TWO Weird, Weird, and Weirder?

𖣂

WHEN JUNIPER WAS born, it was believed she'd be blind.

Daphne had wept at the arrival of her daughter shared with Charlie. Word is that the young woman had vehemently prayed for one since her son Leland's arrival five years before—muddy boot tracks, outside urination, and perpetual boy smell despite tons of baths not quite suiting her expectations of motherhood—when she'd told Charlie, months ago, in a rare moment of softness, that she hoped it would be a girl. Glitter on every surface area of the house would be a small price to pay. She said she wanted quiet. She said she wanted peace.

Instead, she got June.

And when June was placed on her chest—tiny and strange and blinking up at the world with clouded lilac eyes—the whole room stilled. The midwives muttered to one another, said something about a birth defect, a veil over the eyes. Said maybe she'd be blind. Maybe worse.

Daphne flinched.

But then Charlie leaned in, voice hoarse and thick with awe, and whispered, "Look who's here... my baby girl."

And the newborn turned toward the sound. Just like that.

She smiled.

That was the first time Daphne cried like she meant it.

Iris Postoak stood at the foot of the bed, her long braids damp from the coastal rain. She prayed in the old way—not Catholic, not quite Quileute either, just Postoak—and smiled like she already knew.

"Ahh, look at her," Iris breathed, vindicated as she looked her voice was soft. "You see that, Daph? That's the Postoak eyes... Did I not tell you what my chimes told me—?"

"The wind didn't predict my child's eyes, Mother."

Everyone said it was a recessive gene, something rare and misfiled by white doctors as a mutation. Violet-black, the color of storm glass and ink. Sometimes they looked gray. Sometimes obsidian. But in sunlight—especially near water—they glowed. A flash of something ancient. Something inherited. They named her Juniper, in theme with all the Postoak women before her with their fascination of flora. A name Charlie liked. A name Daphne would only say when no one else was listening.

It took a long time for the world to realize she wasn't blind at all. Only watching.

Even then, she saw too much.

Fourteen years later, these strange eyes could take in that her recent grounding had no end in sight... She stood on the porch of her grandmother's house like a child being handed over to child services, arms crossed, mouth tight, braid a little too messy to count as a defense. Her dungarees were paint stained and her sneakers were untied, Daphne gave her the stink eye for the "FREE WINONA (AND ME)" shirt she had under it that she found at a Port Angeles thrift market.

"Mother," Daphne said to Iris, knocking twice and already turning to go. "She's yours until I can look at her again without hearing ABBA. Or smell peppermint schnapps. Today's Thursday so I think that'll be Sunday."

June gasped. "Mom!"

"Juniper!"

"You said we were here to visit!"

"Guess I lied! Moms can do that too, you know, not just sneaky little girls with Bambi face who like to get drunk and throw up in their backyards..." June's arms crossed and she looked away, rolling her eyes. "Don't test your grandma while you're here by the way. That's my job." Her mom pointed at Iris next, smiling sweetly. "And actually put some effort into making this weekend torturous for her, Mother."

Iris opened the door wider, holding a bowl of something steaming and extremely green. "I made nettle soup."

June blinked. "Is that punishment?"

"Don't be cute, girl."

Daphne looked happy at the scolding.

June tugged her shirt. Her eyes were wide and purple in the setting sun. "Please, mommy," She begged, "Won't dad ask where I am? Like, how will you explain that his sweet baby girl is not home with you all? You might not miss me but he will miss me."

"He will," Daphne cupped her face. "But your father's up in Neah Bay with Waylon this weekend. Fishing tournament."

The fourteen year old let out a shriek of frustration.

"...Did you just — stomp your foot?"

Iris laughed.

June scowled, her cheeks flushed from anger and from the fact that she literally stomped her foot on the porch wood like a damn four year old. "It was appropriate for the situation."

"Stomp away, Thumper. You're staying."

"Mom—"

Daphne waved over her shoulder, keys jingling while June's eyes twitched. "Lee will pick you up Sunday night."

"Tell that traitor to bring me Sully's if he does come!"

Iris stepped aside, and June sulked her way in, her grandmother patting her butt as she entered. The house that built her a familiar sight; it held warmth like a womb. The oldest house on River Drive on the Quileute rez, right in the middle of the sea and the woodlands that surround their homes. Her grandpa Arthur used to walk to the Quileute Marina every morning for coffee with his friends and if they were outside Lee had June on his shoulders, she could've seen his hat walking down the road towards it.

Her grandmas house had the usual kind of aroma; a simmer pot on the kitchen stove had the honor of making the living and kitchen area smell like cedar, sea salt, and herbal regret. Carved paddles and masks dangled in the hallway like the eyes of judgmental spirits.

The wood paneled walls were draped in things that mattered—Quileute language charts, photos from the annual summer set Quileute Days, hand-tacked postcards from family members and copies of the syllabi from the years Iris taught at Washington State. There were jars of dried flowers and tinctures on the shelves, and to top it all off — a massive portrait of Arthur Uley above the fireplace forever watching her like really, kid?

The kitchen was the heart of it. Always warm. Always working. The pot full of nettle or deer broth or something brewed in the corner of her eye like a threat of what June's dinner would taste like. Iris' grandchildren had their school drawings still taped to the fridge — a wolf labeled Wqádswad with missing teeth by third-grader Sam, a "canoe" that looked suspiciously like a banana drawn by Lee in fourth grade, and a younger version of Juniper holding her grandma's hand with the note: bəsq'úʔl ʔəł Iris — i LUV U. One of Lee's old class photos had a cedar bow pinned to it. She'd kept it through all her cleanings. "That boy needed grounding," Iris had once said. "Still does."

