Summer Loving

by Lise Gold et al.

  About Aurora Rey

  Aurora Rey is a college dean by day and award-winning lesbian romance author the rest of the time, except when she’s cooking, baking, riding the tractor, or pining for goats. She grew up in a small town in south Louisiana, daydreaming about New England. She keeps a special place in her heart for the South, especially the food and the ways women are raised to be strong, even if they're taught not to show it. After a brief dalliance with biochemistry, she completed both a B.A. and an M.A. in English.

  She is the author of the Cape End Romance series and several standalone contemporary romance novels and novellas. She is has been a finalist for the Lambda Literary, RITA®, and Golden Crown Literary Society awards, but loves reader feedback the most. She lives in Ithaca, New York with her dog and whatever wildlife has taken up residence in the pond.

  aurorarey.com

  #MissedOpportunities Or Four Times You Almost Kissed Her and the Fifth Time When She Kissed You

  Erin Zak

  The First Time

  She climbs into your car, and while you might be completely irritated about being called at two in the morning to rescue a woman who loathes your existence, you’re also a little relieved. Relieved because this animosity will finally find a way to remedy itself. Relieved because you are sure she hates you as much as she thinks you hate her. Relieved because you secretly like her way more than you should or need to. Because being this close to her doesn’t cause anxiety as much as it causes excitement. Or maybe you’ve deluded yourself into believing you’re no longer anxious around her.

  “Just drive,” she says before she moves her long blond hair over her shoulder. “Please.”

  You’re staring. Like a fool. But you can’t help it because she has been crying, and her makeup is smeared, and she’s still so lovely, and she’s seriously in your car. You’ve had a hundred dreams, a thousand fantasies, a million daydreams about being this close to her and only her, and they all end up the same way: one of you will confess your feelings. In your dreams, it’s always her, and you must act taken aback, but in real life, things will be different. Won’t they? Deep down, you know it’ll be you who cracks. Oh, it’ll never be her. She’s too stoic. Too composed. Too amazing to ever crack. Or to admit she has anything more than dislike for you.

  She glances at you because you haven’t put your Jeep in gear. The flash of irritation in her eyes prompts you, and you tear your gaze from her striking features.

  Drive.

  Brake.

  You can do this.

  Shift.

  Nice and easy.

  Gas.

  Remember how to drive? It’s easy. You got this.

  You chuckle softly at your stupidity. She’s just a woman, for Christ’s sake. A woman who you’re trying so hard to fix things with. A woman whom you admire but you stupidly had to let your insecurities win. If there was one thing you could redo in your whole life, it’d be how you have handled everything concerning her.

  The steering wheel feels foreign as it slides through your hands. The leather is smooth, the underside stitching rough, and it strikes you that this could be a dream. You’re not really driving. She’s not really sitting in the passenger seat. She hasn’t been crying. None of this is real. Wake up, Lucinda. Wake the fuck up!

  “Thank you for doing this.”

  Her words, although kind and gentle, snap at you, beckoning for your attention. You swallow your nerves. “Did you, uh, have another fight with…” Your sentence sort of drives itself over the cliff that this evening is standing too close to because the truth of whom she may have fought with is too startling, too real, too everything.

  She sighs. Dammit, how can a sigh be so fucking sexy? “Yes,” she whispers. The way the word seems to snag on something makes you want to hold her. You can’t, though. Not yet. Probably not ever. But especially not now. Not when things are so raw.

  “Are you…” You look as she wipes away a tear. You have to force yourself to put your eyes back on the road. “Are you okay?”

  She doesn’t answer right away. She lets the question hang suspended in the air, nothing to break its fall if gravity were to start working again. “I will be.”

  Maddy, well, Madeline, but Maddy to her friends (sadly, you’re not her friend, nor will you ever be) was at a bar. Not just any bar, of course, but Cindy’s. She would never go to just any bar. The couple times you’ve been out while she’s out, she’s been completely in control. But this time she seems shook…something big happened.

