She was in a thoughtful mood again, and I wondered if she was contemplating something that'd had happened while I was away or the asshole on the market who had wanted to pray for her. It'd been one of those "Jesus is love" types, one that probably spent his evenings singing songs about the good Lord, and he hadn't taken no for an answer. She'd been seething, her fists clenched, her lips strained, movements snappy.

"Maybe I should move to London with you," she'd said, her voice trembling, causing two boys to throw her an inquisitive look. She hadn't seen them. "Or do people pray for you there as well?"

"Not as far as I know. But I'm pretty sure nobody could find a reason to pray for me."

A sharp glint in her eyes. "You think he had a reason?"

"No. But he thought he had a reason."

I now wished I'd tackled it differently. Of course, I wanted to be honest with her, though there was a difference between honesty and saying hurtful shit. At first, I'd thought she'd let it go, as she'd been cheerful for most of the time we'd spend picking out tomatoes and spices. During the actual cooking, however, my crappy ass jokes had been met with nothing more than silence again and again and again.

She was sitting across from me, staring into nothing with a frown on her face. Empty plates, forks, knives, and glasses were covering the wooden surface of the table. On her end, a few bites of food that had escaped her spoon before they could get to her mouth were strewn about; the image had something comforting about it, after all these months of proper people using their napkins and knowing which set of cutlery was meant for which round of dinner. I was a real fool for staying that long, and I knew for sure I was never going back, no matter what that would mean for Charlotte and me. This was where I was supposed to be.

"What are you thinking about?"

The question took her by surprise: she looked up, blinking at me. I tried to seem collected, even though on the inside, I was wondering if this had been the best method to get her to open up. She never had to ask me: she'd always known what was going on in my mind. Was that because she was simply good at reading people, or because she knew me well, or because I wasn't nearly as complex as I deemed myself to be?

"You," she said, and it seemed she hadn't been planning to, seeing as how quick the word came out.

"But I'm sitting right here."

She smiled, a true smile I'd missed more than I'd realized. "Does that mean I can't think about you? Weren't you thinking about me?"

"I was."

"See? It's normal."

I chuckled. No one was more logical than this girl. "So... do I want to know what you were thinking about me?"

She narrowed her eyes a little, inspecting me for a while. Then, she shook her head. "Probably not."

Shit. I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the feeling of doom returning to my stomach. Maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe we weren't going to get through this after all. "You can be mad at me, you know."

"I was never really good at being mad at you. I'm like my dad in that way." The smile transformed into something sarcastic, something laden with pain. She gazed down again, at her own hands lying still in her lap, and I felt that this was the opening I'd been looking for.

"How is your dad?" There had been times when I'd considered calling Mr. Guevara directly; I had his number in my phone, after all. Something had stopped me every single time, and while back then, I hadn't known what exactly that had been, I now began to wonder if I hadn't wanted to disappoint him with the fact I wasn't as strong as he was. He'd braced a five-hour commute for two years to earn money for a better life for him and his wife, and I couldn't even handle a top position in one of the most luxurious parts of London.

"Yeah, he's doing good, still working really hard..." Her voice trailed off. She scratched her brow, then said: "Actually, that's a lie. He's getting worse every day, also because of my mother... And he still smokes. A lot. It's too expensive, and he knows it, but he keeps doing it. Keeps telling me it'll be alright as well. He never tells me how, though." It was such an extensive answer I just stared at her, and the sarcastic smile changed into a grimace. "Too much honesty?"

"No, of course not. Just thinking about it first."

She nodded. Instead of nearly seventeen, she seemed seventy at that moment, the weight of her problems pushing her shoulders down, something serious taking over her eyes. What had she been through in all those months I'd spend on the other side of the world? And why hadn't I tried harder to be there for her, like she'd always been there for me? I'd not only been a lousy person when it came to Charlotte but also when it came to her. I really couldn't do anything right, could I?

"Are you afraid he might be..."

"...heading for another heart attack?" she finished for me. She huffed. "Yeah. All the time."

That was not something someone her age should be worrying about. She should be busy with her grades, with colleges, friends, reading books — not with her father and his health. As much as I liked Mr. Guevara, I couldn't help but feel a surge of irritation at him for putting his daughter through all of this. She had it difficult enough. At that, the guilt in my stomach grew again, realizing how I should've asked this question months ago.