Above the stove hung a woven basket that had belonged to Iris's mother, Marguerite, and above that, three jars of medicine — dried devil's club, ocean salt, and powdered blue root the aunties only passed on if they trusted your hands. A hawk feather sat in a mason jar by the window, placed there after grandpa Arthur died. Nobody touched it.

June hovered in the doorway, the way she always did when she was feeling fourteen and on the verge of apology. Then she leaned against the counter with a sigh that carried the weight of every bad decision made by a girl with glitter eyeshadow and audacity.

"So, Gran. You saw her. Blazing eyes and all. How mad do you think she is?" June asked Iris, voice small, eyes on the cutting board near her grandma.

Iris paused. One slow blink. Then went right back to slicing. "On a scale of one to better move in with me?"

June groaned. "Crap."

"Language."

"Sorry. I meant — wait, should I have said poop?"

Iris smiled at her, "Lets review. Tully stole peppermint schnapps from her father, you convinced Jodes to help glue rhinestones on all the bingo balls, got into a shouting match with Mildred Crowe over a false bingo, and ended the night by slow dancing on the folding table to 'Dancing Queen.'"

"One of the aunties dared me."

"I'm sure she did. And I'm sure Lee egged you on."

June tried not to smile. "His sole duty. When doesn't the benefactor of my wildings support my behavior?"

Her grandma smiled. "You know, for that, your mother is far more mad at him than she lets up. You can roll your eyes and not believe me but he knows it and deep down, you do too. Lee just takes the hits better than you. But Daphne is who she is, and so, she will never punish him," Iris shakes her head at that. "Too much to open there if they get to that point but it should be open. It won't do either of them good to keep it that way..."

"Why does mom do that?"

"Not punish your brother?" Iris murmured. June nodded.

"I suppose... it's not that she won't — it's that she feels like she can't. Like she forfeited that right a long time ago."

June looked up, curious. Iris's voice had softened. "Your mother was just a girl when Lee came. Imagine you with a whole person to care for right now and you have to with your best friend who is saying you two should get married be a family but," Her grandma huffed a little. "Daphne was set in what she didn't want, adamant that she could raise Lee herself. But then she got the blues and wouldn't even hold Lee for too long at first."

June flinched slightly — not from judgment, but the weight of the truth. Iris kept going.

"I was there. Of course I was. Your grandpa, too. All your aunties. So Lee was fed, bathed, sung to. Kissed and swaddled. And then there was Quentyn — you remember him a little, don't you?"

Lee's father. He's been gone a long time.

Another nod.

"He adored that boy. Worshipped him. Carried so much of the load with a smile, never made your mom feel small for needing help or denying him his dream life. And then—" Iris's words caught in her throat. June can imagine why. "Well, after the accident... it was just Daphne. And Lee. And grief. And guilt. And a baby girl on the way."

She looked at June with something unreadable behind her eyes.

"So when you came Charlie never once wavered, of course. And... it was him Daphne always wanted anyway, so it was easier to sink into the joy this time. Your mother... she tried with Lee. She did better. But the guilt — from back then, from time she missed — it never really left her. That's why she doesn't raise her voice at Lee. That's why she will not punish him, not really. Because in her mind, she's still making up for three years that I promise you Lee cannot even remember."

They were quiet for a moment. Just the chop of the knife and the creak of the old house settling.

"Well," June could only say. "Good excuse I guess."

Then Iris added, "But if you want a true idea of how angry Daphne was — she called me last night to say she's raising a 'professional embarrassment.'"

June let out a snort, sharp and involuntary, like she was offended by how funny it was. "Oh, she's really campaigning for that Mother's Day mug from Crackle Barrel, isn't she?"

"But," Iris said, wiping her hands on a tea towel to face her granddaughter, "in the same breath, she told me — last night showed her how much you had grown. How the years flew by. How you, Missy, are the most beautiful girl in any room and sometimes she can't believe you are even real."

June felt her heart lurch. "She said that?"

"It scares her," Iris confirms, like it's a secret she should not be saying. Something scaring her usually untouchable and fearless daughter. "A mother sees all. She said you looked like you could have the world at your feet, kick it over, and still have it roll back to you. So yes, she's furious at your behavior most of the time. But she's also proud."

"Proud," June echoes doubtfully, "I don't think I could ever live long enough to make Daphne Uley proud."

Not lately. Not with her running amuck and throwing up peppermint schnapps in the backyard. Juniper makes beaded earrings that never quite match, not with the same patience or precision her aunties use. She insists on helping at fish fry nights, even though she burns the batter every time. Her braids are uneven more often than not that she doesn't even try to tame them. Her brows are untouched — wild, defiant. She knicks her legs while shaving and pretends it doesn't sting. She says the wrong things without meaning to and cries when she's scolded, even though she tries not to.

Nothing that warrants pride from anyone...

Iris stares at her, like she's the little bird that Juniper had in her own hands just the other day. "You are free and loved and you make every day proof of all that has given to you. Your paintings... your laughter... your whole being. Juniper Helene, how could your mother not be proud?"

Abashed, June shrugs, "Well. If she is proud, she just seems mad that she loves me that much sometimes."

"That's how Postoak women love."

"Mad but proud since before the Caucasian Invasion?"

"Give her the weekend. You'll be fine here, I love your company." Iris kissed her temple.

"Ditto."