  She was drunk when she called, and when you answered, her words were slurred. “Can you…I’m sorry, but I don’t know who else to call.” You sprang out of bed, the bed you’ve shared with this week’s flavor, and you dressed so fast you practically forgot to put on shoes.

  She seems to have sobered over the ten minutes it’s taken to get to her. She’s impeccably dressed, which makes you feel self-conscious about your black shorts and oversized Star Wars T-shirt. And now here you are, sitting in your Jeep with her. With Madeline fucking Barnes. And she looks breathtaking.

  Shit.

  That’s so cliché.

  But it’s the truth. As much as you hate admitting it, and you do hate admitting it, it’s the fucking truth. Madeline is gorgeous. The crazy thing is, she’s so much prettier after you peel back a couple layers. And boy, does she have layers. On the outside, she’s one-hundred-percent lovable to everyone. She has to be. Truth is, so do you. Public figures can’t be jackasses. Ever. Not even when coerced. But Madeline never falters. She handles fame with the poise and dignity of royalty. Underneath that layer, though is someone who is guarded, keeps secrets, and is so much deeper than she lets people know. Lurking underneath all of that lies another layer, a softer, gentler layer no one ever gets to see.

  Well, no one except Madeline’s old co-anchor. But now that Josephine is retired, things are different. Josephine was lovely, but their relationship was…interesting…and now they rarely see each other, and if they do, it ends in a fight. Fights you, for some reason, get to help pick up the pieces from. You’re not thankful for this place she’s put you in, well, maybe a little grateful because this is why you’ve been able to catch a glimpse of the mythical third layer.

  Shocked at first, you now realize Madeline needs someone to trust. She had Josephine. And whatever was happening between them now isn’t, so she needs… You don’t want to be the person or thing she needs, but you were sort of hired into the position. She makes you feel too much—too deeply, and too soon—to be the person she trusts. You don’t even trust yourself most of the time, and if the alcohol amount was right and the music was perfect, you wouldn’t trust yourself to not devour every single part of her.

  Now, sitting with her, you’re seeing the third layer right out in the open. On display. Not the full movie, of course, but the highlight reel. Or a trailer. And, sigh, Madeline like this, vulnerable and broken, is even more captivating than before.

  “You know I’m married.”

  You practically choke on the breath you pull in. “Yes, I know.”

  “For years, we sort of…had an understanding…and now he wants a divorce.”

  “Oh?” What are you supposed to say? She’s speaking to you. In full sentences. It’s not scripted and scrolling on the teleprompter, and she sounds so alluring with the truth on her lips.

  Her lips.

  You haven’t been able to stop thinking about her lips.

  You take a chance and glance over. She’s staring out the window, while tugging at her lower lip. The tugging is a nervous tick. You’ve discovered it over the last three months of being her co-anchor. Why would she be nervous? She can’t be nervous because why, oh why, would you make her nervous? You wouldn’t. You couldn’t. Not you.

  Yet…

  You slow as you approach a stop sign. You feel silly as you flex your fingers and ask, “So, um, not to sound like a complete idiot, but where are we going?” She fidgets. Her scent seems to fill the air, enveloping you.
When you glance at her again, she leans her head on the headrest and sighs again and fuck me, she is so beautiful.

  Dammit all to hell if you don’t check out her chest as a breath fills her lungs. Of course, you continue to watch as her lungs deflate. Her breasts have had starring roles in your fantasies, even though you’ve never admitted it, even to your journal. Admitting it at all is crazy. All of this is crazy.

  “Just drive, Lucinda. Please.”

  Her voice is soft with the slightest hint of a Southern twang. Nothing intense. Almost as if her being tired has allowed the accent to show its face. A dirty little secret no one gets to hear. Except you. In this moment. In this enclosed space. Breathing the same air as her. Hearing her voice wrap around the words drive and Lucinda and please.

  As you press your foot on the gas, you decide to do exactly as asked. You’re going to just drive, and for the first time ever, you’re not going to care where this evening is headed. Because truth be told, you wouldn’t believe whatever the truth is anyway.

