"So… what about you?" Ian asked, turning towards me.
"What about me?" I laughed nervously. "I didn't do anything wrong. Did I?"
He shook his head. "I didn't say you did something wrong. I'm asking… what's your story, June?"
Oh.
Real stuff.
My stomach twisted.
Talking about myself always felt like picking at a wound.
"If you don't want to…." he started.
"No," I said quickly. "It's not that."
I stared at the blanket for a while.
"It's not just a….pretty story."
He didn't take his eyes off me.
I took a deep breath. My fingers picked at the hem of my shirt.
"I don't need pretty," he said. "I just want real."
I took a breath.
"Okay… real?" I whispered.
"My mom left. When I was like… five. One day she kissed my forehead and said she was coming back. And guess what? She never came back. Yayyy."
Ian's face fell, just a little.