"And we can go over how you started asking for kissing advice from old Velma Sampson yesterday. You kept saying how she looked like she's 'been around'... She's seventy-five years old, mind you."

June covered her face. "Oh my god. I did not."

"You also tried to fight Gloria Littlecreek because she wouldn't let you sing 'Jolene' on the mic again."

"She wasn't even hitting the harmonies—"

"You don't sing harmonies in karaoke, Juniper."

"I was emoting."

"Your mother was emoting too. Mostly from the eyeballs when she dragged you into the car."

June groaned louder.

Iris hummed as she stirred the soup. "Come to think of it, last week I saw a vision of a disco ball and glitter flecks stuck to skin. Until last night, I didn't realize it was prophecy."

June collapsed dramatically on the long booth that was for the kitchen table. "The disco and ABBA karaoke chose me, Gran. I was but a vessel."

"Mmhm." Iris handed her a mason jar with a suspicious looking concoction inside it. "That's coconut water with sea moss. Drink it and pretend you're Gwyneth Paltrow."

"Mom said punish me, not poison." 

"Chug it."

"I have rights, you know?"

"Breathe through your nose."

June took one sip and gagged. "It tastes like baby food and algae."

Her grandmother asked, peering at her face with the same eerie eyes they share to catch her reaction, "Do you suffer?"

"UMMM," June coughed into her hand, staring at her like she grew antlers or something, "I'm not usually eating baby food or algae! Yes!"

"Good. Now tell me what you learned."

"Don't take drinks from Tallulah Door..."

"That's step one." Iris arched a brow. "Step two?"

"Don't spike the punch at an elder's event even if it's boring and you're in your Audre Lorde era?"

"Closer."

June sighed, getting up and going to the living room. She took to burying her face into one of the woven pillows on the couch. "That I maybe have dreamy powers that heal things right up so animals and plants just love me so this means I'm possibly a chosen one but I can't talk about it or people will lock me up."

Iris paused. The spoon in her soup clinked gently against the side of the pot. "Hmm."

June peeked up. She expected more of a response, a cackle or a riff they could start. Not that. "That didn't sound like a surprised 'hmm.' That sounded like a 'the visions warned me about this' hmm."

"I didn't say anything."

"You thought it, though. Loudly."

June wanted to chalk up her freaky golden palm display to some drunken illusion but she had been way drunker than the other day and still managed to do a back handspring and make the landing. That was real life. Her palms glowed. She healed a baby bird who knocked his damn wing into pieces on her kitchen window by holding it. This is not normal but it happened and June is very good at accepting facts if she has the cause for them. There isn't any cause as far as she knows, hence, her slight freak out. Very minor right now but all signs point to it being a stressor if it happens again.

And mentioning it to her kooky, free-it-all to the wind and waves grandmother was a half hearted gesture of admitting she was feeling weird ever since then — who better to know about the weirdness of something than Iris Postoak?

They stared at each other for a beat before Iris finally said, "You'll do the dishes after this and sweep the back steps—pine needles everywhere, they're a symbol for entropy, did you know? We fight that in this house." June stared at her blankly but she continued like nothing. "Use the spray bottle labeled vinegar for the windows. What else... dust the photos? Yes. You know how to clean gutters?" June gave her a dry look. "Right. Best save that for Sam or your brother."

June began picturing Sam and Lee up on the roof. She would get a water gun and spray them. Sam hated that. Maybe throw a water balloon. Lee would chase her to Neah Bay if she got his hair wet—panic struck her; she suddenly wondered if the pack of cigarettes she and Tully stole from Tully's cousin Mona last month were up there when June had to toss them in fear that Iris' six-sense could detect underage nicotine usage...

"I'll give it a shot," June patted her chest. "For women everywhere who have to clean the gutters themselves."

"Sure. After all that, then you can read, bead, or paint something like you always do," Iris loved when June painted things. Everyone said she had talent but she wondered if that was said simply because they loved her. "Be productive. But no TV, no phone, and if I catch you sneaking off the Rez, I will feed you to the whales."

"Deal," June said solemnly.

"Oh," Iris added as she handed her a wooden spoon, the gesture for her to help stir while she cut something up on the side, "and you'll write a letter of apology to every auntie who drank the punch."

June blinked. "In MLA format?"

"In your best handwriting. Use some Quileute, too, child. This is a matriarchal correctional facility," Iris gave her a look like she was the weird one, "Not juvie."

•• ━━ ｡˚⊱ꕤ⊰˚｡ ━━ ••

THE COUCH was warm.

June was curled up like a sullen Victorian orphan, pencils scattered around her like flower petals. So far, she'd swept the porch, refilled the wood bin, wiped down all the window sills, and was currently halfway through reading one of her grandma's thesis papers on matriarchal societies, it was neatly printed and made into something you could stuff in a tote bag and read when you were on a long trip. June loved it as soon as she opened the monster paper; it dense and double-spaced, with footnotes and references and a long title like: "Matriarchal Power Structures in Indigenous Coast Salish and Quileute Communities: Resistance, Renewal, and Relational Authority."

June had been seriously into it, her lips parting at some points that had a good line. Other times she was rolling her eyes at some of the stiff language she can hear coming from her grandmothers mouth — "relational sovereignty," "matricentric governance," "eco-spiritual epistemologies" — but then a line had caught her: "In many tribal nations, the grandmother figure is not merely symbolic; she is the axis. The keeper of knowledge, the steward of community memory, the architect of moral order."