  The music is playing low. Dave Grohl is “Learning to Fly,” and you’re learning to not freak out, so the song is perfect in all the best ways. You hear her humming along. It shocks you, but not completely, that she likes this song. “Foo Fighters fan?”

  “Mm-hmm,” she says softly and for some reason, all you can imagine is her murmuring something against the pulse in your neck. She could tell you about the weather. Or how the Cubs won their last three games. Or how she likes her coffee. Or how she wants to moan your name.

  Sweet Jesus, did the temperature just skyrocket?

  “I assume you like them?” Her voice, once again, startles you.

  Your mind is too in the gutter to be a safe driver. Deep breath. Deep breath. Then you nod because all speech capabilities have seemed to disappear. This whole scenario is crazy. There’s a moment when you want to pull the car over and get out. Leave her because this cannot be happening. This is a dream. It has to be.

  “Favorite song?”

  “‘Everlong.’” The song is perfect for what you’re experiencing right now. Does she know that? Is she a big enough fan? You sneak a quick look and find she’s watching you. “What?” Your question is quick before you glue your eyes back to the road.

  “Nothing.” Her voice is low, sultry, and if you could only have one word said to you over and over until you die, it’d be her saying nothing like that, with that tone and that look. Chills rush over your body, goose bumps springing to life on your arms.

  You clear your throat, lick your lips, and open your mouth to say something, but you’re cut off by her saying, “Can I please stay the night at your place?”

  Yes. God, yes. You can stay the night. You can do whatever you want. You can move in, and I’d cook you breakfast, and I’d sleep in the bathtub if I had to. “Sure.”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  Which is perfect because you don’t want to take her home anyway.

  So, you drive her to your apartment. Where you forgot you had someone in your bed. And as you spread a sheet over your couch, you hear the flavor of the week stir in the bedroom, and you hope to every higher power that she doesn’t emerge.

  At this point in your career, no one knows you’re a lesbian. And now is not the time to come blazing out of the closet.

  Madeline emerges from the bathroom and you ask, “Did you find the toothbrush I left on the sink?”

  She smiles. Your heart is so fucked. “Yes, I saw it. Thank you.”

  “Okay, well,” you start, then go to step past her, but she catches your wrist. Your skin is on fire. Her fingers seem to be drawn to your pulse, as if the iron in her blood and yours are drawn together, no longer polar opposites, and you hope she can’t feel the thump, thump, thump drumming away. You glance at her hand on your skin. Her grip is so soft, like rose petals before the elements begin to age them.

  “Thank you…for rescuing me.” Her words are whispered on breath that smells like toothpaste and hope. She squeezes your wrist lightly. “Seriously.” Her smile has faded, but the tone of her voice is drenched with sincerity.

  You’re staring into her blue eyes. In the dim lighting, they seem almost gray. There’s half a second when you want to toss every discouraging word you’ve uttered out the window and kiss her. Place your lips on hers, slip your tongue into her mouth as she welcomes you, bite her bottom lip, kiss your way along her jawline, down her neck and back up to those pink, pink lips you’ve been daydreaming about for as long as you can remember.

  “Get some sleep,” you finally say because it cannot happen. And you’re so stupid for thinking it could.

  The Second Time

  Madeline Barnes loves herself. At least, it seems as if she does. Upon first meeting her all those months ago, you could understand why. The meeting was quick, at a bar with the rest of your colleagues. She was late, as she likes to make an entrance, and you were stupid enough to think vodka is your friend, but it isn’t, nor will it ever be.

  “Lucinda Reese, hmm?”

  You had your glass halfway to your mouth, so you stopped, smiled, and raised it slightly at her. “Guilty.”

  “You’re my new co-anchor?” The tone of her voice was anything but kind. She was not happy about you, your promotion, your anything, but at that point, there was nothing anyone could do about it. You auditioned, you got the job, and fuck ‘em if they couldn’t handle it.

