In Our Bones

And so yes, I kissed him. It was fucking fire. I was crying, and he was probably tasting my tears, but instead of pushing me away, instead of reminding me just how fucked-up I was, he did the Booker thing: he understood.

"June..." he whispered, his lips moving against mine.

"Don't say anything," I whispered, and Booker listened. He wiped my tears away, and I recoiled.

Booker was someone else's husband. He was my best friend's husband. This was all kinds of fucked-up; I was all kinds of fucked-up.

"I think we should take some time apart," I heard myself say. No. What the fuck was I doing? I didn't want that.

Booker nodded.

"And I don't think we should tell Kansas," I said. "She won't be able to handle this right now."

He nodded again.

"We should... we should forget this happened," I said.

"Like that's going to work this time," he muttered.

"It will work," I said vehemently. "Forget this whole thing, Booker, okay?"

"And if I don't want to?"

"Booker—"

"No, shut up. I... I'm sick of this, June. Fuck it," he said, and closed the distance between us, taking my face in his hands and kissing me right on the mouth. He kissed me hungrily, over and over again pressing those hot lips against my mouth, moving his lips with mine, slipping his tongue inside. I let him taste me, let him taste the burn of the alcohol, and then I drew back and for the second time in my life, I slapped him for kissing me.

"Asshole," I said, my voice cracking again.

"No," he said, and suddenly he was pinning me against my door.

Except he wasn't. He didn't. I... his sweater was clenched in my fist, and I was pulling on it, pulling him towards me. I looked up into those golden tiger's eyes, wild and ready to tear my soul to shreds. I felt a thump in my chest, felt nothing but these intense feelings, this desire, this need, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him down and suddenly I was kissing him and he was kissing me back. I moaned into his mouth when I felt his hands slide down the curve of my hips to cup my ass. He kneaded my flesh, pulling me against him, grinding himself between my legs. I felt his erection between his thin flannel pajamas and my skirt. I hitched it up, and he turned me around, pressing me up against the door, quickly pulling my panties aside.

My eyes snapped open. He had a hand in his pajamas, as if he was midway through pulling out his cock. God.

"Are you insane?" I hissed, pushing him away.

"Are you?" he shot back.

And then I was letting him into my apartment. His lips were on mine, familiar and warm, and we were losing control. His hands were on me, everywhere on me, completing me, ruining me.

"We can't do this," I whispered. "Booker, we can't."

"How many times have you said that to me?" he asked.

"A thousand times," I choked.

"And how many times have we listened?"

My fingernails dug into his shoulder as he shoved his body against mine.

"None," I whispered. "How many more times do I have to tell you before you listen to me?"

"A thousand times," he said breathlessly, pressing his lips to my neck. I moaned, stumbling back into my couch, pulling him down with me. I found his face and kissed his hot lips. The spark that he ignited in me burst into flames. Seven years ago I'd felt this, the insanity, the forbidden taste, the fireworks that exploded behind my eyelids when he kissed me. I had never been able to replicate that moment with anyone else.

Except now.

With him.

I wanted him.

And I was going to have him.

What did I tell you? I'm not the heroine in this story.

I'm the disaster.

—

I was running down the hall, skidding along the floors, excusing myself as I bumped by other hospital staff. I'd just been paged, and I knew what it meant: Barbara. The communists again, likely, and if I didn't run, if I didn't hurry, they'd stick a needle in her and sedate her. She didn't deserve that. She needed someone to give her a chance, someone to listen to her and calm her down.

She needed me.

I heard her before I saw her.

"The communists are holding me here against my will!"

I scanned my badge and entered the psych ward, my heart thumping in my chest as I followed the sound of her voice. She wasn't just hysterical this time; she was crying. Something had scared her, likely the nurses who were walking toward her now. Why weren't they trying to help Barbara calm down?

"Juno," said a nurse. "Go hold her. She needs to be sedated. Doctor's orders."

"What the hell does that mean?" I asked, stopping, staring helplessly at Barbara as she continued to scream. My heart was cracking into a million pieces. She was distressed, she was hurting, she was lost, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it.

"We need to put her down," a nurse said. "She's got surgery this evening."

"For the hernia?" I asked.

"Yes, and she won't cooperate."

