by C. Spencer
So the only thing that comes to mind is, “Do you plan on buttoning this?”
“Did you want me to?”
As if I could say anything except No. Don’t. As if I could remember what I was doing a minute ago, what I was thinking as I hook a finger over this thin band of elastic around her hips, her cheeks flushed from the heat of that shower, her skin scarcely toweled, flinching as I touch her low along the dip where her thighs stick together. And here, as she makes these sounds, breathy, with hips now molding against mine as I walk back to the edge of the bed, and she’s tumbling over, topping me, her hair wet and closing around her face. Then she reaches for something across the mattress, that cotton shirt twisting as she does, draping at her waist, the backs of her thighs still ruddy. My gaze skimming the length of her stretch from a knee that rubs, crawls, to shoulders covered and long strands of hair now tucked beneath its collar, towel-dried, clinging to her skin. That scent of her shampoo. Before the room darkens and all I can feel are the sounds of her words against my mouth. “You’ll break my heart.”
“I think you maybe want me to,” I say, feeling the bend of a knee weighing down on either side of me.
“I think you already have,” she says, with despairing lips that search for mine, those hands gripping as she tries to lift my shirt clumsily overhead, straddling me as I reach to find her thighs in the dark, and she’s wet, this shirt still open, still riding up her hips. The evening glow pouring in, roving along calm features, sublime as she moves against me, slipping along my hand as I watch her expression fade until she’s collapsing against me. Until I flip her around, top her, slip this strip of elastic down lifted hips before parting her knees wide and crawling between, with fingers still damp as they make their way up the center of her thigh. Her breasts flat and full, shapeless on her back.
And as much as she’s trying to pull me, show me, or take me—she can’t. And eventually she just gives up as tight thighs grip around my hips, her breasts rigid against my tongue. Then a good two, three minutes go by, and she’s still arched, her breath so soft but so heavy in this stillness, waiting as I make my way down, easing fingers inside her and please, she says.
With those weak sounds she makes as my tongue wets her, and she trembles, she’s quivering, sinking into sheets with thighs that squeeze my cheeks before she falls to her side.
Before pulling me up because I can’t stop. As I sink against her.
Where her cheek lies flushed against the pillow. The rise and fall of her chest. That sound of the whippoorwill, her breath. That gaze unbroken.
As I trace along the curve of her stomach to the flesh between her legs, and I’m wishing we could do this again.
“In a minute,” she’s saying, breathless, watching me, studying me or hoping to.
And I’m wondering, how do I stay myself if I stay with her?
As if this right here, tonight, this nobody else, this all of the time was actually me. And it’s not.
Chapter Twenty
Our Next 160 Miles
Madisen
I’ve let the past two weeks slip by under the guise of premature suitcase packing interspersed with near-constant weather checking.
Me: “It’ll be unseasonably warm the entire time.”
Rae: “As in long sleeves?”
As she dots i’s, and as I cross t’s, resulting in several later than late nights at the office to wrap things up—complete with a million need-it-nows, none of which ever actually fall off my agenda.
Me: “Try board shorts. And more like ninety degrees.”
Until our weekend arrives, Labor Day, having spent our road trip eve doing end-of-week everything apart. And after waking so alert and wishing I could feel this brisk on any normal day at six a.m. at sunrise, dew still shivering along blades of grass. Me sipping coffee as she tugs luggage, shifting one more duffel, if it even fits, over her already weighed down shoulder full of straps that tumble as she leans in to give me this kiss, followed by the most intense stare you could imagine.
“I thought I had overpacked,” is all I can say as luggage wheels thump down a curb, and she’s gazing at me, lids low, with the cutest lift at the corner of her mouth.
And I’m melting. But ugh, this phone.
“What now?” I hear as I fumble.
“Nothing,” I tell her, shaking my head as I read the screen: Aline.
Answering. “Hey, Maddy,” I hear, “you wouldn’t happen to know that login for the kid’s insurance portal, would you?”
“Why?” I say before ducking away.