I stared at her, trying to think of something to say. I'd meant it. I didn't want to be a problem anymore, I wanted to be a solution. To be there for her when she needed someone. And it looked like she'd been needing someone for a long time now. What would she have said to me, if our places had been switched? "I know what that's like," I said. I couldn't meet her eyes; I had no idea if she'd appreciate me moaning about my own sad life. "With Lena... It's not the same, but... it's similar. Waking up and thinking: 'today could be the day she's gone'. It's hard."

For a second, it seemed I'd said the wrong thing. She remained silent, eyes bright with life — you could always see she was observing something, contemplating something deep. When she finally spoke, her voice was small: "How did you deal with that?"

I shrugged. "I didn't." Only during the quiet after that, I realized how unhelpful that was. "I'm sorry. Seems I'm not that good at giving advice."

"You've given me fine advice in the past."

"I have?"

"Of course. Didn't always turn out to be true in the end, but... yeah, at those moments, it was what I needed."

She met my gaze, and suddenly, it was hard to breathe. Seemed like there was still a chance for us. If I could just be what she needed right now... "Same goes for you, you know." And probably a lot more often than the other way around.

Silence. Somehow, her observing me made me nervous; I shifted in my place, my hands itching to run themselves through my hair. I couldn't handle it any longer, neither of us speaking, so I said: "By the way, I'm surprised your mom hasn't put a stop to the smoking yet. It's not like her at all."

Seemed like I shouldn't have. Her whole body tensed, mouth straining, and when she lifted her hand to brush a curl behind her ear, her moves were jerky. "My mother hasn't been herself for a while now."

"What do you mean?"

To my astonishment, she stood up from her chair, almost smashing her plate into the ground in the process. She was looking everywhere except for at me, and both her hands were curled into fists. "I don't want to kill the mood... You're only here for a few days, right? There are better ways to spend those than talking about my mother."

Her reaction confused the hell out of me. Since when did she call her mom her 'mother'? Did they have a fallout? She was starting to gather the dishes, sloppy and heedless, and it was painful to watch. I wasn't used to her avoiding any subject; I'd always thought she told me anything — not only me but every other person that wanted to listen.

"Leave the dishes. They're not important."

I didn't expect her to comply, but she did, almost immediately. She didn't sit down again, just stood there, shoulders huddled, one hand in the other, fingers moving, her left little finger raised for some obviously unintended reason. The ring was still there, well taken care of, and suddenly, it struck me how all this time, she'd been wearing grandma's most treasured possession, and I'd been wearing grandpa's, around my wrist. I should've realized those two items shouldn't be apart this long.

"Tell me about your mother. Please."

Her hands curled into fists again, and she pushed them against her legs. She swallowed visibly, licked her lips. "My mother," she began, carefully pronouncing each syllable, "is severely depressed. Has been for months now. It's not as bad as back in December anymore, but she still has enough days where she's just lying in bed, doing nothing. You're probably all too familiar with it."

Her mother? Mrs. Aranda? Depressed? If there was one thing I had a hard time envisioning, it was this fierce woman in a state like that — and if there was one thing easy to imagine, it was how it felt like to have someone you loved go through that. "Why didn't you tell me?" I would've certainly come back immediately. To be honest, I couldn't even remember the reason I hadn't. Why the hell had I let Mr. Rutherford rule over me? What had I been thinking? How could I've let her down like this?

She shrugged, but a single tear had managed to fight its way out, trickling down her cheek. Her fist wiped it away before it could even really hit me. She took a deep, shaky breath. "How?" she said. "Oh, hi, Nathan, how's the weather? Raining again? Oh, hey, that sucks. By the way, my mom is depressed, and she hates me."

Everything in me was screaming to jump up and hug her, but I was afraid she wouldn't appreciate that, so I remained seated. "June, of course she doesn't hate you."

A hollow laugh. "Trust me, she does. You haven't seen her in almost a year — you have no idea what she's like now."

"What makes you think she hates you?"

"Mm, I don't know. Maybe the fact she called me 'spoiled', 'helpless', and 'weak'?" She forced a smile, then started piling up dishes again, a completely useless task, because she couldn't carry more than one plate at a time. "But it's alright," she continued, while throwing some knives on top, with more force than necessary. "That's how it's always been. I'm used to it. It's fine."

