The Unwilling(14)

I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed. She took my hand in an almost careless way and led me to a bald spot beneath a weeping willow where someone had long ago placed Adirondack chairs, the wood of them silvered and smooth. Sara sat me down, then put a hand on each leg, leaned in, and kissed me lightly.

“I thought we’d just get that out of the way.” When she drew back, her lips were slightly parted, the smile in her eyes alone. She took the chair beside me, but left fingertips on my leg, a proprietary touch that delighted me. “Tell me about Gibby French.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever been with a girl?”

I answered honestly, but the day was like that. “No. Not really.”

“But you’ve had girlfriends?”

“Nothing serious.”

“That’s good. I like that.” She sipped wine, and her profile was flawless.

“How about you?” I asked.

“Men, yes. Relationships, no.” She showed the blue-green eyes. “Does that shock you?”

I shook my head—a lie—and tried to match her frankness with my own. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“This is a good start.”

Her hand moved on my leg, but absently. Her eyes had drifted shut, and a half smile played on her lips. I stole a glance at the length of her legs, the thin shirt, and the small, perfect breasts. It lasted a second or two before I looked away, ashamed of myself. I didn’t know what to do or say, and Sara knew as much.

“Just breathe, Gibby French. It’s a lovely, lovely day.”



* * *



It was a lovely day. We spoke of things large and small. We drank and laughed, and once, midsentence, she kissed me again. It was longer that time, and certain and real. Afterward, we watched Jason and Tyra swim, looking away only as they emerged from the lake to make a secret place deep in the flowers. For a moment, then, it was awkward, but Sara didn’t care for awkwardness. She stood with the grace I’d come to expect, then settled onto my lap, her palms warm on my face as she kissed me. It was a woman’s kiss, and different from the ones I’d known from girls at school. There was no fumbling or self-consciousness or doubt. She made a shadowed place of her hair—a private world—and in that world she made the rules, too. She pressed hard and drew back, a giver and a tease. She put my hand inside her shirt and squeezed, her fingers over mine as time, for me at least, folded and stretched.

“I see that you two are getting along.”

It was my brother, and he was close. Sara pulled away, but slowly. She squeezed my hand with hers, and then withdrew. “He’s nice,” she said. “I like him.”

“I thought you might.”

She turned in my lap, settling a shoulder against my chest, and resting there. At the water’s edge, Tyra was getting dressed. She saw us looking, and waved. “Nice swim?” I asked.

Jason called over his shoulder. “Tyra, baby? Nice swim?”

“The best!”

She came through the flowers, grinning. Jason pulled her tight, and lifted an eyebrow. “Anybody hungry?”



* * *



Hours later, we were back in the car, yellow light in the trees, the sky above impossibly blue. Jason took us back to hard pavement and the world beyond the trees, driving in a pattern that made little sense to me: north and then east and then north again. I’d never seen this part of the state before, the miles of forest and farmland, the worn pavement and small towns, like beads on a string. I rode in the back with Sara, who watched the world much as I did, silently and content, her eyes hidden behind round glasses with rose-colored lenses. She had a hand at her throat, another on my leg. In front, Tyra was the talker.

“Where are you taking us?”

Jason lifted his wide shoulders. “Just driving.”

“Can you go faster?”

Jason accelerated, blowing dust off the blacktop and litter off the verge. “Fast enough?”

“Only if you kiss me, too.”

He kissed her well, one eye on the road. When the kiss broke, Tyra laughed wildly and pushed her arms above the windshield, into the rush of hot air. “Faster!” Jason nudged the gas, and the car leaped forward again. Eighty-five. Ninety-five. “Yes! Yes!” The speed energized her. She bounced twice on the leather seat, finished the wine, and slipstreamed the bottle. It shattered on the road behind us—a starburst—and when I looked at Sara, she raised her own narrow shoulder.

“It’s just Tyra.”

The day soured a little after that. I didn’t care about Tyra one way or another, but Sara’s easy attitude cheapened her a little.

“We need more booze!”

Tyra shouted over the roar of wind, and Jason high-fived her open hand. Twenty minutes later, we stopped on the main block of a narrow downtown street, angling in where piebald tarmac met the fa?ade of a run-down ABC store Jason claimed to have shopped in once.

“Won’t take a minute.”

“What town is this?” I asked.

It was a dusty place made of two-lane roads and blinking lights and low buildings. I saw kids on bikes, old men, a tractor at a feedstore.

“Does it matter?” Jason asked.