Knock First
June knocked first, the way Aunt Pat told her to.
The woman who opened Dom's door was wearing Dom's shirt.
It was one of his white work shirts, the kind he wore to the yard. On her it came down to the middle of her thighs. Her legs were bare. Her feet were bare. Her hair was a mess of dark red curls, and even with no makeup on, June knew the face.
It was the singer from the party. The one who had flown in late and put her head on Dom's shoulder.
The woman looked June up and down, slowly, like she was deciding what kind of problem June was.
"If you're here for Dom, he's still asleep."
June held the thermos a little tighter. That morning, Dom had been sitting in Aunt Pat's kitchen with June's hand against his face and his eyes closed. Then he'd come here.
"I brought tea," June said. "For my brother."
The woman's face changed fast. She pushed her curls into some kind of order and tugged the open collar of the shirt closed with two fingers.
"Oh! You're the sister. Of course you are." Her voice had gone soft and sweet. "Give me one second. I'll go wake him up."
"Don't." June held out the thermos. "Just give him this."
The woman took it. She opened her mouth to say something else.
June was already walking back toward the stairs.
The summer June turned seventeen, Dom moved out of the Reyes house and into the old firehouse on Mill Street.
Kenzie Holt, June's best friend back then, said he obviously had a girlfriend. "You can't bring a girl home when your mom's in the next room."
June said he didn't. She was sure of it.
She stayed sure until his birthday that year. She let herself in through the side door with the keypad code she'd known since he moved in. She was carrying a cake she'd baked herself.
She found him at the top of the stairs with a woman pressed against the wall.
June put the cake down on the bottom step and left. She never used that code again.
The metal stairs on the outside of the firehouse rang under June's boots. She was almost at the bottom when the door at the top banged open.
"June."
His voice was rough. She kept going until her feet hit the gravel. Then she stopped, because running would look worse.
Dom came down the stairs fast. He was in gray sweatpants and an old club hoodie, barefoot on the cold metal. His face was flushed with fever. He stopped on the last step, which made him even taller than usual.
"Why didn't you come up?"
"I didn't want to bother you." June looked at the gas station across the street. "I have to get to the hospital anyway."
"I'll drive you."
"You're sick. Go back to bed."
"It's a cold." He reached through the open door at the bottom of the stairs, into the old engine bay, and took his keys off a hook. He shoved his bare feet into the boots by the door. Then he rolled his Softail out onto the gravel. "Get on."
June knew that tone. Arguing would just mean standing here longer.
Dom handed her the spare helmet. June buckled it under her chin, swung her leg over, and sat down behind him.
She didn't put her arms around him. She reached back and held onto the passenger rail behind her instead, both hands, and kept as much space between them as the seat allowed.
It wasn't much. Her knees still pressed against the outside of his hips.
Dom started the engine. Before he pulled out, he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder.
His eyes went to her hands on the rail. Then to the space between her chest and his back. Then to her face.
He reached back without a word, took her right wrist, and pulled her hand forward around his waist.
He pressed her palm flat against his stomach and held it there until she stopped pulling. Through his hoodie she could feel how hot he was.
Then he let go and rolled out onto Mill Street.
June didn't take her hand back. She couldn't make herself do it. She kept her face turned to the side the whole way.
The harbor went by, and the bait shop, and the church with the broken sign. She didn't really see any of it.
All she could feel was the heat of him under her palm and the singer's perfume on his hoodie.
"June."
She didn't hear him the first time over the engine.
"June."
She blinked. The bike had stopped, and he'd cut the engine. They were at the front doors of St. Brigid's.
"Sorry." She let go of him and climbed off onto the curb.
There was somebody waiting by the hospital doors.
It was a prospect. A tall kid June didn't know, in a plain vest with a Port Halloran rocker. He had a big cardboard box under one arm.
When he saw June, he straightened up and came over to the curb.
"Miss Sterling?" He held out the box. "From Mr. Mercer."
June took it before she could think. It was heavy. On the side, in black letters, was the name of a motorcycle gear shop in Seattle.
The prospect nodded once at Dom, very respectfully, and walked off toward the parking lot.
Dom was still sitting on the Softail. He was looking at the box.
"What's that?"
"Snowline stuff," June said.
Dom's eyes went to the printed name on the side of the box. Then they came up to her face and stayed there.
He didn't call her a liar. He didn't have to. He just looked at her the way he used to when she was twelve and swore she'd done her homework.
June unbuckled the helmet and held it out to him. "Thanks for the ride. Take care of yourself, okay? Drink the tea."
Dom took the helmet. He didn't put it on.
"June." His voice was quiet. "What are you doing with Rook?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing comes in a box from Seattle?"
June didn't answer. Behind her, the hospital doors slid open and shut.
Dom looked at her a second longer. Then he looked away, out at the parking lot where the prospect had gone.
"Go on," he said.
She turned and went. Behind her, the engine started up again. It sat there idling for a long time before she heard it pull away.
The April sun was warm on the hospital steps. June was cold anyway.
She'd always known there were women. She wasn't stupid. Dom was thirty years old and he looked like Dom. But seeing it in his shirt, at his door, a few hours after he'd held her hand against his face, hurt in a sharp new place.
And Aunt Pat had known. Knock first. Aunt Pat had sent her there knowing exactly who would open that door.
June sat down on a bench by the entrance with the box on her knees. She'd made a promise on the plane, somewhere over Greenland.
She was coming home to be his sister. That was all. A sister brought tea when you were sick. A sister didn't sit on the steps of a hospital with her hands shaking over who her brother slept with.
She pulled the tape off the box.
Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was a pair of women's riding boots. Black leather, steel toe, laced up the shin.
They were her size. Exactly her size. She had never told anybody in Port Halloran what size shoe she wore.
There was a card tucked into the left boot. The handwriting was sharp and slanted.
You don't own real boots.
June sat on the bench and held the card for a long time. The leather smelled new. It smelled like the inside of his truck.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
They fit?