She wasn't making any sense. This time, I did get up, almost tempted to dramatically climb over the table so I'd reach her quicker. She almost looked scared of me in that moment, body completely rigid, until I grabbed her by her arms, staring down into those big brown eyes. "It's not fine," I said. "It's not fine. Even in a state like that, she isn't allowed to hurt you like that. That isn't fine, June. It's far from." No matter how desolate and melancholy Lena had been, she'd never once uttered a bad word about me — not that I knew of, at least.

She pulled herself free, sending me another unconvincing smile. "I can handle it. It's her who needs help, not me. I'm doing great. Really." But her tone was falsely high, and her hands were shaking, and she just couldn't fool me. "Did Sam tell you I got that part-time position? Pretty good, huh? Before you know it, I'll be having enough money to buy myself a house like this. Yeah, I'm not there yet, but I'll get there." As she was saying it, her voice started to waver, her shoulders tensing. "And I learned that from her, you know? All my life, dad was always proud of me, while mom..." Something Spanish left her trembling lips. "She pushed me to get better. Because good wouldn't be good enough."

That was complete bullshit. She was good enough — she was much better than Sam and me together, much better than most people I knew. "It is good enough," I said. "You should be proud of yourself. I am proud of you. And I know you'll get there, whatever your mom says. I'm serious, Junie. In a couple of years, you'll be living in a house bigger than this one, if that's what you want. You're a fighter, remember?"

For some reason, that was the thing that made her come undone. Fuck, Nathan. Said the wrong thing again, did you? She turned away from me, hiding her face behind her hands. Her shoulders convulsed and all at once, the fear came over me she'd been crying all these times while I was away, and there'd been no one to hug her and tell her how amazing she was.

How could I ever leave her again?

How could I have left her in the first place?

I touched her back, intending to be comforting — it startled her, and she spun around to face me, hastily drying her cheeks. "Sorry," she said. "This is supposed to be a fun evening. I don't want to screw it up by—"

"I hate London."

"What?" Big brown bewildered eyes. I hadn't been planning to say it, hadn't meant to — it just spilled out, like being in the company of a Guevara really was contagious.

Against all logic, a grin crept up on me, and just like when I'd first seen her again this morning, something fell off my chest. "I hate London, and I hate my colleagues. Except for Albert." No, Albert I was eternally grateful for. How long would it have taken me to discover the truth if he hadn't nudged me in the right direction?

She shook her head, somewhat stiffly. "I — I don't understand."

I shrugged. "It's the truth. And you always make me want to tell the truth. It's what you do."

Her chest was going up and down rapidly, fingers twitching, gaze flickering to everywhere and nowhere. With stumbling steps, she went to the fridge, and judging by the clanging of glass, she was getting a bottle of wine. She clutched it to her body like it was a stuffed animal she didn't want to lose, and I hoped this hadn't become a habit of hers. She seemed to sense my concern because she smiled at me over her shoulder, making me hold my breath. "Don't worry," she said, "I'm not heading for the AA yet. Haven't had any in two months. Too tired at night. It's coffee for me now."

With all her might, she concentrated on pouring the wine, immediately taking a large gulp when her glass was filled. She choked on it, luckily able to put the rest down before she could spill it all over the floor. Her eyes watered, and she wiped her mouth, flustering red. "Do you remember," she said, "that night I called you up drunk? After that party? It was morning for you."

"Of course I remember." It was one of the things that had kept me occupied; the question of what the hell was going on with her. I should've tried harder that time. Was I going to get the full story now? Did she still trust me, after all the times I let her down?

"You asked me what happened. And I said 'nothing'."

I nodded, deciding to keep my mouth shut to prevent myself from saying the wrong thing again. I just wanted her to tell me, and it seemed like she was going to, already opening her mouth. A hesitant glance. "I lied to you," she said then. "And I'm kind of sick of lying to you because you're the only one who wants to hear my truths."

I was going to need some booze too. Rather have something stronger, but the wine was the only option at hand right now. My chest tightened at the thought of what could've been done to her, and I tried to shake off the multiple horrifying scenarios running through my mind — please, let it not be too bad. I would never be able to forgive myself if it'd been too bad.

