“Mm-hmm,” she hums, raising her chin ever so slightly.
Unable to resist the temptation, I give her a quick peck and continue swaying us back and forth.“Is your mama a faker, too, then?”
Mirth dances in her pretty gaze.“You noticed the accent, huh?”
“Just a little bit,” I tease.
“My mom’s from the deep south, which is why her accent is stronger than mine and my dad’s.She moved to Austin after she met my daddy, and they settled down here, in this house.”Her baby blues roam the room as if flipping through childhood memories in a photo album.I wish I could see it.A glimpse into those memories.It doesn’t take a genius to know they were filled with a hell of a lot more happiness than mine.And even though the realization makes me jealous as hell, I’m grateful for it, too.That she was protected from abusive fathers and screaming matches that would rattle the pictures on the walls.I shake off the memories, refusing to let them ruin this moment when they’ve already ruined enough.
Grasping her hand, I twirl June around.“And where’s the bad news?”I prod.
“The southern charm you’ve mentioned?”She bats her lashes like a true southern belle.“Mine is a bit more watered down than my mother’s.”
“Until you come around her,” I quip.“Then it hits with a vengeance.”
She laughs.“You should’ve heard me when I was learning how to talk, and the only person I was hanging around during the day was my mama.”A whistle escapes her pouty lips.“Nowthatwas some southern charm.”
As I imagine it, a baby June Bug with a mop of brown curls and sparkling blue eyes, my chest aches and longing fills my bones.I wish I could’ve seen it.Witnessed a little June with sourdough fingers and flour on her cheeks as she helped her mama in the kitchen.
Will she teach her kids how to cook, too?Will she ask them to call her mama or will she stick with mom or mommy?I kind of hope she leans toward the former.Keeping to her roots and all.
“Speaking of charm.”She smooths out the fabric of my T-shirt.“You’ve been quiet tonight.”
“Have I?”
“Mm-hmm.”She hesitates.“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
Her eyes bounce around my face like before, only this time, it’s as if she’s searching for something.“You still nervous?”
“Nah,” I lie, “just cautious.”It’s partially true.
“Cautious?About what?”
“Guess I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Who says another shoe’s going to drop?”she asks.
Instead of answering, I shrug, then twist her around again, guiding her to a song neither of us can hear.
When she makes it back to my chest, she murmurs, “Can I ask you something?”
I continue swaying us back and forth.“What?”
“Why’d you set this up if you were so nervous?”
It’s a good question.One I’ve asked myself a hundred times since calling her parents and asking if we could visit for the weekend.When I told Violet my plans, she could see my anxiety, too.After helping me pack June’s things, she patted my cheek like an old grandmother and murmured, “She must really mean a lot to you,” and damn, if it wasn’t the truth.June does mean a lot to me.So much so, logic seems to take a backseat when it comes to making her smile.
“Maybe I was thinking of me when I set this up.”I dip her over my arm, then pull her back to her feet.“Maybe all I wanted was to make you happy.”
With a sad smile, she asks, “Yeah, but are you happy?Because, if you’re not?—”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” I answer, “I’m just…” Melancholy grows in my chest.“You’re gonna have to give me a minute.Some time to, uh, to warm up to the idea of parental figures not hating me.”