  You tilted your head, the answer to her question in the shrug of your shoulders. She eyed you like a cat sizes up a dog. Her stare was piercing. You knew then, before you finally let yourself drink, that things with Madeline Barnes would never be easy.

  You weren’t new to journalism or the network or even the morning show, so being hated by her made no sense at all. As time went on, you kept hearing about her past relationship with Josephine, and while it seemed like a stretch, you thought, maybe they really were sleeping together. Josephine’s abrupt retirement and Madeline’s inability to even look at you for the first three weeks was sort of telling. But if there’s one thing that is ingrained in your journalist brain, it’s research, research, research.

  Unfortunately, the research pulled up nothing. They were both happily married. They were the best of friends. Everything seemed to point to jealousy and Josephine’s inability to handle Madeline’s rise to fame. You’re no dummy, though. You’ve been around enough women, enough women sleeping together to know sexual tension when you see it. And Josephine and Madeline had it all. And then some.

  Meeting Madeline that night—not as your co-anchor but as Madeline—was surprising because you finally understood. Yes, you’d admired her from a distance for years. Yes, you’d wanted to be a force to be reckoned with like her. Yes, selfishly, you’d wanted to be famous one day. But meeting her made you take a breath. A deep, deep breath that seeped into your lungs like a sponge soaks up water because you finally fucking got it.

  She had it all. The hair, the body, the legs, the clothing, the shoes, the jewelry. She was, and still is, the picture of class. She has the softest hands, the most amazing neck, the most incredible cheekbones. And on top of all of that, she is smart, articulate, and passionate.

  Your crush was in the air before you even realized it had taken off. But that night? At the bar, your crush landed, skidded onto the runway, and practically smashed into the hangar.

  There’s something about the fear of being disliked that makes you do stupid things. You drink too much. You curse too much. You try too hard to be funny. None of it makes sense because everything you do to not be disliked causes people to dislike you. The most ridiculous of double-edged swords. It was only a matter of time before that night took a turn from bad to worse.

  With your head in the toilet, you realized this was the bad to worse moment. Your new producer was holding your hair back. And the only person you didn’t want to see you was the only person who came into the bathroom.

  “Jolie? What’s going on? Is she okay?”

  “Everyt
hing is fine.” Your producer’s voice was so loud, even though, looking back, she probably whispered.

  “Go. I’ll take care of her.”

  “No,” you shouted seconds before you vomited again. “Uggggh…” The sound was horrendous reverberating off the porcelain bowl. The transfer of your hair from Jolie’s hands to Madeline’s was obvious, even if they tried to make it smooth. Jolie had held your hair harshly, almost as if she were angry at you for being so careless. Madeline held your hair like she cared…or at least, like she didn’t want to hurt you. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I do,” Madeline said softly before she placed her other hand on your back. “Aren’t you old enough to know how to pace yourself?” She chuckled, and you hated her for it because she was right, but also because she was the reason you did this to yourself.

  Learning life lessons from Madeline Barnes was not on your agenda. She’s way too important, way too famous, and way too incredible. She’s literally the person you’ve looked up to for as long as you can remember. And now she was holding your hair back as you ralphed into a toilet. Real fucking classy, Lucinda. “I’m old enough,” you managed to say. Again, the echo of the words was almost too much. “You make me nervous.”

  “I know. I have that effect on people.”

  You shake your head as the memory rolls around your brain. Vodka is still nice and still helps, especially when you’re nervous. Or scared. Or had a bad day.

  Tonight’s alcohol, while not vodka, is for all three reasons. Bad day because a mass shooting happened. Scared because whenever this happens in America, it’s scary. And nervous because Madeline asked you to meet her out.

  So here you sit. At Cindy’s. Waiting on a woman who stayed at your apartment, on your couch, on your sheets, two weeks ago. There’s nothing worse than the feeling of impending doom. She’s barely said three words to you outside of the normal routine. She didn’t say good-bye the morning after she shacked up with you, and she hasn’t brought it up or thanked you.