"How do you know that? Has anyone even explained it to her? Does she know what they're going to be doing to her?" I asked, my own voice rising.

The nurse looked at me, her expression flat. She was done with the shit she had to do that day. She didn't want more from me.

"Just get back then, Juno."

"Let me try," I said. "I can calm her."

"Juno," said a soft voice. I turned around. It was Kevin, one of my fellow technicians. He held out his hand. "Come on."

I took his hand, let him keep me away. I closed my eyes tightly, trying not to cry as Barbara continued to struggle and sob. She screamed, and I knew they'd stuck the needle in her.

"Technicians," a nurse said. "Come help us take her to a stretcher."

It was our job, so that's what Kevin and I did. Neither of us was happy about it, but we did what was asked of us, no matter how wrong it felt.

I hadn't been able to calm Barbara. I hadn't been given a chance to get through to her. I hadn't been able to stop the nurse from sedating her.

I was a failure.

I helped Barbara to the waiting stretcher, brushing her gray hair back from her temples with my hand. She was out cold, and it broke my fucking heart. She just lay there, so helpless, so vulnerable, and I thought about how unfair it was. It was all so unnecessary. So what if she had surgery coming up? Why couldn't we be bothered to take an extra few minutes to explain it to her? Why couldn't we take the time to help her calm down?

Because it wasn't protocol.

I left work early and told them I wasn't feeling well because if I was being honest, I wasn't. I was feeling like shit.

When I got home, I cracked open a beer and propped my feet up on the couch, lying down so that I wouldn't have to look at anything but the ceiling. Tears fell from the corners of my eyes, but I ignored them. Jamie was still at work, and we hadn't planned to see each other today anyway. I watched trash TV (Keeping Up With The Kardashians) and drank. No one would have to see me get wasted again.

After one beer, I had another. And another. And another. And another.

I'd just used the bathroom to make room for another when my doorbell rang.

"The fuck?" I muttered under my breath. Who the fuck would bother me at this hour? It was already nine at night. It could be Jamie, but he always had the decency to call before showing up.

I opened the door and found Booker standing at the other side of the metal screen door. He had his hands in his pockets, standing there, just waiting for me to turn him away. I always thought about it, and he always knew I considered it. I could shut the door. I should shut the door.

But I wasn't going to.

After the day I'd had, after letting Barbara down and drinking all of my feelings, I knew what I needed.

I unlocked the metal gate, and he opened the door and I took a step forward, and it wasn't even that long at all, maybe seconds, before our lips met. I tasted mint gum and alcohol on his tongue, masking his sadness, masking how fucking guilty he felt for doing this while his wife was six months pregnant with his child. It was almost like we'd been given a sign to stop, like this baby was supposed to be the end of us.

Except this baby is what brought us together.

"Booker," I gasped when his lips traveled from my mouth to my throat. His teeth sank down on my skin, lips sucking, leaving me another one of his hickeys that I had stopped bothering to cover. If Jamie noticed, he didn't care; and if anyone else noticed, they assumed it was because of Jamie.

"June," Booker whispered against my skin, kissing along my throat and my jaw. "God, I love you, June."

My eyes pricked with tears. I wasn't that mousy-haired little fat girl anymore, the one with the braces and pink sunburnt nose. I was a woman now with soft shapely curves, straight teeth, and sunscreen. I'd sprouted a few inches, effectively growing into my weight, and now everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. I had a killer body now; the hourglass shape I'd always wished for, the slim waist and wide hips, the luscious full lips on that small mouth, and bright almond-shaped eyes. Yeah, they're still brown, but I don't hate them anymore. They're rich, they're warm, and they're mine. I've finally grown into myself and it only took over twenty years to get here.

Booker's loved me since long before I blossomed. Long before I thought I was anything to look at. Long before I had anything interesting to say or do. Long before I'd pursued a job in the medical field, long before I started reading self-help books and finding my place in the world. Booker had always seen me, real me: the vulnerable little girl who'd always got bullied for being chubby, the silly little girl who always fell out of trees while climbing them, the studious little girl who always tried her best but ended up copying off of her best friends' homework sheets just so she could pass. Booker had loved that disaster.

