It doesn’t take long for Law and my brother to clean up after chores, and shortly after seven we’re all buckled into Law’s truck. This is usually only a Sunday morning occurrence, and though it feels a bit strange to be shoulder-to-shoulder with Jonathan in the backseat, the drive into Jericho around the Fourth is always a treat because this is one holiday we know how to celebrate.
Nearly every farm and every house as we enter the outskirts of town is decorated with stars and stripes. Flags hang from poles and porches, red gingham tablecloths cover picnic tables, and kids are dressed in red, white, and blue. It’s a slice of Americana straight from a Hollywood movie, but there’s an earnestness to our celebration that defies cliché. We aren’t trying to be this way, we just are. I know that there will be American flag toothpicks on top of our pancake stacks, and someone will undoubtedly be serving in a sparkly headband that looks like a firework exploding. Later, the actual fireworks will be small but spectacular, and I already have plans to watch them with Sullivan. Just the thought makes me feel warm all over. And then ice cold. Even if Sullivan and I are fuzzy on what exactly they’re doing, tonight’s the night.
“You meeting up with the Tates later?” I ask Jonathan innocently as Law pulls into a parking space near the shelter house.
He shoots me a barbed look and yanks open the door. “Maybe,” he says.
“Well, either you are or you aren’t.”
“Not now,” Reb says, shutting her door just a smidge harder than necessary. “I can’t take the two of you going after each other this morning.”
Apparently, Jonathan and I haven’t done a very good job of pretending lately.
The shelter house is open air, and I can see the long picnic tables decorated with paper sparklers and flag napkins. There’s already a bit of a crowd gathered, but Ashley is the very first person I see. She’s behind the serving table, helping people collect plates and plastic utensils before they walk through the line. In shorts and a bright white tank, she looks impossibly tall and thin. Gorgeous. My heart snags at the sight of her and her quick, easy grin when a little girl drops her plate and reaches for another. I’ve betrayed Ashley in the worst possible way. It would have been one thing if I was honest with her about my surprising feelings for Sullivan. But I’m falling for him a little more every day, and she has no idea.
I feel almost feverish as I join the line, but when I get close to Ashley, I smile and reach over the table to give her a hug. I’m wicked—a lying, backstabbing Jezebel—but, God help me, I love her. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.
“You going to the barbecue later?” Ashley asks, a glint in her eye. She hangs on to my arms even when I back away, and I wonder what’s gotten into her. But then her eyes flick off to the side and I follow her gaze. Sullivan. Actually, the whole Tate clan—minus Sterling and Kari—though I know that Ashley hardly notices the rest of them. My heart sinks.
“Yeah,” I say, wondering how I can avoid the Tates. There are less than a hundred people here, and although hundreds more will come, the crowd isn’t big enough to get lost in right now. I accept a plate, fork, and knife from Ashley and wrinkle my nose in apology. “Actually, I don’t know. I’ve got some packing to do and…”
When I trail off, she stares as if I’ve lost my mind. “You’re kidding, right? June, you don’t leave for weeks. It’s the Fourth of July. You have to come. I insist.”
“She’ll be there,” Jonathan says from behind me.
A flash of anger almost makes me spin around to give my brother a piece of my mind, but now is not the time or place. I have enough balls to juggle without worrying about what will come crashing down if Jonathan and I get into it in public.
“I’ll be there,” I affirm, hoping my smile doesn’t look as thin and insincere as it feels.
“Good.” Ashley nods maternally as I continue to move down the line. “I’ve invited someone else to come, too.”
When she winks, my heart sinks.
“You have to tell her,” Jonathan whispers in my ear as someone slides a stack of pancakes onto my outstretched plate.
I don’t acknowledge his comment, but I’m quietly horrified. Maybe Sullivan and I haven’t been as stealthy as we think we’ve been. Or maybe Sullivan is kissing and telling. But the second that thought enters my mind, I dismiss it. He wouldn’t.
I head to the drinks table for coffee in a Styrofoam cup and end up in a conversation with one of my former teachers about the merits of the University of Iowa and whether I think the Hawkeyes can go all the way this year. I’m not even sure if we’re talking about basketball or football (maybe baseball?), so I smile and nod, and by the time I turn around, my family is nowhere to be seen. I scan the growing crowd, and to my utter panic watch as Law takes a seat next to Franklin Tate. Reb is reaching out her hand to Franklin’s wife, Annabelle, clearly oblivious to how rigid Jonathan has gone beside her. From thirty feet away I can sense his discomfort like a crackle in the air.
What choice do I have? To sit apart from my family would draw unwanted attention, and I can’t think of a single logical reason to do so. I walk slowly toward the table where the Tates and Bakers have cozied up, hoping that I’ll catch sight of a former classmate or someone who might entice me to join them. There’s no one. Even worse, by the time I arrive, there’s only one spot available at the entire table, and it’s next to Sullivan.
I take my spot gingerly, sliding onto the bench as if I’m mounting a green-broke horse instead of sitting down to a breakfast of pancakes and bacon. Surely Sullivan can feel my hesitation, but instead of scooting over, he remains exactly where he is, so I have no choice but to sit with my hip pressed against his. Even touching him in such a discreet way is comforting, and I let out a quiet, ragged breath. Maybe this won’t be as bad as I’m expecting. I actually feel like I can draw strength from Sullivan’s presence. I would lay my head on his shoulder if I could.
“I don’t think we’ve officially met,” Dalton Tate says, reaching across the table to shake my hand.
“We haven’t. I’m June Baker.” I put my hand in his and try not to wince when he squeezes it tight. He looks a lot like Sullivan, though his hair is much darker and shorter, and he weighs a good twenty pounds more. I’m probably reading into things, but he has a cruel look about him, or maybe he’s just serious. He doesn’t smile at me to soften his automatic greeting.
“Oh, I know who you are.” Dalton lets go of my hand and returns to the pancakes he was shoveling in when I sat down. “Jonathan doesn’t really talk about you, but I know who you are.”
Jonathan is across the table, sandwiched in between Law and Wyatt, and I can’t stop myself from glaring at him for just a second. I wish it didn’t, but it hurts to know that he doesn’t talk about me—even to the Tates. I catch myself almost immediately and focus instead on the strips of bacon that are crisscrossing my pancakes, but not soon enough.
Dalton hoots. “I like a good sibling rivalry. She could kill with that look, man.”
“Stop it,” Annabelle tells her son. “Leave her alone.” To me, she says: “I’m Annabelle, you can call me Anna. I invited your family to join us because we have so enjoyed getting to know Jonathan.”
Her comment stings, but she can’t possibly know that, and we shake hands across Sullivan and Reb. Anna fixes me with a direct, appraising look, and I feel like I’m on trial. Her tone is cordial enough, but this is not a woman I would like to cross, and I let go of her rough hand as soon as I can without appearing rude.
Soon we settle into eating and chatting, almost as if we’re good neighbors and friends casually enjoying a Fourth of July community breakfast together. But there’s tension in the air, a sense that not everything is as it should be between the nine people crowded around the picnic table.