzz of the noise, when a different hand clamped onto her bare upper arm like a vise.
It yanked her sideways, hard. She stumbled, her heel catching on the sticky floor. The handsome stranger’s face blurred away, replaced by Archer’s.
He was close, too close. His eyes were glazed, his pupils wide in the strobe. The smell of whiskey rolled off him. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted over the music, his voice slurred but fierce. “That guy’s hands were everywhere. You’re being stupid.”
June wrenched her arm free, the shock igniting into fury. “Get off me! What are you, my keeper?” She shoved at his chest, but he was solid, unmovable. “What are you doing here?”
“This is my place,” he shot back, sweeping his arm out at the club. His balance wavered just slightly. “I come here. To get away from… everything.” He leaned in, his gaze intense and accusing. “Maybe you followed me. Maybe you came looking for a fight, since you seem to love ‘em so much.”
The absurdity of it, the violation, choked her. “You think the world revolves around you? I didn’t even know you’d be here!” The lie felt weak even to her; some part of her had wondered.
He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “Right. You just happen to pick the one spot I go to. You’re acting like a kid playing dress-up. This isn’t you.”
“You don’t know anything about me!” she screamed, the music swallowing her words. Her body still thrummed with the interrupted dance, with anger, with a confusing humiliation. He stared at her for another searing second, his expression a storm of drunken judgment and something else, something raw that looked almost like betrayal.
Then he turned and shoved back into the undulating crowd, swallowed by the flashing lights and the sea of bodies, leaving her standing alone and violently seen.