Nathan
By the time Christmas came around, it seemed as if June had always been there. I'd come to see her as my little sister, and at times I was as much annoyed with her as I could be with Sam, but unlike Sam, she could undo my irritation with one single smile. Most of the time, though, we all got along. June cooked for us two or three times a week, making sure we could eat leftovers the day after. She was at our place more and more, and more and more the house was adapted to her needs, like for instance we put the plates in a different cupboard, so she was able to reach them herself, and we changed the lock on the bathroom door to one she could easily open after she locked herself in one time.
Mr. Guevara and Mrs. Aranda —I'd learned that it was the Spanish custom to keep your birth name after marriage — would be coming over for Christmas, and I wasn't sure how to feel about it. On the one hand, it meant that we'd be enjoying Mrs. Aranda's cooking skills. On the other hand, Sam and I were used to being alone and eating our dinner in front of the tv, never pausing our Lord of the Rings marathon.
And then there was June. It shouldn't have been a problem; I knew she'd love our usual Christmas tradition. As long as it wasn't Star Wars, she and Sam usually shared the same taste when it came to books and movies. Granted, Christmas itself wasn't going to be difficult. It would be the days after. Sam always left me alone; he was well aware that was how I liked it best. June, however, was nosy, and the kind of girl who wore her heart on her sleeve. She never stopped prying until she had her answers. I debated spending the rest of the Christmas vacation on campus, but that would raise questions as well, and not the sort I welcomed.
I decided to worry about it after Christmas. Sam and June were both so excited I hardly had the chance to be anxious. We started our Lord of the Rings marathon a few days early, so we'd be done on Christmas morning. It was the first time June stayed over, and the first time I was confronted with the fact that June was a girl and we were not, because she came to ask me, quite unashamedly, if I had any idea where we kept the small garbage bags. I asked her what the hell she needed a garbage bag for.
"To get rid of garbage," she said. I wasn't satisfied with that, for some reason thinking she was up to something. "I'm on my period, you jackass." Sam choked on his tea; I burst out laughing. "Apparently, your cleaning lady doesn't feel the need to put one in, since your mother is old and there isn't ever any girl here." With that last part of the sentence, she eyed me like I was doing something wrong.
"Okay, I'll see if I can find one."
"A girl or a garbage bag?" June said. Sam snickered.
I might've appreciated that joke if it hadn't been made so close to New Year's. I knew it was unfair to her because how could she have known, but I didn't say a single word for the rest of the day.
On Christmas morning, I did my best to be fun again. She came down before Sam, in her pajamas, examining me as if she wanted to find out if I was on exploding mode, so I smiled at her, adding a "Happy Christmas".
"Is it?" she said.
"Yeah. Yeah, it is."
She smiled as well. "Good. I need presents, and then I need me some Frodo. We need to finish the last part before my mom and dad come. Can't miss watching Frodo's finger getting bitten off."
We had agreed to keep the presents simple and cheap. I'd bought her a device that you could click on a pan, so if you drained it, not all water could pour out of it at once, and the contents you wanted to keep wouldn't be able to fall out either. Sam had gotten her a book, and she had written him a short story. Truth be told, I didn't expect to receive anything particularly special. After all, I had more than enough money to buy whatever the hell I wanted.
That was my mistake. Not all presents had to come from a store, and I should've realized that a girl who searched off the whole market square to find the best tasting herbs, wouldn't try to surprise me with a pair of socks.
No, my present was nothing more than a card.
Abuela's pisto manchego (with a touch of June) it said, then listing all the ingredients and steps to take, ending with a small side-note: For your eyes only, Nathan Redstone. Abuela would kill me if she knew.
It was my favorite recipe. She'd said she couldn't nearly make it as perfect as her abuela, but I had to disagree. I liked the touch of June.
I didn't know what to say, so I kept staring at the carefully typed out instructions, neat and clear, like I was used to from reading her book reports.
"I mean, it's kind of silly, maybe," I heard her say.
"What is it?" asked Sam.
I looked up, directly into those familiar brown eyes — her left hand was clenched into a fist, something that happened when she was nervous. "It's a secret, Sam. I'm sorry. This is for my eyes only. It says it right here."
