I heard the familiar click of a door opening and closing and peeled back the plaid blanket from my lap. June came into view, making a beeline for our egg chair and sliding in beside me. I covered us with the blanket and noticed June was holding her notebook to her chest.
“Is that what I think it is?” I asked. I knew she’d begun writing our story, but she’d been shy about letting me read it.
“It is,” she replied, then bit her lip.
“You’re nervous.” I knew her tells by now.
June nodded, then shook her head, like she couldn’t decide. I had no idea what she was feeling. She must have seen my confused expression, as she smiled and said, “I wrote about how we met, all of it, up until the moment we came out here and you told me ‘write me for you.’” She paused then.
“Okay?” I asked, still unsure what was happening to make her so cagey.
She handed me the notebook, but I went to open it, her soft hand on mine stopped me. My eyes immediately met hers. She swallowed then said, “Then I wrote more.” June stared off at the crescent moon. Our five a.m. starts had gotten earlier and earlier until, most nights, we sat out here all night long. It had become my favorite part of the day—just us, on our egg chair, on the porch, under the moon and stars. Everything was quiet and peaceful, and I had my girl right beside me. Illness drifted away from us when we were here—all the sickliness, the pain, the aches, and the fear of getting our first set of results that were quickly heading our way.
Out here, we were just Jesse and June, a couple of seventeen-year-olds falling quickly for the other. It was simple. Easy.
“Junebug?” I said, and she settled back into me.
“I kept going,” she said, and I waited for her to go on. June put her hand on the notebook next to mine. “Once I started”—she tapped her chest—“it just poured from me, my heart guiding my fingers until I had written beyond how we met.”
I stared down at the notebook, at our hands side by side, like they were protecting our fledgling love story inside.
June sighed. “I’m sick of all the bad days, Jesse,” she said. “I want to write about love and laughter andsurviving.Thriving.”
She turned to me and her brown eyes were glistening, shining like the garnet crystals my sisters had on their bedside tables.
June took hold of my hand and brought it to her lips. “This book I’ve begun writing…it’s our happily ever after.”
My heart began to race so fast, it took my breath away for a moment.
“Ibelievewe will make it through this trial,” she hastened to add, her open expression imploring me to understand. “I do. But just in case we don’t…” She trailed off, a flicker of fear in her beautiful stare as she let that sentence land.
“You wanted to give us our happily ever after anyway,” I said, understanding why she had been so nervous to tell me. June’s smile was watery as she nodded, and a tear escaped out of the corner of her eye.
“When I’d finished what had actually been our start, I began thinking of us in the near future,” she said, “out in the world, cancer free and able to live out our dreams?—”
“But together,” I interrupted, and she laid her head on my shoulder.
“Together,” she repeated. We were silent a few moments before she said, “It’s been helping me, writing this book. Helping me keep going—just like you do.”
June opened the notebook, and her handwritten story came into view. I smiled and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Your handwriting is just as pretty as you are,” I said. “How’s that possible? My handwriting looks like chicken scratch.”
“Well, I can’t throw a football, so I’d say we both have our own strengths.”
“Touché.”
“Read,” she instructed. So I did. I smirked, feeling pretty damn proud about how she felt for me in the beginning. But my favorite part…
“I love the chapters from my point of view,” I said.
June worried her lip. “Really? I wasn’t sure if I should have done that. Put myself in your brain. It’s just all my favorite books have the male perspective too. I didn’t want to presume how you felt for me or how your inner narrative sounded or?—”
“Junebug,” I said, stopping her with a kiss. June sucked in a breath just as my lips met hers. I had only meant to stop her spiraling, but once I kissed her, it was like we didn’t want to ever stop. When I finally pulled away, I said, “You have my full permission to write my chapters.” I tapped the notebook. “You could never get how I feel about you wrong.” June exhaled a relieved breath. “In fact, I would say you could kick it up a notch.”
“Trouble,” she joked, tapping my chest, and I kissed her again. Just reading how she felt—still felt—about me blew me away. “You okay?” she asked, clearly noticing my floored reaction.
I swallowed a lump in my throat and said, “I’m just stunned at howyoufeel forme…”
June waited patiently for me to continue.