Her face was red, and I couldn't decide if it was due to the wine, or embarrassment. "I didn't want to bother you with my petty high school problems," she said, "but... there was this guy..."

"From the football team," I blurted out.

"Yeah... How... how did you know?"

"Instagram."

That amused her for a second. "You don't even have Instagram."

"Charlotte does."

And gone was her amusement. "Oh. Yeah. Of course... I forgot that you... yeah..." She got lost in her own thoughts, then rubbed her arms, looking at me again. "His name is Malik. I know him from the Computer Club. He's this guy that is just good at everything he does, you know?" If she'd smiled with it, I might've believed she was indeed in love with him. Her apparent uneasiness, however, told me that wasn't the case, and I knew I shouldn't be happy about it, but I was. "Anyway... Hayley said... Hayley said he liked me." She was avoiding my gaze now, still profusely scarlet. "And I kind of started to believe her. And it wasn't that I liked him all that much, I just... wanted to know what it was like to, you know, kiss someone."

"Kissing is overrated."

That made her laugh, a bit too loud. "Hayley keeps telling me that too. I didn't really believe her, though. So, I'd thought I'd put it to the test."

Oh god — I'd said I wanted to know everything, and I'd meant it. This, though, the idea of her kissing some lousy kid, was like a punch to the gut. It shouldn't be — she deserved to be kissed, and she deserved to pick out whoever she wanted to kiss, and I was ashamed for acting like she was this innocent being that needed to be protected. She wasn't, and I knew that. Still, I couldn't get rid of the indent that punch had made. "And it sucked?"

She blinked at me, her lips a thin line. "No. It never happened. Turns out, he did like me. As a friend. I'm a cool person, apparently, but too disabled to be attractive to 'normal' people."

What in the name of...? I couldn't say anything. My hands went to my hair, and this time, they stayed there. What kind of asshole would tell her that? Who did he think he was? Why hadn't Sam let me know about it, so I could've come home and... and...? Yeah, there were shitty people in this world, a lot of them, actually, though if you'd spend any time with June, you'd never say that, right?

"He... what...?" I couldn't form a full sentence. She seemed to get the meaning anyway.

"Yeah, he wanted to hook me up with a guy in a wheelchair." She downed some more wine, the muscles in her neck tight. "Sam tried to cheer me up by saying I was too good for someone like that. He still doesn't get why that wasn't exactly helpful."

"What a motherfucking asshole."

I meant it, an unfamiliar type of rage speeding through my veins, making me want to throw something in the pool. For some reason, my authentic anger made her laugh. "I told him to go fuck himself," she said, and her laughter evolved. "I said: 'go fuck yourself, Malik. That's probably what you prefer anyway.'"

I couldn't find the humor in it yet. There was a wild haze preventing me from thinking, and I knocked back my whole glass at once, instantly refilling it. All these things she had to walk around with for all these months... It physically hurt to realize how much I'd failed her — seemed like all I did was fail people. My parents. Lena. Sam. Charlotte. June. The list was endless.

Two years ago, I'd found her against my bedroom door, and tried to cheer her up, promising her it wasn't always going to be like that. And yeah, sure, I didn't expect that to be the last time something like that would happen to her, but this... No. Look at her. See how beautiful she was, even after crying — how could someone she'd liked, someone who'd called her a friend, treat her like a second-rate human being?

Instinctively, I reached for her hand. Hers was sweaty, and immediately tensed, but I just squeezed back, like I'd done that time as well. "I've told you once, and I'm going to tell you again... You're still a girl I'd want to kiss." Her arm wanted to pull away. I didn't let it. "Even more than back then. You're too good for that dick, June. Too good for anyone who doesn't see how amazing you are."

She was staring at me, brown eyes glistening, lips slightly parted. "When did I start pretending for you?"

With that, she rushed into my arms, fists clutching my shirt, head to my chest, her soft curls tickling my skin. Hugging her had to be one of the best things to do in this world. It was the way she gave in, like there was no one she trusted more than you... And her perfume of course, subtle as ever, mixed in with the scent of the meal we'd cooked.

She looked up to me, full of wonder and warmth, and seeing her like that, I really didn't understand how someone wouldn't want to kiss her. Wonder what it'd be like — to tangle your hands in those wild curls, to pull her close, have her lips on mine... Kiss her neck — maybe it'd taste like that perfume of hers, and somehow, that didn't seem like a bad thing. I was sure, if you took your time, didn't startle her, it'd be wonderful...