Jamie, through no fault of his own, met me at a time when I was already at my prime. He liked what he saw. Jamie was the perfect placeholder; like a bookend in the library, holding everything up until someone comes along and takes a book out of your shelf, leaving an empty space behind, an emptiness and a void that you cannot fill. But you try, don't you? Different books, you'll buy them, mashing them into the empty space; throwing yourself into your work at the hospital, drinking and drinking and drinking so much alcohol that you're always passing out on the weekends, even taking up smoking because the nicotine rush is such an addictively intense feeling that you can't help but chase it.

But nothing drowned out the truth; nothing drowned out Booker.

We closed the metal door and then the front door, locking up behind us, deadbolt in place before we began to undress. It was dark in the apartment, save for the dim glow of the TV. While the Kardashians argued, Booker and I unbuckled a belt, unsnapped a bra, slid down pants and panties and boxers, ripped off shirts, bodies meeting in the end, naked flesh against flesh.

"I'm sick in the head, June," Booker said, turning me around and pressing me against the front door. "All I think about..." he kissed the back of my neck "...is you, you, you. I'm a terrible person, and I don't know why you want me, but I'll take what you'll give me."

"There isn't a single bad bone in your body," I said, moaning as he finally pushed his thick cock inside of me.

"Oh, there is one, and it happens to be inside you right now."

I laughed. "You're awful."

"Awfully turned on," he corrected. "All day, all fucking day, all I can think about is this..." He gripped my hips, his fingertips sinking into my sensitive skin. I whimpered as heat bloomed on my cheeks, my pussy slick for him, letting out a cry when sank into me, bottoming out inside of my tight walls, his balls slapping my clit.

"That's it," he whispered, fucking me slowly, drawing gasps out from deep inside of me. From the pit of my belly, from deep inside of my chest, from the bottomless pit that was my heart, I felt an orgasm begin to build, white-hot and all-consuming. Tears fell from the corners of my eyes as I pressed my ass back against him, fucking him back. We found a rhythm, and before long, it was fast, it was hard, it was decadent and delicious and damning. We were probably cursed, but in that moment, neither of us really gave a fuck.

All we wanted was this...

"Booker, I'm coming," I sobbed.

"How close are you?"

"Thisclose!"

Booker turned me around, lifted me off my feet, and fucked me, bouncing me up and down on his cock. My full breasts swayed in his face as I threw my head back, shaking my hair, tears streaming down my face from the mind-numbing pleasure.

"Come for me," he commanded, grunting. He was close too. "Now."

I cried out his name over and over and over again, coming hard, my entire body shaking. Booker stepped forward, pressing my back against the door as he came, groaning, slapping a hand against the door to steady himself, the other arm still wrapped around me. We came together.

We were the perfect storm.

Booker carefully lifted me again, carrying me from the front door to the bedroom, gently putting me down on my bed, a queen with too many decorative pillows on it. I threw them playfully at him as he slid open the window. He looked over his shoulder, a wolfish grin on his face, and pounced, those tiger's eyes flashing. I screamed, pelting him with more pillows, but they just bounced off of his hard chest. He crawled across the bed and placed a hand on each of my knees, spreading my legs.

"Booker..."

"So red," Booker observed, running a finger down my slit. "I fucked you raw. Are you okay?"

I looked at him with what I hoped were bedroom eyes. "Come do it again."

"You're awful."

"Awfully turned on," I parroted, making him laugh.

"We have a ritual, June," he reminded me. "We can't break tradition."

I reached out a hand, locating a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on my bedside table. I threw the lighter at him and he caught it, watching as I placed a cigarette between my lips. He crept across the bed, throwing an arm around me and lighting the cigarette for me.

"Ugh, this is good," I said, taking a deep drag. The head rush was heaven.

"It's terrible," Booker said, smiling that lopsided smile of his. "We're gonna die."

"Fuck it, we're dying anyway," I said. "What's a few cigarettes?"

I laughed as he took the cigarette from my mouth and transferred it to his own, taking a disgusting, deep drag, deeper than the one I'd taken.

"Fuck it," Booker agreed.

We shared the cigarette, which was what he had meant when he'd said "ritual." Every time we had sex, we kind of made it worse at the end by smoking, as if we were branding ourselves. We deserved to die for the terrible shit we were doing. The cigarette kind of helped us cope because it felt almost like a punishment.