“Because I cleared my cache, and apparently,” she says, “in doing so, I erased every username and login I’ve ever had.”
“And you haven’t written this down somewhere?”
“I know, I know. I should,” she tells me, slipping all too casually into this right here, comfortable, familiar—or, I should say, intimate. “You always took care of that for me.”
“It’s not as if I have it on me,” I say. “I’ll give you a call when I’m back at my desk, all right?”
“All right,” she says, and just the same, “sure.”
As I end the call, I regroup, glancing up at a slow-moving car making its way along the pavement.
“I won’t share you,” Rae says, startling me with a kiss that backs me against the hood, “with some contractor or whoever that was.” And the engine against my palm is still warm. Her hips, tenacious. It’s the most challenging way to begin my day.
“We need to go,” I say tucking my phone as I collapse over her shoulder and sulking a bit, sure.
“We do,” she says.
As she holds me so tight. I can’t let go. “Before that traffic backs up,” I say.
“I know,” she says, “before traffic.” I mean, what’s this scent she’s wearing? It’s doing something to me.
But after shoving bags in my deep trunk amid those lenses or whatever else she brought, we’re off and onto the highway and into a new playlist, windows down—her elbow at the ledge, hand waving with the wind. Road trips, I think, are the ultimate way to go. No airports, no TSA, no creepy pat downs, no flight cancellations, and nobody to confiscate my nail file.
Still I’m pushing seventy past a string of slow-laners as I scan for patrol cars. And she doesn’t seem to mind, unsnapping the glove compartment as she digs for a map. Finding it, giving it a shake, until that beam of sun shines through and down its crease making it appear almost transparent in red and green, with that crooked yellow line that drives east, so past this semi and one more speed sign, which I flat out choose to ignore.
Eight times she’s taken this trip. Eight, she’s saying as she slips sandals off and bare heels hit the dash. Then I set cruise to sixty-five, change lanes, and she leans in and snaps a selfie with her phone, talking through the best part of this song. “So it’s literally on the sea,” she’s saying. “Their deck, I mean. Back in the day, I guess it was a boat dock. Their place is so old—in a good way. They’ve renovated.”
As I glance sidelong, catching my reflection in those mirrored shades just above that grin, thinking this is nice.
“Sorry,” she says, “what were you about to say?” Then she’s back on her phone.
And I’m shouting over wind. “I wanted to know what you were doing.”
“I’m just sharing this on Facebook. Mind if I tag you?” she says, then tilts her screen to show off our end-of-season tans. ChapStick lips. That smile of hers, my profile caught off guard. Her boyish tank. Both of us hidden beneath shades.
“So what else do they like?” I say.
“Craft beer,” she says. “They’re all about craft beer. And baseball,” two topics I know absolutely nothing about.
“So why don’t you do the talking,” I say.
Around sixty miles in, we finally do hit that bumper-to-bumper the radio keeps warning us about. Meanwhile she’s thumbing, narrating a text: Heavy traffic. Might be late. While the guy in the car beside us sings to his dash, windows up, m
uted, and we inch ahead.
Rae reclines, shades propped atop her head, squinting and shadowed by a hand now cupped to the sun, before she closes her eyes and my gaze lingers down to where fingers clasp at her waist. Her shirt lax at the belt with shorts that tug at the thigh.
And I don’t think I catch my second wind until we arrive, shaking hands in a sort of introduction that needs no introduction, given they seem to know too much about me as it is. I get the How was your drive? and that sort from two who are unoriginally dressed from head to toe.
And amid their talk of playoffs and whatever else, I just sort of daze off until I’m following their lead to the infamous deck or dock or whatever else you want to call it. Taking it all in, intoxicated by the scents of the Atlantic. Reclined in a low chair, resting feet at planks that quite literally—eventually—drop off to the sea.
Where Rae keeps asking How are you doing? and Can I get you anything? with a laugh that I can’t help but adore.