She glanced up from the page to where Iris was sitting by the woodstove, rubbing lavender oil into her wrists. Her hands — always her hands — were strong and weathered, the tendons rising like roots under her skin.

June picked up her pencil.

She sketched Iris's hands the way the paper described them: as keepers. Anchors. Maps. She didn't need to draw Iris's face to capture her — the hands were enough. The way they smoothed blankets, twisted braid ends, brewed tea, and rubbed backs in a soothing way. The same hands that cupped June's jaw when she cried and smacked the back of Lee's head when he got mouthy.

The last thing she remembered was the sun drifting behind the curtains in long slashes of gold and blue, and the soft buzz of Iris's radio murmuring something bluesy in the background. She was still drawing when her eyes began to flutter shut.

June's curls fell around her face like a veil as her head dipped lower and lower...

...until she was asleep.

Her pencil slid out of her hand and rolled onto the rug.

And then—

Then: knocking.

Three times. Not frantic, but not casual either.

The front door creaked open. Muffled greetings. Shoes scuffing cedar floors. A thud of something heavy being set down. More voices—deeper ones. Familiar timbres of people known to her heart, the urgency in their tones made June's stomach flutter even in her sleep riddled state.

"Come in," Her grandmas voice was lilted. "I love being disturbed after dinner when my ass should be planted in front of the TV watching Jeopardy..."

An old man's gruff voice grumbled: "You got rosemary drying out on the porch, it smells like a damn funeral home."

Iris snorted, "I like to give a sneak preview to intruders on what they'll be smelling for eternity if they come in uninvited."

"Where's that hellion granddaughter of yours?" — a woman's voice, sharp and clear. Juniper immediately recognized it as Nora Black, Billy's older sister.

"Crashed out in the living room, here. I worked her to the bone today." Iris's laugh was quicksilver. "And don't worry. She sleeps like she pricked her finger on a spindle..."

That seemed to satisfy them.

Footsteps passed right behind June's couch. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, shifted just enough to make it look like she was still deep asleep, her sketchbook halfway open across her lap.

"—we came as soon as we—"

"—look at this. No return address. Just... left it."

"Typed, you see that? Not signed. The bastards have gone modern now." A woman's voice. Sharp, with salt to it. Sue Clearwater without a doubt.

The council was in her grandmothers house. June shifted again, instinct making her breathing go slow and shallow as that fact sunk deeper. She kept her eyes closed. They never met here unless something really bad happened. One time tourists left horrible sayings on their beach, racist things, and the council came three times to visit Iris to deal with it. They're only ever here if something happens and they want very little people to hear about it — Iris' house is the most secluded, in the middle of land and sea and no noisy neighbors.

"Who else knows?"

"—only us, for now, but—"

"...back in Forks. The house... The doctor's name hasn't changed." Billy Black's voice timbre was as recognizable as ever.

Someone exhaled like they were trying not to swear. The kind of silence that means grown-ups are scared.

"They said permanent residence," someone said.

"They said distance," someone else corrected. The word was almost spat.

The fridge hummed. A kettle clicked.

"Too close," murmured another. Maybe Harry Clearwater? "Too soon."

Sue laughed cruelly. Her voice was the most intense and angered, and June had heard her angry before when she got mad at her daughter Leah; she was older than June but it was as if they ran amuck just the same way according to their mothers. "Monsters—they were never supposed to—We made it very clear, Aunt Iris."

"...Change will come..."

"They'll feel it too."

"It's already started—"

A scrape of a chair. A cough about the coffee they drank being hot. Old Quil Ateara most likely, Lee's grandpa. Iris said to leave it on the porch and it'll freeze like a popsicle if he wants it to. He grumbled.

June's fingers twitched against her knee.

"...We know...Attract too much..."

"...Disgraceful..."

"...Told them...Too young..."

"...Not ready..."

"...Cullen...."

The name hung like a storm rolling over the house.

Silence again.

Then Iris, in that slow, thunder-wary voice: "It's clear that they're not asking for permission. We will have to respond accordingly, damn things. We'll need everyone. Full circle. Make the arrangements and we will discuss it more tomorrow—Ateara is practically dosing off on my table."

Another pause.

Then soft footsteps. A change in weight on the floorboards. The sound of coats being gathered. One voice said something in Quileute, and there were murmurs of agreement. Then:

"...Daphne's chores must've knocked her out cold."

"She even went up on the roof for the gutters — she was likely looking for some cigarettes she thought we didn't know she tossed up there," Iris whispered, close now. Sue Clearwater huffed a laugh. "Hard week."

Then Sue says, like it physically pains her: "God, she's stunning." She bends slightly at the knees, like she's trying to get a better look at June's face and the girl faking sleep feels the hovering over her. "Harry! Come here, look at this little shit."

From the hallway, Harry Clearwater leans in with his coat half-zipped and chuckles low. "We see her every day, Sue. I see her."

"Yeah, and every day she gets more and more like—"

"Daphne," Iris finishes, stepping out of the kitchen. She folds the dishrag in slow, neat squares. "She's her mother's face-stealer."

Sue hums, eyes softening. "Daphne had that same dangerous look at fourteen."

"She still has it," Harry says, slipping on his gloves with a chuckle. "And Charlie still gets headaches over it."

Iris gives a single dry laugh. "Charlie gets headaches because he married her."

Sue lets out a short bark of a laugh, then claps a hand over her mouth, glancing down at the sleeping girl.

June stirs a little but doesn't wake.

"Poor man," Sue says, a little smug. "You must pity him. His other one, what's her name—? Betty? Bella. Yeah, Bella was always a little mouse... not like Juniper at all. Good hearts are always the loudest."

