The first thing my dad ever taught me was that love was breakable; I was eight at the time. He was always hard on me, but the one thing he never lacked was his honesty. He told me there was such thing as love, just not everlasting love. He and my mom were the greatest example of it, loving each other for sure but never quite fitting the definition of actually being in love with one another. Of course, I was an eight year old boy in love with baseball cards, and the last thing on my mind was love at the time. After I fell for June, though, I was taken back to my bedroom where my dad tucked me in and told me I was better off not loving at all.
I believed him for a while. But as much as the universe tried to break me and June up, it never worked. We always seemed to find each other. I didn’t know what I’d do if that didn’t happen. My life without June in it would undoubtedly go on day to day, but the thing was . . . I wouldn’t. I needed her.
As much as it scared me to be with June, my best friend, out of fear of a broken heart like my dad used to warn me against, I was even more scared to not be with her.