spoken word. (gxg)

thirty-three.

thirty-three.

He said he was your real father. The words felt like spikes, tearing at my throat as I spoke them. I examined June's expression desperately, looking for any sign of disgust or shock or aversion. Instead, I found confusion.

"My real father is dead," she told me.

"That can't-- he, he said his name was Henry, that he left when you were little. I know that your mom remarried," I reasoned, voice shaky. June's expression straightened itself, and she spoke her next words slowly, gently.

"My father's name was Colton, not Henry. The man you met," she said the man like the words were poison, "was likely trying to get in your head. Mess with you."

The revelation, though it should have made me feel better, crashed into me unforgivingly.

"That's so," I whispered, but couldn't find it in me to continue. Such a horrible thing to do.

It hit me how naive I was before, how I launched myself straight into June's business without heeding any of her warnings; she was closed off for a reason, not so petty high schoolers could worm their way into her life. And here I was, mere months later, feeling a million years older than I could ever believe. I thought I had seen hardship and pain, my mother's words like dripping poison in my head— but nothing I had experienced could compare to the burden June surely carried on her shoulders.

She had ghosts I knew I could never compare to.

"It worked," June replied, voice cold yet gaze warm on me.

"I'm not..." I couldn't find the words; how could describe the disgust I felt when I thought the very lips June was touching were lips kissed by her father? "Tainted." It was the most accurate word I could muster. I wasn't tainted.

It was embarrassing to admit; I closed my eyes so I didn't have to see her reaction. Her voice was gentle, caressing like a soft blanket.

"Mia, even if the man did happen to be my dearest dead father, you would never be tainted by him."

"But..." She grasped the sides of my face in her hands, cradling my head delicately. I peeked up through my eyelashes and immediately noticed the intensity of her gaze on me. She was focused— I had every drop of her attention.

"You're not like me, like my family— we carry a curse, sentenced for the crimes we've committed. Compared to that... you," she breathed, almost reverently, "are the purest thing these hands have ever touched."

Comfort and affection flooded me, overwhelming, and I leaned forward to rest my head below her chin. She moved her hands accordingly, placing them around the small of my back as I breathed shakily.

"Yeah, I know," I told her finally. Then, my brain finished processing her words. I shot my head up, almost nailing her on the chin. She looked startled.

"Are you okay?" She asked.

"You're not cursed," I stated petulantly. Her eyes darkened, fingers stiffening around me.

"Mia," she started.

"No, listen," I cut in, "you and your brother and mother were in a tough place and did all you could to get out of it. It's not a curse, you, you're not cursed, just... human. You're strong. You're the most selfless person I've ever met."

Her silence was unnerving, but I didn't back down, meeting her stare with my own stubborn gaze.

Seconds passed and my cheeks began to heat at our intimacy. She still had her arms wrapped around me and our eyes bored together in a heated non-verbal argument. My heartbeat began to race.