"Born in July, remember, nothing about her was ever going to be easy," Iris reminds, as if that explains it all. "Charlie's been readying his shotguns for years now. He'll be good. Trust me. It's Daphne who you should pity."

They stand there for a beat.

Just looking at her.

This girl with too much in her eyes, and too many people already calling her theirs.

Finally, Sue sighs. "Tell her I'll bring banana bread by next time. Her favorite. And tell her to slap the shit out of Leah if she offers her a cigarette packet again."

The door creaked open again.

A burst of cold air swept through.

Then silence.

And June, very much awake, eyes still closed, could feel her pulse hammering beneath her fingertips like a drum.

•• ━━ ｡˚⊱ꕤ⊰˚｡ ━━ ••

MORNING smelled like toast and cedar smoke. One of the windows was cracked just enough to let in the salt-breeze from the bay.

Iris Postoak (since grandpa Arthur died, people have started calling that again and she's yet to object since she told Juniper she spent years as someone's wife and it's nice to be known as herself) moved about the kitchen in her quilted housecoat and slippers, humming some old Dusty Springfield tune and spooning jam into a tiny cut-glass bowl like it was Sunday morning and not the day after something had clearly happened.

June sat at the table in her hoodie, hair in a loose braid, pretending very hard to be tired. She made a show of yawning. Of blinking like the light was just a little too bright. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn't heard the grown-ups arrive last night with their storm voices and secret letters. A mostly finished drawing of her grandmother's hands—lined, powerful, wearing ten rings and smelling faintly of yarrow—sat half-shaded on the page in front of her. Iris said she would frame it once finished.

She chewed her avocado toast slowly. The tea Iris made was lavender-laced. Comforting. Suspiciously so.

The silence between them was easy. Too easy.

Iris didn't ask anything.

She also didn't glance at her granddaughter in that way she always did when she knew June was lying. No narrowed eyes, no gentle accusations wrapped in parables. Just humming. Toast. Jam. Egg. Avocado.

June looked up from her plate. "Did I... fall asleep drawing?"

"You did," Iris said calmly, sitting down with her own mug. "Right there on the couch. Looked like a little possum. Shoulda set up a petting station—you looked cute."

Blinking, June said, "Thanks, I think."

The kettle hissed in the background. A robin chirped somewhere outside.

Iris sipped. "Any dreams?"

June hesitated. "I don't remember."

Iris nodded, satisfied. "Best kind sometimes."

And that was that. Iris seemed content—maybe even relieved—that June had "slept" through it all. She was never one to push unless pushed. Daphne always warned her not to pry too much into her grandmother's stories. Don't ask unless you want a riddle in return, she'd say. She'll make a prophecy out of a stomach ache. June loved her grandma — fiercely, actually — but if she asked Iris who the Cullens were and what them coming back meant, she'd end up knee-deep in a story about Postoak women with raven omens and how the wind carried ancestral warnings.

And honestly?

She did believe Iris. That was the problem. Growing up, June had learned fast that some things were fine to mention in one house but not the other.

At Iris's: It was normal to talk to ravens. Dreams were messages. Salt on the windowsill kept bad spirits out. You could feel your ancestors in your bones.

At Daphne's: None of that was real. Don't say those things at school. Don't embarrass yourself. Don't ask your mother why she and her mother don't talk during equinox week.

June had always been a little weird because of it. A little off. A little in between.

And so June wouldn't ask. Not Iris at least.

But something was happening.

She tucked her legs underneath her, flipping through the fragments she remembered — Cullens, change, the doctor, they were never supposed to come back. That last part haunted her. And it wasn't just the whispery tension of the council that unnerved her. It was the look on Iris's face in the morning as she stood on the porch with her shawl around her shoulders. A face that almost never flinched, not even when the phone rang after midnight.

That's when it hit her.

Billy Black.

He'd been there. Said hardly anything, but when he did, everyone else went quiet. Even Iris.

Her best friend's dad might've been chill while shooting jokes with her father over a barbecue pit and grumpy about his joints, but everyone knew he was the closest thing the rez had to a modern-day chief — even if no one used the title, Chairman of the tribal council was more apt for Mr. Black. If anyone knew anything about this, it was him. And Jacob Black would humor her. Even if he didn't believe in half the spooky council stuff, he'd listen. He always did. She would annoy him until he did, anyway.

After breakfast, June rushed to get ready.

She glided into the kitchen, moving slowly like a cat inching toward a countertop fish. "I know I'm grounded," June began sweetly, like someone asking for a second cookie instead of subtle parole. "But I was wondering if I could go to Jacob's for a bit?"

Iris didn't turn around. "Grounded means grounded."

"Yeah but I'm not leaving the rez," she rushed on to explain. "We're just going to be working on something for Quil's auntie — she wants an emblem design to make into a decal in Port Angeles, and I told her I'd sketch one for her. I need Jacob's input. For... auto mechanical reasons."

Iris raised one brow.

June adjusted her shirt. "And technically, since Jacob's the most boring and responsible person alive—party pooper, honorary elder, blah blah—he's not gonna let me run amuck."

Iris stirred her tea.

"I mean, think about it," June added, leaning on the counter. "If I stay here, I'll just pace and annoy you. There's no more chores. But if I go to Jake's, you get like, a few solid hours of peace. Minimum."

Iris set the spoon down with a quiet clink.

June blinked. "Plus, I'll bring you back that smoked trout from the market you like? I'm kinda loaded. Lee gives me money."