"Nathan? Nathan, are you there?"

"What?"

There was a concerned frown on her face, in spite of the warmth still present, and for a second, I wondered if I'd said those things aloud. "What about you?" she said, and I immediately understood this was just us talking again, and it was like hearing Albert's proposal all over again. I didn't even mind if the subject was going to be tough; by all means, she could stretch out this sincere conversation as long as possible, no objections. "How was New Year's?"

Oh. Of course, she would ask me. I'd already forgotten most of that particular night, probably because of Albert and me getting hammered together before I'd headed off to some party thrown by a friend of Charlotte. It'd been in the center of London, and if I was honest, the spectacular view of fireworks lighting up the sky above the Themes was one of the most breathtaking things I'd ever witnessed. Though it hadn't taken away the sting of both Sam and June being mad at me, the one more than the other. "Truthfully? I was more busy with the fact I couldn't call you than with Lena herself."

That seemed to confuse her. The frown grew more intense, and she let go of me, looking a little lost. "You still didn't tell Charlotte?" she asked, and it sounded more like an accusation than a question. She shook her head. "You do realize that's kind of weird, right?"

"It's not."

She of all people should sympathize with me; after all, she knew very well how it felt to be pitied by others, to be treated like you were this broken human being. With her, I didn't need to worry about any of that, because she'd never do that to me. She, however, seemed to see it differently. "If you say so," she said. "But you survived it, then?"

"Yeah. Did have a pounding headache in the morning, but other than that... yeah, it went fine." She laughed at that, and suddenly, my need for this conversation to go on was over, and I just wanted to make her laugh some more. "Enough of that, though... I feel like we've been serious for long enough now. Anything fun you'd like to do with me?"

The laugh was replaced by a shy smile. "Well..." she started, "I'm gonna be seventeen in two hours. If you don't count the fact I was born at two oh six am." A contemplative pause. "And then kind of died. And then lived again. Which is actually pretty impressive for a tiny baby to do."

She was right. I hadn't noticed before, but it'd gotten dark out, and the kitchen lights had already switched on automatically. Seemed like Sam was still enjoying himself at the beach or wherever he was now, and there was a pang of guilt when I realized I was glad I could give June my undivided attention. It was her birthday, though, and I'd have enough opportunities in the near future to make up for it. I'd just had to let my brother throw me in the pool once or twice, and we'd be good again.

"It is. And you're nearly seventeen, and you got yourself a top-notch part-time job, and you did it all by yourself. I'd call that even more pretty fucking impressive."

The last time she'd been this bashful, barely able to look at me, she'd been this fourteen-year-old kid who blushed when I opened up doors for her. I had to hold in a grin at the image of her like this, clearly hesitant to say something. "So... I thought... Maybe you want to dance for a while?"

There was no way I'd refuse a request like that one.

She was giggling like she used to, which probably meant she'd had too much to drink. I was constantly in stitches, which probably meant I'd had too much as well. There was something so light in my chest that it was like I was perched on top of a skyscraper, peering down — in a good way, though. And to think I was going to have more nights like these with her soon, to think that these weren't going to be rarities anymore — lucky guy I was, even though I didn't really deserve it.

For once, there were no worries about deadlines and court cases and phone calls, no worries about what I was supposed to do and if I was doing it right, no expectations to be met, no trying... I didn't need to try when I was here. I just was. And maybe that made me a coward, a failure, but if it did, then well, let me be a failure.

I had June in my arms, and she wanted to be there, little lights in her eyes dancing just like us. Who'd ever imagined I'd be doing this voluntarily, and even more, couldn't get enough of it? She was talking to me again, telling me everything. My mission had been fulfilled. Our friendship was saved. I still knew her. We whirled around the house, bumping into walls and couches and each other, her hanging onto me like she was scared I'd run away if she let me go. She didn't have to be. I wasn't about to go anywhere. There was nothing like having her close, having her relax under your touch, despite the fact her dancing skills were nothing to write home about. That didn't matter, because I was home already.