Near the edge, just before the drop, a simple slab of wood is resting on steel now soldered into some sort of waist-high platform of a table, which is serving more than too many bottles of lagers and ales and odd soda brands, each with trendy labels, the good kind of tortilla chips and not-from-the-jar salsa, squares of cheese and other things. And that carries us across another four and a half more topics until I’m feeling all too welcome here.
So by evening, we head out for dinner at this place that’s dimly lit with the big glass ocean view, and we’re served hummus and a basket of crusty bread, then rigatoni marinara, baked cheese. Chianti.
Until a few glasses in after having indulged, we’re heading back to the sand and a late setting sun. With two and eventually three getting to work on a bonfire. And sparks begin to fly in no time.
It’s really the same kind of conversation everyone has time and again with good people you can’t see often enough. The jokes, the confessions, and still the fire grows, pops. As I catch that gaze, too intent on me.
And she leans in with a simple, “Hey.”
And I say, “Hey.”
And she’s asking to go for a dip.
And I’m thinking, a night like this was made for bad hair and eating too much and drinking freely. Not a dip in the sea. Not bikinis.
Yet she’s pleading and I’m wishing she didn’t have to be so convincing like this. Gripping, tugging me through a salty breeze as it whips hair across my face. And next we’re ankle deep at a tide that keeps rolling in and over and out. Her arms bound around my waist, her breasts crushed at my back as one more wave licks and tickles in its slow descent. Trickling as it drips. But she’s steadying me, even with that constant tug out as it hopes to yank me everywhere else but right here.
As seaweed slips and curls around an ankle. Under the sky and its vast vibrance. And it hits me in a good way—a helpless but whole way. How I wish I could pause us and this, and nerves, and all of its apprehension and uncertainty, its doubts and misgivings. If I could hold this just a little longer, it might finally make sense.
And I’m hoping to say something profound like that, or maybe something prettier, but I can’t really. Instead, I’m feeling a finger tug at a tight strand of hair now resting between my lips and stuck like taffy. Feeling unstable as sand sinks and shifts the earth beneath us.
Even as she’s wading deeper, tugging me out, gazing back. Pleading and stretching to my bending as another tide collides up my thighs. And she’s amused by this. She’s amused. Radiant in light from the sun as it sinks deeper into the sea. With my shirt weighted heavier the wetter it gets.
But how deep is she planning on taking me?
My shirt drenched already, floating, a stream of foam resting between my breasts. Her cheek wet against mine, that hair dripping, skin shivering. But she’s warm…here. I can feel her. And her breath sends a chill down my spine.
As she holds me through its lifting of hips before I settle into its dark. It swells around us.
Her thumb smudging against my lips. I can taste its salt on my tongue as I reach above and tug tight strings off the nape of my neck, and my top just floats right off. My skin chilled, her palm warm, hidden beneath buoyant swells of cloth now clinging and floating with the tide. As she draws me in, warms me, slips down me, wets me.
And I can feel her inside me.
That flicking light on the horizon. The tang of salt along her skin. Until I’ve lost count of the waves still crashing.
Lost count even as she’s tucking straps, retying them, covering me, dressing me. Unbalanced as I catch my breath. Her thighs slipping between mine, rubbing, steadying my swaying.
Before we’re hand in hand as we head back to the shore, having been out here too long.
And we make our way over, smitten, guilt-ridden, the sand rough, the fire hot.
Marshmallows roasting to a sweet crisp chestnut. Me, indulging in her lurid stare. How she felt out there. How it feels still.
As we collapse along dry towels before sinking wet feet into seaweed and sand and shells. Amid the scent of salt and fish and roasting wood chips. Our hosts sporting caps now. Me, wishing I could do the same, given this wind, but… “I’ve never been out that way,” I hear as I’m handed a bag of marshmallows, the fire warming my face, when they ask Rae if she remembers, and I turn to her.
“You’re heading to San Francisco?” she says with a swig of stout. And how dreamy she looks in this glow as I lick a bit of chocolate off just as it’s ready to drip. Gazing down to where grains of sand have stuck to her legs and up a pair of heels before I return to find her studying me in that meaningful way.