Finally, finally, Iris sighed. "Be home before dinner.  You're helping with the prep, girl."

June lit up. "You're the best."

"If I hear you left the boundary line—"

"I won't!"

"—or you come back smelling of smoke—"

"Smacking Leah Clearwater into next year if she offers."

"—or convinced sweet Jacob to leave his garage—"

"I couldn't even if I tried."

"Let's see what Daphne would forbid," Iris said, calm but pointedly grabbing a little notebook. She flipped through a few pages. "Ah, here it is. No detours. No bus to Forks. Or begging Sam to take you to Port Angeles. No antique stores. And no trying to talk Jacob into letting you test drive anything."

"I would never," June said, hand on her heart. "Again."

Iris shook her head but her mouth twitched. "Go."

And just like that, Juniper was gone in a flurry of curls, scribbled sketches, and the faint sound of her humming "Independent Women Pt. 1" as she threw on her sneakers.

•• ━━ ｡˚⊱ꕤ⊰˚｡ ━━ ••

IT'S ALMOST the afternoon when she finds him — out behind the Black house.

Jacob Black, age fifteen, hair tied back in a loose bun, sleeves rolled, radio playing just loud enough to drown out his thoughts. He's humming along to CCR, completely unaware he's about to get cornered by a girl on a mission. He was in the garage, bent over Old Man Young's car. He didn't trust just anyone with Eleanor. The car had been parked under a tarp since the Clinton administration, rusting slow and sentimental in the corner of his lot. He claimed he was "waiting for the right hands." Which meant that he worked cheap which was the truth — mostly for food, favors, and the occasional fifty if the job was big — but it wasn't just that. People trusted Jacob. He didn't brag. Didn't half-ass. Didn't make a mess without cleaning it up.

Right now, he had oil on his jaw like warpaint. Juniper stood at the doorway, arms crossed, chin tilted just enough to look like she wasn't interested. But she was.

She always was.

"Knock knock," she said, her Sambas scuffing against the concrete. "Guess who?"

There was no need to announce herself. She yanked the garage door open like she owned the place, surprisingly sunny and smiling, dimples in full bloom like she hadn't just been grounded by two generations of Uley women.

"You're supposed to be grounded."

"Charming," Juniper replied. "One 'good morning' would have sufficed."

He looked over then—obedient, a little amused. "Good morning."

She was standing there with one hand on her hip, dark ponytail high and curls spilling out, yellow cardigan slipping off her shoulder like it had better places to be. Her white baby tee had some faded, blue gemstone lettering on it that said Rabbit Year. A denim skirt was low-slung enough to reveal a sliver of belly and—

He froze.

The belly button ring.

A gold stud. Glittering. Absolutely not there before.

Jacob dropped the wrench.

Clang.

The wrench slipped; a clean, traitorous clang.

Her dimples appeared like a secret. "Ah. That caught your attention."

He recovered, smoothing the rag over his palm as if the drop had been intentional. "Hard to miss an aftermarket install. When was that?"

"Last month," she said mildly. "Port Angeles. Leah Clearwater and her friend from UW played chaperone, I was only supposed to be a tag along for art supplies. It was a very big girl moment. I didn't pass out but Leah held my hand. They assured me it was tasteful."

"Tasteful," he echoed, as if they were discussing curtain rods. His gaze—bordering polite, quick—flicked once and back. "Looks good."

Her lashes did a little victory flutter and her cheeks went rosy. "Thank you."

To regain some confidence after that sight, Jacob whistled lowly, turning back to the car for a moment and clearing his throat, "Listen to you, Swan. Piercings at the Port. I would've bet you were still at the 'jewelry only belongs on the neck up' stage."

"I contain multitudes. And the tendency to be caught," She lets out a sigh when he laughs at her words, "My mom saw it barely and went Mommy Dearest. Hence: grounded. Cinderella arc. Tragic. Cry for me?"

"I would've guessed the bingo punch sealed the deal," he said. "But this has range."

"Accessory to Tully," she conceded, prim even in confession. "My sentence is cumulative. I'm bearing it with grace." He snorted at the last bit. She slipped past him like she lived there, set her sketchbooks on the bench in a tidy stack, and pushed a pencil behind her ear. "Now then. Are you available for consultation on civic mysteries, or are you going to pretend to polish that same spot forever?"

"My diagnostics usually run on engines, not auntie intrigue," he said, leaning back against the fender. "Also, for the record, I wasn't staring."

"No, Of course not," she murmured, her pleasant rasp low, smile threatening anyway.

Jacob just stared at her, trying not to.

His brain felt like someone had poured sand into it.

She tilted her head, pleased. "Anyway, Iris issued a limited dispensation. I'm allowed to be here because"—she adopted Iris's cadence fondly—"'Jacob is responsible and will not let you run amuck.'"

He wiped his hands on a rag, deadpan. "Slander. I'm very pro-amuck."

"You," she said primly, "are our community's compliance officer."

He squinted at her, faint smile tugging. "I don't narc."

"You absolutely... report for safety," she corrected, sweet as tea.

He leaned a hip to the fender. "So what's the visit for, Juniper Postoak-Swan? More accusations, or do I get a checklist?"

"Neither." She tapped her pencil once against the paper, nose scrunching in that way that meant she'd decided something. "I told you. I require your counsel on the strange happenings."

"Dangerous phrase," he said, dryly. "Strange how?"

She arched a brow. "Do you know anything about the Cullens?"

He dragged a hand down his face, still smiling because she was here and because being dramatic suited her. "Please don't start with that."