She was standing by the counter, next to what was left of her delicious birthday cake, her smile lighting up the quiet dark of the night. A tuft of whipped cream was stuck to the corner of her mouth, and for some reason, I kept watching it. Precious. If I'd had any idea where my phone was, I'd have snapped a picture. But I had no idea, and I didn't want to leave her for a single second, not even to get her present from my suitcase.

She was holding another bottle, a red one this time, nonchalantly gripping it by the neck, a dangerous act. I took it from her, wondering how on earth two barely seventeen-year-olds had come by this much alcohol. Surely, this couldn't all still be from our parents' stock, not unless they'd visited again while I'd been away, and if that were the case, she would've told me about it by now.

"Are you sure we should open up another one?"

It'd be the second one, and she was swaying somewhat already, not to mention that my mind was slightly foggy, a content buzz rushing through my veins — although, that could've just as well been the consequence of having our friendship restored. She smiled at my question, a beautiful one that made me forget what I was doing. "I just turned seventeen," she said. "I think I'm allowed to be reckless." The words came out smooth and clear. There always was this point during drinking with her when for a short period, she was actually better to understand — before going downhill rapidly, of course.

"Good point. I think I'm well within the reckless margin as well, right?"

She put her hands on her hips. "I hope so because that'd be a good excuse for your behavior of the past two months."

"Touché."

"Touché?"

"Yeah, it's a word, you know. French."

She started giggling again. "I know. I just can't believe you're using it." As I filled up her glass again, she watched me, following my every move, and I could only think of how happy it made me she still found me interesting — I hadn't completely turned into a boring adult, then. "You've been spending too much time amongst high society Brits. We need to get your American vocabulary back."

I offered her her glass, filled up again, and she grasped for it, nearly missing it. Seemed like we were getting to the next phase. "Maybe it's time for a straw—" I started saying.

Too late.

An unintended move, and the glass fell to the floor, clanking loudly, miraculously not breaking, but splattering wine everywhere.

A string of Spanish curses rang through the night as she inspected the mess she'd made. The red liquid was pooled around her feet, a large stain tainted her jeans, and her socks were drenched, glimmering in the dim kitchen light.

"Couldn't you have suggested that a minute earlier?" she said. She stepped away from the puddle, planting her left fist on the counter, and took off her socks with the other hand, practically leaning against the cabinets with the whole of her body. The socks were thrown away, and without hesitation, she pulled down her jeans.

"June, what are you...?"

She looked up at my partly finished question — and almost toppled over, due to her pants already hanging down her knees. A surprisingly good reflex made me catch her, hands wrapped around her waist like we were dancing again. She was flustered, creating a striking resemblance between her and the chaos on the tiles. Her hair was untamed, most of it not even a part of the ponytail anymore, and that damn lick of whipped cream still decorated the corner of her mouth.

"Just let me take it off," she said. "I don't want to leave wine all over the house. There's too much white here."

I shook my head. It didn't sound like a bad plan, but the execution could undoubtedly be better. I'd rather not have her end up in the hospital, certainly not since I'd have to explain the high alcohol level in her blood. "Sit down. I'll help you."

I dragged a chair towards us, planting her on it. The abrupt way she let herself drop down onto it told me this had been the right choice. She already had trouble balancing on one leg when she hadn't drunk anything, let alone when she had. Without hesitance, I crouched down before her, carefully tugging at the bottom rims of her jeans. She didn't do anything, just watched me as I pulled the denim down her feet. Her relatively meek reaction, compared to other times when I'd taken over, made me chuckle slightly, and for a second, I imagined her response if it'd been anyone else but me doing this for her.

This was the second time since I got back I was confronted with her bare legs. Like this, unmoving, there was no sign they didn't work the way they were supposed to, the skin soft and smooth. Except for the knees, of course. They were faintly bruised, raw and red in some places. And her feet; those had always born the markings of her walking pattern, colored darker there where her feet pressed against her shoes. Only when I spotted the tiny cuts near her ankle, did I realize she'd been shaving — how on earth had she managed to do that?

I looked up, ready to ask, but was silenced by two big brown eyes staring down at me. Her cheeks were flushed, a single curl dangling down her forehead, and there was something about her like this that made it impossible to form words. The tuft of whipped cream was still there, infuriatingly tempting, and all I wanted to do was take it away. I didn't, though, because something in her gaze froze me, and I watched as she neared me —

I could only just revel in the little lights, glimmering softly.

Then she kissed me.