June, Reimagined (3)
“You’re pretentious, Matty,” June said. “You wear a scarf and have a picture of Hemingway in your bedroom. You’re a walking Americano.”
“Good point. That might be true. Then what are you?”
“I’m a white-chocolate mocha with whipped cream. I’m what you drink when you want to caffeinate but you hate the taste of coffee.”
“I have so much to say about this. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
June heard him fumble on the other end of the line. “You can’t!”
“Why not?”
“Because . . .” June stumbled. “I’m not in Sunningdale. I’m at a coffee shop in Clifton.”
“By the university? Why?”
“I just didn’t want to run into anyone.”
“Then I’ll come there.”
“Actually, I’m leaving.”
Matt turned serious. “What’s going on, June?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing is always something. Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
June was losing her resolve. The plane ticket in her hand got heavier. “Because my problems are ruining your life, Matty.”
“No. George Bush is ruining my life. The oil industry is ruining my life. Hell, my dad’s girlfriend is ruining my life. But you, June, you may have been a thorn in my side, a pain in my ass, a benign growth on my face, a really bad cold sore, the person who let all the ants escape from my ant farm, but you could never ruin my life.”
“The ants weren’t happy in captivity.”
“See? You’ve always been the better person,” Matt said. “Look, I know the past month has been rough. But today is a new year, and 2003 is going to be great. Trust me.”
June was the only person left in the boarding area.
“I do trust you,” she said.
“What’s the name of the coffee shop? I’m getting in the car now.”
The gate attendant approached June, bringing with her the smell of Clinique’s Happy perfume. June covered her phone’s mic.
“Are you coming, sweetheart? The doors are about to close. After they do, there’s no getting on the plane. You’ll miss it.” The attendant smiled with a kindness June didn’t deserve, in her chaotic, wrinkled outfit, with the lingering smell of cigarettes in her hair overpowering the attendant’s potent citrus-and-floral perfume. June had been reduced to items you find in an ashtray—random scraps of paper, chewed gum, and squished cigarette butts stained red with cheap lipstick.
“Happy New Year, Matty.” June Merriweather hung up the phone. Then she tossed it in the garbage can. It wouldn’t work where she was going, anyway. “I’m coming.” She handed the gate attendant her ticket and passport. One day she’d make Matt understand why she did this.
“Have you ever been to Scotland before?” the attendant enquired.
“No. Any advice?”
The attendant surveyed June’s belongings: roller bag, backpack, and the world’s ugliest urn. “I just hope you’ve got a raincoat in there. You’re gonna need it.”
TWO
Mom and Dad,
I had to leave. I took Josh with me. Just tell everyone I’m spending time at Grandma and Grandpa’s in Michigan. Also . . . I don’t want to do this, but here it goes. If you come after us, I’ll tell everyone in Sunningdale what really happened to Josh. I’ll be in touch as soon as I get settled.
I love you,
June
June stood in front of the Thistle Stop Café. Rain dripped from her eyelashes. She had been in Scotland for three days. Or at least, she thought it had been three days. Maybe four. Or five? Jet lag had a disorienting effect. That and the fact that Scotland saw very little sunlight in January, making day and night hard to decipher.
The only thing June was absolutely sure of was the rain. It had fallen in multiple forms since her arrival. Big, heavy globs. Sprinkled mist. Sideways. June had even experienced a moment when she thought the rain had ended, but when she turned her face to the sun, a drop fell directly on her forehead.
In Scotland, it rained even when the sun was out.
But the sun was not shining as she stood at the café door, bags and urn in tow, staring at a CLOSED sign. June turned just in time to see the cab that had taken her from the bus depot head down a side street and drive away. She was stuck. She checked the sheet of paper in her hand. The name and address of the café were correct: The Thistle Stop Café, 25471 High Street, Knockmoral, Scotland.
June smelled coffee and bread. Her stomach growled. Had she eaten today? She peered through the café window. Inside, wooden chairs were stacked on wooden tables. Light came from the back of the shop, where June assumed the kitchen was located. The café was small, rustic, yet artistically decorated—bohemian charm mixed with old English style. Or was it old Scottish style? Since arriving, June had realized how little she actually knew about Scotland.
For example, the rain. June wasn’t completely naive about the weather. Having watched Braveheart numerous times, she assumed even rain needed to breathe, collect itself, and begin again. Apparently in Scotland, the weather only exhaled, and that exhale was cold and damp and lasted for days.