She smiled shyly, relaxing again. Sam didn't seem as happy, though. "Hey, don't be a jerk! I just wanna see what it says!" He tried to snatch the recipe from me, but I held it high in the air, shaking my head. "What, it's not like it's a love letter, is it?"
She giggled, then wiggled her eyebrows. "Maybe it is. You wouldn't want to see that, would you?" It was enough to make him stop jumping up. I had to admit, she had figured him out better than I thought she did. "I have another present for both of you. You open it, Sam."
Instantly, he forgot about my card and dove behind the tree, searching for the last present. "Thank you," I mouthed, while Sam was busy tearing the wrapping paper off a flat, rectangular object.
She just smiled, little Christmas lights in her big brown eyes.
Her present to both of us had carefully been given a prominent spot in the kitchen. I would've never thought of something like that, and I wondered if it took a fully functional family or a girl's mind to have the idea to print a photo of the three of us and frame it. Suddenly, my present to her felt unimaginative. She didn't seem to be disappointed though; in fact, she seemed rather smug.
We spent the rest of the day on the couch, in our pajamas, eating cake and gingerbread cookies until we finished the final part of the trilogy, and we found out we needed to clean up and get dressed quickly because her parents would be coming over in half an hour. I didn't remember whose idea it was to invite them, but when the time was there, it suddenly dawned on me we'd be having a strange man over, plus a woman who'd frequently managed to make me uncomfortable, frowning at the Mercedes like it was committing a crime and glaring at me when I wore my Stanford sweater. Although she and her daughter possessed the same dark curls and bright smile, she didn't seem to be as okay with the money.
I hadn't need to worry though. It turned out June and her were well equipped in easing any awkwardness. After all, when you, your brother, and a man you'd never met before were all tasked with the cutting of meat and vegetables, it immediately created the shared bond of having to do a particular woman's bidding, and there wasn't anything more effective against the problem of not knowing each other.
Mr. Guevara was a likable man; he asked Sam all about the character from his book, and he joked with me about his wife being the boss in their marriage. He told us many stories about his countless relatives, and after a while, I realized I was enjoying being told about bisabuela, his grandmother, who had suffered from dementia in the last years of her life and would frequently swear she hadn't eaten yet, even if she had. Once, he'd discovered she had managed to get a bar of butter stuck to the ceiling; no one knew how, or why, and the occurrence had become a family legend.
He also told about June as a child, something she didn't appreciate, though I thought, as I saw the fondness in the man's eyes while he recounted the time she'd accidentally thrown a pancake at her third-grade teacher, she couldn't be luckier. Mr. Guevara and Mrs. Aranda clearly loved their daughter, and she loved them, in an awed, unconditional way. Of course, it'd be impossible not to love your kid if she was this June with her disarming smile, but Sam deserved the same kind of love, and he would never get it.
Dinner was indescribable. I was a little dazed when we were finally done with desert, already nearing twelve pm, a calm, content feeling buzzing through my head. Maybe it was the wine — I'd been surprised Mrs. Aranda had poured a glass for me until I saw her doing the same for her daughter, and I realized it must've been normal for them to drink alcohol at a young age. "A glass of wine a day keeps the doctor away," Mr. Guevara had said.
It didn't faze June in any way, although Sam declined nervously, watching his friend with an open mouth while she sipped the red liquid like it was no more than a cup of lemonade. Her movements became smoother when she drank alcohol, and I wondered if she liked it.
Deep into the night, we waved Mr. Guevara and Mrs. Aranda goodbye. June was staying with us; her parents had to work for the rest of the holidays. She watched their car longingly until it was out of sight. Strange. What would it be like if you actually wanted your parents home with you? I had no idea.
I nudged her softly in the side, immediately realizing how much of a bad move that was. She'd startle — she always did. This time, however, the wine seemed to be doing its job, and she merely turned to smile at me. "Let's go to bed," I said, "we'll clean up tomorrow."
Quietly, we went inside. It wasn't until my body hit the mattress that I remembered.
Lena.