Booker turned on my radio from the table on his side of the bed. "You and Me" by Lifehouse was playing on 102.7 KIIS FM.

I sang,

"'Cause it's you and me

And all of the people with nothing to do

Nothing to lose

And it's you and me

And all the other people

And I don't know why

I can't keep my eyes off of you"

Booker joined me halfway through, lacing his hands with mine, the moonlight shining down through the open window, a gentle breeze drifting in.

"It's late," I said, checking the clock. It was already ten-thirty. Not that late, but late enough for someone's husband to be out.

"Kansas is asleep. She's always sleeping."

"Should you be leaving her alone?"

Booker looked pained. "Probably not."

"Go home then."

"How can I?" he asked, pressing his lips against mine. We kissed slowly, sweetly, his pliant lips moving with mine, making my breath hitch when his tongue slipped into my mouth. I loved the taste of him, the mint, the alcohol, the faint flavor of cigarette smoke, the Booker, mouth hot and lips burning.

"Go," I said, pushing him off. I wanted to cry, but I stayed strong. Booker wasn't mine, no matter how much I pretended, no matter how good I was at convincing myself, he was not really mine. My sniffle gave it away, and Booker looked as if I'd taken his heart and shattered it into a million pieces. His expression was so broken, so lost.

"I want to stay..."

"I want you to stay," I managed to say. "But you can't. You have to go."

He pulled me into his strong arms, swaddling me like a baby with the blankets. I was weak, so fucking weak. I wasn't strong enough to let him go.

I was in love.

I'd been in love for a long, long time.

A tidal wave of hormones is what it's like to be a teenager. A hurricane, a tsunami, a fucking storm of epic proportions, and all of it just masked in feelings, disgusting fucking chaotic feelings, like the kind of feelings you get when your best friend starts dating your other best friend.

And you know it's wrong, but you won't admit it.

You won't admit that it's supposed to be you.

Booker wouldn't stop staring at me in high school, sophomore year. We shared first period, third, and fifth, and it was just a game of sitting there and trying not to catch him at it because I didn't want to spook him; I didn't want him to look away. I wanted him to observe me until he changed his mind about Kansas.

But why would he? I treated him like a brother. It was supposed to be gross, right?

Except Booker wasn't my brother. He was the guy I thought about way, way too much. More than you're supposed to think about your best friend, and way more than you're supposed to think about your other best friend's boyfriend.

Kansas started going to Spanish Club during lunch, so Booker and I'd buy curly fries and flick them at each other, laughing and eating Pick Up Stix that they sold at the cafeteria, usually their honey chicken, which reminded me a lot of Booker's eyes, but I never said that out loud. He'd probably hate it, being compared to chicken.

On days that it rained, we'd pile into the gym, sitting up on the bleachers and shivering from the cold. We'd talk about everything and nothing, playing Slide with our hands, and the touch was electric. I tried to hide how warm it'd suddenly make me, the touch of his fingers against mine, smacking one, two, slap, slide; one, two, three, slap, slide. It was like Patty-Cake but better. It required a lot of concentration and counting, and the furthest Booker and I ever got was eight. Yeah, in four years of high school, we got to eight because we always lost count and ended up laughing.

You'd think that with how handsome Booker was, he'd have made better friends than the two chubby girls from the middle-class part of Buena Park, but he never did. Booker remained Booker: quiet, brooding, serious. It made the girls want him even more. They didn't get why he'd hang out with us, or worst of all, why he'd date overweight Kansas. It was ridiculous. She was fucking beautiful. All golden hair, sparkling blue eyes, and curves for days.

She wasn't like me. I was still the mousey chubby girl. I wouldn't bloom until adulthood, but that didn't stop Booker from staring at me. Why would he stare if there wasn't much to look at?

Because he was Booker, and Booker had a way of seeing right through you, right down to your center, right where your heart burned and your soul swam.

Fifteen doesn't last forever. Losing Daddy took up everything I had in me. The world felt so small, like it'd never expand again with Daddy gone, but with Booker and Kansas by my side, I took it day by day, putting one foot in front of the other, passing the days without as many laughs as before, but still managing to get by. I sometimes still wish I could go back and tell fifteen-year-old me that everything would be okay, but I also know that it would be okay even if I didn't because Booker and Kansas had been there to do it for me.