July 5th

“You’re pouting,” a girl named July pointed out to the other girl and laughed, laying her head back in the prickly grass.

“What? Am not!” the other girl, Wynne, screeched, a high-pitched sound that betrayed her offense as well as her nerves.

She laughed again; when she braved another look in her direction, she knew the pink flush of Wynne’s nose wasn’t a trick of the fireworks’ light.

It was the Fourth of July. Because of course it was. Such was the way of July the girl’s life.

Every important, potentially life-altering event in her family’s entire existence surrounded this holiday. The scents of salt and sweat and the slight smoke of food on grills and fireworks being lit sporadically in yards brought unending memories to the surface of July’s mind. There were so many, she felt like she had to paddle through them and kick her feet to stay afloat.

For once, July wanted something to call her own, but destiny or the universe or God had different ideas for her.

Here she was on this infernal holiday, lying in the summer-baked grass, the earth warm beneath her, and all she could think about was Wynne at her side. Wynne placed one arm to support her head, disturbing the black waves of her hair, and the other purposefully between them, a silent invitation for her free hand to be held. It was 11:58 p.m. on the Fourth of July, and Wynne had been trying to find a moment to kiss July all night.

The peak of the fireworks show. After she had complimented the color of July’s eyes as yellow sparkles streaked across the sky. After the big finale had left both of them smiling, wild and breathless.

And the whole night, July had been playing at being oblivious.

After the third unsuccessful attempt to brush their fingers oh-so-slyly together, Wynne’s expression had soured, her soft jokes and wry grins turning to bitten lips and wrinkles between her eyebrows. Insecure and unsteady. Had everything they had been building to this summer been all in Wynne’s head? Had she found something in their interactions when there was actually nothing?

July’s heart gave a small, uncomfortable twist for engendering the anxiety within her friend.

She raised her wrist—the one not mere centimeters away from Wynne’s—to look at the time once more.

“Did I ever tell you,” July spoke, voice rough and stretched as the desert growing between them, as the second hand clicked over to 11:59, “why my parents named me July?”

“Well, it’s gotta be because of your sunny disposition,” Wynne drawled.

“You would think, wouldn’t you?” July met her sarcasm with ease. Wynne released a small chuckle.

“Hmm,” Wynne mused. “Don’t tell me your birthday is in July. Oh.” Wynne finally moved her hand away so she could prop herself on her elbow and look down at July. She was so close that she had to tuck her hair behind her ear to keep it from brushing across July’s cheek. Her eyebrows were deeply furrowed. “It’s not today, is it?”

“No,” July managed, though speaking or breathing at all felt like a monumentous task when her vision was overcome with Wynne’s aquiline nose and bright eyes.

“Oh, thank God.” Wynne flopped back, exposing the dark sky once more. A red sparkler went off in the distance. Their arms were farther apart now.

Another painful twist of the heart.

“My parents met at a party, exactly twenty-five years ago. The following Fourth, they had my oldest sister, Zoe. And then Meredith and Felix, my other siblings, were born within a week of the Fourth. Like clockwork.”

The watch flicked to midnight. Three more fireworks sounded. Bang. Crackle. Skee.

“Me, on the other hand…” July chuckled to herself, thinking about just how different she was from all of her older siblings. “I had to go and be born in late December. I became their ‘July in Christmas.’”

Wynne hummed. “Wow. Your family loves a theme.”

When July looked at Wynne and smirked, Wynne grinned back. A rogue firework colored the shine of her eyes and teeth purple.

“I don’t…” July swallowed down a butterfly, or fifty. “I don’t want to share the Fourth of July with anything or anyone else. You know?” July rubbed at her nose, hoping to dislodge the embarrassing heat building there. “Maybe that sounds stupid. But sometimes, I want things for myself. This holiday already has my parents’ anniversary and my siblings’ birthdays and my name.”

“For sure.” Wynne sounded hesitant, though she wore an open, searching expression.

“All that to say—” July swallowed again, and her throat clicked around a shaky and eloquent, “Um.”

July grimaced. It was 12:02 a.m. on July fifth, and July had kept Wynne at arm’s length pretty much all night. When Wynne picked her up from work and produced a picnic basket and blanket that was too small to cover the ground beneath them. When Wynne let her look at the sketch of July’s profile that she had drawn earlier while waiting for July’s shift to end. When Wynne’s eyes widened in awe at the crack of the first firework. Every single time she, herself, had thought about kissing Wynne.

There had been a chance to make her horrifyingly massive crush on this beautiful girl more than a fantasy—multiple chances, all in one night, how could she be so lucky?—and she had let her own selfishness and desire for some semblance of independence pull her away. July blew it.

“Anyway,” July started, frustration pricking at the back of her eyes, but the brush of a hand upon hers made her stop.

They had held hands before. That wasn’t anything new. Wynne held hands with anyone who would let her. She was a touchy person. But this. It felt different. It was different. Tentative, soft, the gentle slot of long fingers between hers as if they were always meant to do so.

“Jules,” Wynne whispered, and July turned so their noses brushed. “Can…”

July nodded before Wynne could finish the stupid question, and she laughed.

Finally, July thought with a satisfied, internal release of breath. July fifth. It would forever be the day July kissed Wynne for the very first time, and she wouldn’t have to share, except with the person she most wanted to. She squeezed Wynne’s hand as if sealing a deal.

Wynne was hers, July was Wynne’s, and July the Fifth was theirs.