The Search for Juno

Chapter XXVI

"'I am like a very small mouse, someone left in the snow, shivering...and shit—'"

    Conny seized awake, immediately regretting it when a ripple of piercing pain spread from temple to temple. Across from the bed, June sat at his vanity, vivid red hair tied back into a sharp, tiny bun. It took his badly hungover mind a second to process it, but his journal was open in her hands.

    Conny scrambled towards her. "June!"

    "Oh, you're awake, mój skarb?" June said, glancing at him over the back of her chair. She rarely wore her hair back, and Conny was dismayed to find a jolt of pleasant surprise at how it freshened her rosy face. "I was just doing a little poetry reading. You're a wonderful poet when you're hammered, you know."

    "June, don't read that—" Conny tripped over the mussed bedsheets and landed facedown on the floor, an unpleasant throb traveling up his spine.

    This was the last time he ever touched an alcoholic drink.

    He hoped.

    "'All mouses are small, though,'" June read, and laughed. "Mouses! Very poetic. 'teeny cute things. So so cold. Like snow—'"

    "Give me that," Conny said, finally regaining his balance and snatching the journal away from her. As a reflex, he moved to slide into it his coat pocket, before realizing he was in only one of Alex's old T-shirts and a pair of boxers. "Seriously. Is there a valid reason for you to be in here? You have your own room, you know."

    "I'm hungry," June announced, kicking her feet up on the vanity. She leaned backwards so that the chair just bit into Conny's stomach, craning her neck back to look at him. "Normally I would make Alex cook me something—he's oddly good at omelettes, did you know?—but I can't find the bastard anywhere."

    "Yes, I know he's good at omelettes, just like he's good at everything else; it's not fair—" Conny stopped, his body washing with cold. "Wait. What did you say?"

    "What? About the omelettes?"

    "No!" Conny snapped. His palms began to sweat, the haze of the morning slowly beginning to drain away. "About Alex, that you couldn't find him?"

    "Oh," June replied, dropping her legs from the vanity and easing off of Conny. She flipped around to face him squarely, her expression so casual it only made Conny more distressed. "Yeah, he didn't come home last night; you probably didn't notice because you were, you know, honing your poetry skills. But I mean, if he was out with Remy—"

    "Okay, okay! I get it," Conny said. He tossed the journal back onto his unmade bed, and strode out into the hallway, his mind already beginning to race. It didn't make sense. Conny wasn't crazy; it just didn't make sense. He sped up and down the halls, tossing open doors, checking for a flash of silver hair, closing them again when he found nothing.

    "Alex would tell me," he said. "It was risky for him to go out with Remy anyway, and I told him that, so if he decided to spend the night somewhere he would have called and let me know."

    "Are you sure about that?" June called. She propped herself up on the doorjamb, watching Conny with a risen eyebrow. "No offense to you, babe, but you would be the last person he'd talk to about his romantic plans. You hate everyone he brings home."

    "So what if I do!" Conny roared, and then he stopped: stopped walking, stopped moving, just stood. "I'm just...I'm just trying to look after him. After everything, I owe him that."

    June's voice softened. "Hang on, Conny..."

    "Besides, I was right this time." Conny sprang to life again, practically flying down the stairs. "I can feel it, June. I was right this time."