"I will start with that," she said, firm and relentless. "And you will listen like a gentleman. A bunch of the elders came over to my gran's last night. I think some others as well but, I was doing my best Sleeping Beauty impression and fully eavesdropping so I couldn't see exactly who. For sure Sue, Harry, your dad, your auntie Nora— they all showed up, like something terrible happened. They were whispering about people coming back and leaving a letter to announce it. They said if they're back, then it will start."

Jacob went back to messing with something in the engine. "Knowing them, they're probably overreacting about something dumb as usual..."

"Tell me everything you know."

He sighed. "I don't know much. They're just—my dad says they're not good people. He says their family are ones our people met a bunch of years back and we made them swear to never return but here they are, so the councils pissed. My auntie Connie's husband said he saw them in Forks. Creepy. All pale and formal, trying to act like they're human."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are they not?"

Jacob shook his head, wincing like he didn't even want to say anything anymore. "It's stupid."

"And you're the bestest friend ever," she said sweetly, tapping his thigh with her shoe. She knew he couldn't ignore a compliment from her. "Go on."

Sure enough. "He was literally just reciting the same lines in the stories back from when we were little..."

June's brows raised. "Our stories? You mean the scary stories about Cold Ones? Lee used to say that was just another word for them, but the pale faces would say vampires."

He looks away, pulling at a frayed thread on his jeans. "June—"

"Wait. Do the council think the Cullen's are actually vampires?" she asks suddenly.

Jacob blinks. "No?"

She studies him. "That's not a no-no. That's a maybe."

He huffs a laugh. "You're reaching."

"You're deflecting."

"I'm five-months older than you. I'm allowed."

Juniper leans closer. "But you don't think I'm crazy for asking."

"I think you're crazy-adjacent."

She smirks. "That's still adjacent to correct."

"I just don't think getting worked up about weird old people stuff is something you should worry about."

She narrowed her eyes. "You think the council would all meet up at midnight with no plans over something that is just weird?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. They're dramatic. Have you met our community? They get weird about that stuff. You're already weird enough without their stories messing with your head."

June narrowed her aubergine-colored eyes, mouth parting slightly. "Mean."

He smirked. "Am I wrong?"

She ignored that. "Maybe it's important."

He huffed a laugh. "It's not. It's old people being bored. My dad's the worst of them. Tells me not to go into the woods when I'm pissed off, like I'm gonna turn into Bigfoot or something."

June stepped even closer, now right by the hood of the car. "But, Jay, it just felt... heavy. Like it wasn't made-up. Like it meant something. Sue was mad like the mad she gets when Leah used to pay Seth to let guys come in through his window because it was the only one without burglar bars." That makes Jacob roll his eyes at the memory. "They all talked like something was going to... change. Like it was dangerous."

Jacob looked at her again, and this time, there was something like worry behind his eyes. Like maybe she was touching something she wasn't meant to. He sighed through his nose and leaned a little closer, sitting down and bumping his knee into hers lightly like she wasn't mid-spiral.

"June," he said, "you also said The Phantom of the Opera felt like it meant something."

She opened her mouth, offended.

"I stand by that—"

"And you once made me hike three miles into the woods at nine years old because you swore you saw a glowing rabbit spirit."

"I did!"

"It was a raccoon with mange and you cried when it hissed at you."

June shoved his arm, making a huff when he didn't even move an inch. "That was one time."

He smiled, finally. "Look, I'm not saying you're wrong," She looked half pacified. "I'm saying you've got a gift for turning weird vibes into epic quests, and ninety percent of the time it ends with me getting scratched by a feral animal or guilted into paying for your overpriced tea drinks in another city."

She was trying not to laugh. "So you're saying this is just me being dramatic again?"

"I'm saying," he said, quieter now, "that if something is changing, we'll deal with it. But don't let it live in your chest yet, okay? It's just a letter. Just some council weirdness. You're safe." He nudged her again. "And I'd let you in through my window, no bars required."

That made her laugh. Soft and sudden.

He looked at her like he was memorizing it.

"Okay," she said eventually, voice softer now. She pushed the tendrils of curls that had escaped from her ponytail out of her face. "So you really think the Cullens, whoever they are, are just... normal?"

He wiped his hands again, this time slower. Turned toward her.

"Yeah," he said, with that earnest, level tone he only used when he meant something. "I do. Look, everything is normal here. The elders are just... being a lot. You know how they get. All mysterious and hush-hush and whispering like the sky's about to fall."

June's mouth twitched. "They were kinda giving doomsday prepper." 

Jacob nodded. "Exactly. And they're getting to your head. Don't let them. Just ignore 'em."

"Like you ignore your dad?" she teased gently.

"Exactly like that."

She smiled, but waited.

Jacob went on for another affirmation to their people's wackiness. "The Cullens are probably just some weird, Mormon family that had an ancestor that did something dumb like take a sacred shell from First Beach or, I don't know, fenced in a cedar grove or some other colonizer act we rightfully hate them for. But vampires?" He shook his head. "I don't think they exist."

A pause.

Then, June nodded. "Okay."

Jacob blinked. "Just like that?"

She looked up at him, the late sun catching the ivory birthmark on her cheekbone, her lashes, the soft curve of her expression. Her face was open and pleasing in that way that always undid him—like she'd never considered the possibility that he'd lie to her. Like she believed in him more than she believed in anything else.

She looked up at him with that face—open, soft, a little shy smile playing at her lips—and said, "Well, yeah. If you say it's okay, Jake, I'll believe it."