As we discuss red tide and Haight-Ashbury and beatniks and revolution and women’s lib and odd expressions like tickled pink. Then back to something about baseball.
Before our foursome shrinks to our intimate twosome under the guise of “Our evening stroll,” they tell us. Excusing themselves, brushing knees, and struggling yet failing to hide the obvious as they leave us to tend the fire.
And I follow Rae’s eye to the sand as she sketches mindlessly alongside my hip.
Then another curious grin. It dips and lingers again a little while longer, resurfacing those nerves. And somewhere along the way the bonfire dims, that ginger glow shifting subtly along her jaw. Hair lifting to the breeze. She has me smitten and shy on this of all nights, her toes tucked shallow, hardly aware of my stare.
As I tip and empty my bottle and wiggle it deep in the sand.
It’s warmed me sufficiently—the fire has, too. So I lift my shirt overhead, set it aside, lie back, gliding my fingers along my midriff as she tumbles to an elbow. “Why are you so bad?” she says.
“Is it working?” I say.
But as opposed to answering, she gazes along with me at the haze of a sky for a while and points to a glint of starlight. The low fire crackling, the distant waves. The air crisp. Sensing her gaze on me as I turn, and she weaves fingers into mine.
“Maybe we could, I don’t know,” she says, “call this a night?”
“But won’t they be back?” I say.
“No,” she’s saying. And she stifles a yawn as she stands and says, “I’ll text,” with a slow swipe across her screen. “It’s low enough,” she says as she motions to the fire, and I get up and gather odds and ends and pack it up in this bag. Honey Maid. Hershey. My shirt along with bottles that I grip between knuckles while she scoops handfuls of sand and buries what little flame remains.
And we make our way back to their door. Her arm weighted across my shoulder. We brush what bits of sand still cling to our feet.
Before she heads to the kitchen and I pack what should be put away in this unfamiliar space.
And afterward, “This way,” I say because our room’s somewhere down this dark hall, but there’s a tickle at my neck, a tug at my back, and my top slips down and I feel chilled, a breeze whipping past. She’s against me now, a flutter of heat like breath up my neck, which ripples down my spine as her palms warm my skin, and she dra
ws me in and we’re fumbling as she slips this down my hips. When all I can do is sink into this kiss, not knowing, just sensing that cold at my back as I’m braced against the tile.
“Yes,” she says. “To answer that question a while ago, it’s working.”
And her palm slips up the center of my thigh. I catch my breath.
But next, she steps away. She’s twisting a faucet, lifting her shirt. And I’m wondering things as I follow her into the shower, sand circling the drain, until the only thing I can feel is that bar of soap as it glides up my back.
But still it’s all very ordinary. Her ducking, wetting hair, soap lathering then dripping down her skin—then mine, rinsing. So why is my heart still racing as we tuck towels and slip up shorts and crawl into bed? Where she brings me to the brink and leaves me there, aching, wanting. Succumbing. And she’s saying we can’t, but we can’t not when she parts my knees. Wondering how I could possibly hope to hold back. But all I can do is gaze along a shadow of a hip in the night’s air until I hear the sounds of her breath, and she’s there with me—and I’m watching her skin in the glow of the moon, nude, as my mind drifts.
* * *
I guess it must be about half past eight in the morning when my phone rings again, waking me in a burst of anxiety that needs to stop. So I lean in to pick it up and skim my screen. Which tells me it’s Aline.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Pickup Line
Rae
Is it me? Or is that aimless squawk of gulls actually missing overhead as I follow Madisen and she pauses to pull keys from her pocket? And afterward, “It’s always hard heading back.” I suppose I’m to ignore the fact that she hasn’t disconnected all weekend, something easy to excuse for work, but…
Still I shrug it off.
Since it’s a perfect day otherwise. The scent of salt, the heavy crash of sea, the sky’s clear as can be. But the wind—I might prefer overcast to this if it meant no wind. And even still, that bounty of hair tangled, deliberately unkept, in beach waves, air-dried and unmanageable as she shoves her duffel into the trunk before going on about how “They made such a fuss.”