But today, I’m tired, and I just sort of feel like being alone. Or…maybe it’s that I don’t feel like being alone around them. All my siblings are married. They all have kids. Most days, I’m fine with my single life. You know, strong, independent woman and all that. But today, my best friend is married and gone, and it just feels too hard to go look at the lives of my family and feel that gaping hole.
“Actually, I didn’t get home until late last night, and I’m exhausted. I think I’ll just see you guys next weekend.”
Everyone protests. My sisters all shout “LAMMMEEE” and “BOOOO,” but Jake is the one to say, “Love ya, June. We’ll see you next Sunday.”
We hang up, and I toss my phone onto my bed again, eyeing the giant pile of laundry mocking me. It knows I’ll never get around to folding it. It knows that I’ll leave it here all day, folding a shirt here or there, and then at bedtime, I’ll dump all these clothes back into the hamper so I can get under the covers. We’ve been doing this dance for a whole week now, darlin’. You’re never gonna fold me. Apparently, my pile of laundry is southern too.
I stand up and meander around the house, munching my popcorn, spritzing water on my potted plants, opening and closing the fridge a few times, hoping a delicious dessert will magically appear one of those times, and then checking my phone eighteen times to see if Ryan has texted me. He hasn’t. And I’m mad at myself for even caring. So what? He wants a date. He’s lengthening his stay in Charleston. He kisses like freaking Casanova, and it’s all I can think about. Like I said, so what?
Ugly truth is, I want to text him. I want to know what he’s up to. What does a man like Ryan do on his days off?
But I can’t. I can’t text him, and I won’t. Because we’re NOT dating. He gets one date just like everyone else. But what if I want more than one date?
I’ve got to get out of my head. Or rather, I’ve got to get Ryan out of my head.
After turning on You’ve Got Mail, I sink back onto my couch, bundle up under my cozy Nick Lachey blanket, and wish that this was actually making me feel better, but it’s not because I’m still staring at my phone, willing it to light up with Ryan’s name.
But then something happens. I don’t want to claim that I’m a sorceress or anything, but I’ve definitely harnessed some sort of mythical powers, because I hear a jingling sound at my front door, and I watch as the lock pops open.
Wait. Is someone breaking into my house?
I bolt upright, ready to grab the big knife that Ryan swears is actually meant for cutting food (but I don’t agree), when the front door opens, and none other than Ryan himself walks through holding two big paper bags of groceries.
I sit, wide-eyed, under my puffy blanket as I watch Ryan step inside, kick off his shoes, and then use his foot to shut the door behind him. “You hungry?” he asks, making me nearly jump out of my skin when his brown eyes cut directly to me like he knew I was sitting here all along.
“Well, hello to you too.”
He smirks, and my stomach somersaults. “I gotta get these in the fridge.” And then he’s gone—off to the kitchen to put groceries in MY fridge.
What is happening?! Did I invite him over and I forgot about it? And I’ve got to remember to move my hide-a-key.
I finally stand up and go into the kitchen. I cross my arms and lean against the counter beside the fridge. “Do you always break and enter people’s houses to store your groceries in their fridges?”
He grins, puts a carton of heavy cream in the fridge, and then leans over to kiss my cheek before going right back to his task. I have decided there is only one explanation for what is happening right now: I got in a car accident on my way home last night, and I died and didn’t know it. This must be heaven. Because Ryan looks too good and smells too good to be earthly.
His calm is making me twitch. “Did you just kiss my cheek?”
He looks at me like he’s questioning my mental stability. He is questioning my mental stability? “Something wrong with kissing you on the cheek?”
“No. Er—yes! I mean, there is after…” I pause, feeling a hot blush claw its way up my neck.
“After what, June Bug?” He’s smiling. He’s such a devil right now.
“You know…after everything that happened yesterday.”
What a busy little bee he is, swarming around my kitchen like he owns it. In fact, like the spot on my neck, I think he’s staked his claim in here. This is his kitchen now. However, to be fair, he’s used it more this past week than I have in the entirety of my living here, so it seems about right to go ahead and give it to him.
“What? The part where I saw you in your bra and panties, or the part where we made out on the dance floor?”
My stomach does a giant dip at his words. Like when you’re in an airplane, and suddenly the plane drops for a second, and you wonder if it’s going to level off again or if this is the end and your plane is going down. That’s what being around Ryan is like for me.
But who am I kidding? This plane is going down.
“Both!” My voice squeaks. “I think we should—RYAN, oh my gosh, can you please stop putting groceries away for one second?!” Okay, yeah, it’s official. I’ve snapped. I gave him one date, and now he’s moving in. It’s too much.
His brows shoot to his hairline, and he crosses the kitchen to put his hands on the side of my arms. “June, take a breath. Everything is okay. I’m just putting away groceries so I can cook us dinner later.”
“LATER?!”
“Why are you yelling?”
“I DON’T KNOW. I CAN’T BRING MY VOICE BACK DOWN.” Someone get me a paper bag! Or Stacy so she can slap me.
He chuckles and, oddly enough, doesn’t look at me like I should be joining a circus somewhere. Ryan pulls me to his chest and rubs his hand up and down my back. “It’s just dinner. Nothing serious.”
“But…you’re here. And you used a key! And you know where things go in my cupboards!”
He’s soothing me, hypnotizing me with his hand, making waves of heat across my back. “Right. I put them away exactly where you like them, so there’s nothing to worry about. Everything is the same; there are just a few extra onions in your produce drawer.”
“We’re moving too fast. One minute I hate you, and the next, you’re filling my produce drawer. What’s happening?”
He pulls me away so he can look me in the eyes. I can see that he wants to make a joke about my unfortunate filling-my-produce-drawer phrasing, but he refrains because he’s a better person than me. “I’m not trying to rush you, June. In fact, this is the opposite of rushing. I want to be friends. Spend time together and get to know each other again like normal people do. And then, I’ll take you on our date.”
I open my mouth, but Ryan talks over me. “Yes, our one and only date. I know. You don’t have to remind me.”
But that wasn’t at all what I was going to say. In fact, my rule keeps floating further and further from my mind the more time I spend with Ryan. It’s probably for the best that he doesn’t know that. So instead, I just ask, “This isn’t our date, then?”
He gives me that crooked grin of his and says, “This? No. Absolutely not. Believe me, June Bug. You’ll know when it’s the real date.”
When he sees that I’m stable again and not going to pass out on the floor, he lets go of me. I wish he didn’t.
“Hey, Ryan?”
“Hmm?”
“Why did you start calling me June Bug?” I’ve always wondered. He did it in high school, and I hated it immediately because I felt like I was supposed to, but I never knew exactly why it was insulting.
“Because you’re cute, and it sounds cute.”
A short laugh falls out of my mouth. “What! That’s it? I always assumed it was some sort of insult meant to irritate me.”
“You know what they say about assuming…”
I put my face in my hands and let another layer of truth sink over me. Ryan has been calling me a term of endearment from the beginning. He really did like me.
“Are you going to have another breakdown?” he asks casually.
I ignore his question and keep my face in my hands, trying to assemble the facts. “You said you were going to cook us dinner. It’s only ten in the morning. What are we supposed to do until dinnertime?” I lower my hands to find his brow raised and his charming smile dialed up to an illegal one billion.
