“What do you think?” Mom asks me with a nervous smile. I look from her to dad, who is sitting there, totally disinterested, reading the newspaper. They've clearly made some deal, or, more likely, mom has decided that this is all teenage rebellion, and that making a big deal over it will only drive me faster into Emerson's arms.
“Fine.” I answer shortly. I'm already counting the minutes until I can see him again, but after the look of panic on her face last night, I don't want to cause her any more grief. “Whatever you want sounds great.”
I spend the next couple of days sneaking texts to Emerson, under mom’s constant supervision. I know I'm eighteen now, and technically free to do whatever I want, but there's something so desperate about her mothering that the guilty part of me finds it easier to give in. Carina as good as ignores her these days. My sister spends all her time out tanning on the beach, bitching to her friends on the phone about how bored she is. And dad? Well, he's either sleeping off a hangover, or quietly drinking his way to a new one, sitting on the porch with a thick novel and a Long Island iced tea, “since it is vacation, after all.”
I don't care. I don't care about anything now, not with Emerson flooding my memories, taking up every free corner of my mind. I find myself drifting off, lost in the thought of us together on the beach that night. It takes my breath away, every time. I can be rinsing dishes at the sink, or standing in line at the 7/11 for milk, and in the blink of an eye, I’ll be gone, back there again. The warm sand pressing into my back, Emerson’s hard body pressed down the length of me. All day, I can feel the burning imprint of his hands on my skin: the soft tease of his fingertips, tracing down my torso; the possessive graze against my breast. I have to snap out of my reverie and catch my breath, blushing furiously, trying to keep the memories at bay until I'm alone in my room and can let the scene play out to its end: Emerson's jaw clenched with tension as his fingers work their sweet magic and send me spiraling into a hot, dark world of pleasure I've never known before.
“I’m going to teach you. You’re going to come so many times, you won’t remember your own name.”
I lay in bed, hearing his low rasp like it was inches from my ear. Morning sunshine pools on the floor through the open window, I can hear the sound of the waves crashing on the beach below, but if I close my eyes, I’m back in his arms, aching for him. I can't stop my hands from playing over my stomach, circling lower, my pulse kicking as I imagine my hands are his, my searching fingers, his own…
My cell buzzes with a message, and I snatch my hands away, as if caught. I roll over and grab the phone from my nightstand, heart skipping another beat when I see it's from him.
I have to see you. Pick you up in 20 minutes.
There's no question, just a statement. Sure and certain.
I leap out of bed and quickly dress, picking out a cute sundress to throw on over my bikini. I stuff a sweater into my beach bag, grab my camera and wallet, then pad cautiously downstairs. I’m ready to deflect mom's questions, but instead, I find she's still in bed, looking tired.
“Are you OK?” I ask, lingering in her doorway.
She gives me a smile, looking up from her book. “Just a bit under the weather. I think I caught a chill yesterday, you know how the winds get at the beach.”
“I told you to pack a sweater,” I tell her. “Where’s Dad?”“He took Carina back to the city for the day,” mom replies. “She has that engagement brunch, one of her friends.”
“Oh,” I pause. “Do you need me to bring you anything?”
“No, I’m fine.” Mom waves away my concern. “You look nice, where are you going?”
“Just, out.” I answer.“I thought go for a bike ride,” I add quickly. “Take a picnic or something and spend the whole day out. Let me know if you need anything. I can bring you back some soup.”
Mom waves away my concern. “I'll be fine. You go have fun.”
“OK, see you!”
I skip downstairs and out the door before she can take it back. My heart races with guilty relief. I don’t want her ill, but with mom in bed, I have the whole day to myself. To Emerson.
I send him a quick text to let him know the coast is clear, and ten minutes later, his red truck comes speeding up the dirt road. I meet it at the end of our driveway, hopping up into the passenger side almost before he's even stopped moving.
“Hey,” I say, breathless. I've got a smile a mile wide, but I can't help it. Eagerly, I drink in the sight of him: worn white shirt pale against his golden tan, muscles taut and straining under the fabric. He's wearing faded jeans, and flip-flops, Ray-Bans on, and all the windows down. I can’t help but bring my camera up, and snap a photo, right there.
He looks like summer, like everything good and bold and dangerous in the world.
Mine.
The world whispers in my mind, but I push it down. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Juliet, I warn sternly. You don’t know what this is.
“Hey yourself,” he grins, easy, and slides his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me in for a long, lazy kiss. My heart is racing as I taste him, mint and coffee, and something else, something all Emerson.
Last night was hot and hard, but this is slower, languid. He teases my mouth open, his tongue finding mine as his fingers gently twist in my hair. I exhale, sinking into him, the sun beating hot and the stereo playing something that sounds like summer.