Then she reached up, took the rag from his hand without hesitation, and gently wiped the smudge of oil off his cheek.

Her fingers were warm. Light. Smelled faintly of cedar smoke, those blueish-purple flowers she likes, bellflowers, and pencil graphite.

Jacob didn't breathe.

She smiled at him once more—barely there—and then turned, plopped herself back down on the ratty old garage couch, and started sketching like none of that had just happened. Like she hadn't just looked at him like that and touched his face.

He stood there, rag in hand, stunned.

And then—it hit him.

Why does she look so pretty these days?

Why is my heart racing?

Why do I want her to stay longer?

Much to his satisfaction, June stayed even after the conspiracy talk ended.

The fan buzzed lazily above them. Jacob was underneath Eleanor, the wrench in his hand slipping every so often because of the heat, and because his head kept drifting toward the couch behind him.

Where she was.

Juniper Swan had made herself very at home in the garage — which Jacob only half-resisted given all the tools and sharp things lying around — stretched out like she lived there, legs crossed and one foot bouncing to a song she was softly humming. It was The Sundays. Something slow, girlish, kind of sad. He didn't know all the words, but the ones he did made Jacob feel like he was dreaming underwater when he heard them.

They'd chatted about dumb things like they always did—how dumb Quil looked when he ran, if ghosts could live in engines, her theory that vampires hated California because of the constant sun, his refusal to admit he liked that new R&B girl group she kept playing ("Sugababes are gonna take over, watch, I love them like I love Danity Kane"), whether or not he could win a fight against a bear or if the bear would need help. (She said yes. He said hell no.)

She slipped into his house without asking, grabbed two sodas from the fridge, popped the cap off his with her keychain like she'd done it a hundred times.

He was watching her reflection in the chrome of the Mustang. She'd stood up now, twirling absently, arms raised in a pose she used to perfect back when she still took ballet. She didn't do it anymore — made some off hand comment about not liking the new teacher calling her "too eager to be delicate" and refused to go back — but she still moved like a dancer.

Her baby-tee lifted slightly as she spun. She did a perfect arabesque — arms like water, leg outstretched — and then dropped into a pirouette that was so smooth he forgot, briefly, to breathe. The little flash of her stomach, the glint of that belly ring — it short-circuited something in his chest again.

"Hey," he called out, more harshly than he meant to. "You're gonna make yourself dizzy."

She stopped mid-spin and stuck her tongue out at him, continuing. "I like being dizzy."

Then an hour later she ran to the corner store—yelled over her shoulder "don't tell Iris!"—and came back with sandwiches and a melted chocolate bar and a pack of gum she stuffed in his glovebox "for emergencies."

It was nothing. It was everything.

And just like that, she flopped back on the couch. Pencil to sketchpad. Back to doodling the front of the Mustang, with little flames and clouds and flowers coming out of the exhaust pipe.

Jacob sits on the floor by the Mustang, half under the hood, pretending to fiddle with something he forgot five minutes ago.

But really, he's watching her.

She's fast asleep. He thinks about a few in that moment. How she got him lunch without asking. How she talks so much it should be annoying but it never is. Not when it's her. The pencils were sliding from her fingers that still twitch like she's drawing in her sleep. The smudge her charcoal pencil left on her jaw. The way chest rose and fell slowly, her long lashes kissing her cheekbones. How her hair fanned across the couch pillow like wild ink. One of her legs was bent, the other kicked over the edge. He could see her ankle, delicate and a little scraped. Her knee. The freckle on her thigh. The curve of her mouth.

Jacob blinked hard.

His stomach turns.

His pulse trips.

He stares at her like he's never really seen her before, even though she's always been around.

And then—

I hope when she gets her first kiss, it's not some sweaty loser who only likes her 'cause she's pretty. I hope the guy doesn't mess it up. I hope he knows how good she is. I hope he...

His chest tightens.

I hope it's me.

The thought hits like a punch to the gut.

He just doesn't want to admit it.

Because that's Juniper. His Juniper. His mom's best friends' daughter. The girl who used to cry when she scraped her knee and would only let him put the band-aid on. The girl who wore a tu-tu and rain boots every day for three months at Head Start. The girl who used to read him fairy tales out loud in the house like she was auditioning for Broadway. Who cries when she sees roadkill and sings to flowers and gets grounded every other weekend for her shenanigans.

He drops the wrench in his hand. It clatters.

She shifts in her sleep, a sleepy sigh slipping from her mouth. She doesn't wake up.

He let out a sigh of relief.

He tilted his head, folded his arms across his chest, and popped his neck. Stretched one shoulder. Scratched the back of his head like it might help. Like why was his heart doing that? Why did he keep noticing the way her shirt rode up a little when she turned? Why did she smell like those blueish flowers she loves and summer and like, the beach after a storm? Why was he being weird?

He picked up the wrench again and grunted as he leaned back into the undercarriage. "Get a grip, Black."

Still, he looked back at her once more — soft and sleeping and sunlit — before he clicked the wrench back into place.

Weird.

Really weird.

authors note: AH! chapter two and i'm sooooo in it lmfao i rewrote the end a thousand times and it literally always ended with baby!jake being like wow ... what's this?? why am i feeling so WEIRD? jsgfjfhdjdji they're soooooo "we've got too many years between us" coded like i can't even explain how much Spring Into Summer by Lizzy McAlpine they are it's insane. As more chapters go by, you'll see it too. Why are your thoughts so far? Let me know!! Thank you so much for the support and hype, I adore you all completely.