Chapter 5: Girls' Debrief
The old couch springs groaned a familiar complaint as June shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t remind her of every childhood family movie night. Her parents’ living room held its breath in the Saturday morning light, dust motes swirling in the sunbeams. She couldn’t stop smelling woodsmoke on her skin. A phantom ache, deep and sweet, pulsed in reminder.
The front door blew open without a knock.
“Rise and caffeinate, sinner!” Chloe’s voice preceded her, a whirlwind of leopard print and faux fur. Sarah followed, more subdued in a hoodie and jeans, holding a paper bag and a bottle of champagne like a holy relic.
June sat up, pulling her robe tighter. “It’s ten a.m.”
“Exactly. The witching hour for post-coital debriefs.” Chloe kicked the door shut and beelined for the kitchen, returning with three orange juice glasses. “Your mother let us in. She’s in the garden talking to her rose bushes. We have time.”
Sarah popped the cork with practiced ease, the sound like a tiny celebration. She filled the glasses with frothing mimosa and handed one to June. “No prevarication. We saw your car wasn’t here last night. We know you weren’t at your apartment.”
Chloe plopped onto the floor, cross-legged, her eyes wide with theatrical expectation. “Start with the topography. The cabin. Was it full of dead animals?”
“No dead animals. Just books. A lot of books.”
Sarah took a seat in the wingback chair, sipping. “Books are good. Brains are sexy. Proceed.”
June felt a flush creep up her neck. She took a long drink. The champagne bubbles fizzed against her tongue, sharp and bright. “We had stew. He cooks. Really well.”
“June,” Chloe said, placing her glass down with deliberate calm. “We are not here for a food review. We are here for the meat. Metaphorically and, we hope, literally.”
The laughter burst out of June, nervous and loud in the quiet house. It felt good. Normal. A tether back to her old self. “Okay, fine. Jesus.” She pulled a cushion onto her lap, a flimsy shield. “He’s… attentive. Like, painfully attentive. He asks for feedback.”
Sarah’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline. “Feedback? Like a performance review?”
“Kind of. He just… he listens. To everything. What you say, what you don’t say.” She swirled her drink, watching the bubbles rise. “It’s unnerving.”
“Okay, the vibe is intense and cerebral,” Chloe summarized. “We dig it. Now, translate ‘attentive’ into a physical action. A singular, memorable, life-altering physical action.”
June looked at her friends, their faces a blend of mischief and genuine care. The words tumbled out, lower, confessional. “He just… looks at you. Like he’s reading the fine print on your soul. And his hands… they’re rough. From building stuff, I guess. But he’s so… gentle with them. Until he’s not.” She took another gulp. “He… well. The rumors are true. About him being… proportionally impressive.”
Chloe choked on her mimosa. Sarah just grinned, a slow, wicked spread of satisfaction. “I told you,” she said to Chloe.
“Details, woman. Dimensions. Comparisons. Use fruit if necessary.”
“I’m not using fruit,” June snorted, burying her face in the cushion. Her voice came out muffled. “It’s a lot. It’s a lot to get used to. But he… he makes sure you’re used to it.”
The room got quiet. The teasing energy shifted, cooled into something more serious. June lifted her head. The ghost of his weight was still on her. The memory of his voice in the dark. Your feedback, remember?
“The thing is…” she started, then stopped. She studied the worn pattern on the rug. “It doesn’t feel like just a thing. A fling. It feels… consequential.”
Sarah set her glass down on the side table with a soft click. “Consequential how?”
June met her gaze. “Like I’m standing on a cliff edge. And the view is… breathtaking. But the drop is a mile down.”
Chloe’s teasing smirk softened. She reached over and poked June’s knee. “You’re scared.”
“Yeah.”
“Of him?”
“No.” The answer came instantly, surprising her. “Of me. Of this… wanting. It’s so big. It feels like it could rewrite everything. What if I’m just lonely? What if I’m just… a project for him? Something to pass the time up at the lake?”
Before Sarah or Chloe could answer, her phone, face-down on the coffee table, buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again. Three rapid-fire pulses.
Chloe’s eyes widened. “Is that him?”
June flipped the phone over. The screen lit up with his name.
FORD.
Still taste you.
Thinking about the sound you made when you came.
When can I see you again?
The blood rushed to her face, a hot, undeniable tide. She fumbled, trying to turn the screen off, but it was too late. Both her friends had leaned in, their eyes scanning the words.
“Holy shit,” Sarah whispered, her sarcasm evaporated into pure awe.
Chloe just fanned her face dramatically. “Okay, okay. He’s not a talker, he’s a texter. A filthy texter. I retract all previous skepticism.”
June’s thumbs hovered over the screen. What could she possibly say back? Every conceivable response felt too coy, too eager, too… small.
She was still frozen when a new voice, calm and amused, floated in from the hallway.
“Sounds like someone knows how to communicate his intentions.”
June’s head snapped up. Her mother stood in the doorway, holding a basket of freshly cut lavender, her gardening gloves tucked under her arm. She wore a faded Grateful Dead t-shirt and paint-splattered jeans, her gray hair in a long braid over one shoulder. A small, knowing smile played on her lips. She’d clearly been listening for more than a moment.
“Mom!” June squeaked, instinctively slamming the phone face-down again, as if that could erase the last thirty seconds.
“What?” her mom said, walking into the room and setting the basket on the mantel. The sweet, pungent scent of lavender bloomed in the air, mixing with the champagne. “I was coming to ask if you girls wanted scones. I heard giggling, then I heard serious tones. A mother gets curious.” She looked at Chloe and Sarah. “Hello, girls.”
“Hi, Mrs. E.,” they chimed, a perfect duet of caught-out children.
June’s mom turned her placid gaze to her daughter. “Ford. That’s the man who built the cabin by Willow Lake, yes? The one with the hands?”
June could only nod, mortification solidifying in her veins.
Her mother nodded thoughtfully, picking a piece of dirt from her thumbnail. “Good with his hands is important. In all things.” She looked at June, her eyes the same clear green as her daughter’s, but weathered by decades of sun and life. “Your father had good hands. Still does.” She patted June’s shoulder as she passed on her way to the kitchen. “Don’t overthink the cliff, honey. Sometimes you just have to jump. The falling is the best part.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.
Chloe was the first to speak, her voice hushed. “Your mom… is the coolest person on the planet.”
Sarah picked up her mimosa. “I need to call my mother and tell her she’s a disappointment.”
But June wasn’t listening. She was staring at the blank, dark screen of her phone. The falling is the best part. Her mother, the eternal hippie, had summed it up in a way no therapy session ever had.
Her thumb unlocked the phone. The three texts glowed up at her, bold and unapologetic.
She didn’t overthink it. She didn’t craft a clever reply. She simply typed, her pulse hammering in her wrists, and hit send before she could stop herself.
JUNE.
Tonight. My place. I’ll cook.