Summer Indiscretions

by Tamara Mataya

  Not that she’s admitting anything more than a crush then and sexual attraction now. But the way she remembers everything in vivid detail means she should either be a crime scene investigator or she was very aware of me. It could be both—she’s so sharp.

  Mel tips onto her side and waves, encouraging her dolphin friend Bartleby to do the same. She grins and claps when he does. “Such a smart boy, Bartleby!” She slips a fish his way, and he spins a quick spiral in the water.

  Mabel clicks at me and nods as though to say, “I’m smart too!”

  I give her another fish. They remind me of dogs with their expressive faces and personalities—and the way they demand as many snacks as possible.

  The enclosure is huge; they really care about the dolphins’ well-being here instead of making it a gaudy tourist trap. We’re on either sides of a floating dock with a trainer on it, monitoring everything. He encourages shenanigans from the sidelines as the dolphins streak through the water between us and the other two people in the group.

  I’ve always wanted to do this, and I can’t believe Mel remembered that I mentioned it once, years ago.

  I’m glad Marathon referred to a place and wasn’t her sadistic decision to make us go on a running date. I have clients who mention doing that—running dates instead of coffee dates. Where’s the romance in that? If I want to get a woman sweaty, I can think of four or five much more interesting alternatives than jogging up a path beside her. And if that’s your first date, what are you really getting to know about her? Maybe it’s an excuse to watch her tits bounce—I don’t know.

  I’d rather get to know someone by talking to them, spending time with them first. Maybe that’s why these adventures with Mel are more fun. We already know each other, and we don’t have to waste time digging into each other’s histories. We don’t need to get invested and then worry the person isn’t who they appear to be while we wait for the other shoe to drop.

  With Mel, I already know she’s an amazing person. I already know where she came from.

  But I’m excited as hell to discover who she is now. She’s unique. She’s fearless and tough, opinionated and creative, and perfectly stubborn.

  I like knowing that no matter how much I push, she’d never let me run over her. If she didn’t want to do something, she’d be direct and vocal. No games, no guile.

  It’s refreshing as hell after some of the dates I’ve had in the past few years.

  And all of that in the sexiest package I could imagine?

  I love this woman.

  Shit.

  I can’t have fallen so hard and fast for my best friend’s little sister. I practically grew up at her house. It’s just affection for who she is and our shared history. Not love. Isn’t it too soon for that?

  Mel’s family became my own—better than my own. My mom was a drug addict and I never knew my father, and while my foster parents weren’t abusive, they were cold. Maybe they’d been attached to one too many kids before me who’d betrayed them or let them down. I don’t know. But I do know this: if Mel and I were to take this back to New York and then break up, I’d lose her and the only family that ever mattered to me—the only people I ever mattered to.

  It’s a hell of a risk. Is it worth it?

  Bartleby sprays Mel’s face. Instead of squealing and fixing her hair and makeup, Mel sucks in a mouthful of seawater and sprays the dolphin right back.

  Yeah, I’m a goner. It’s scary as hell, but Mel is worth it.

  “OK, guys, I think it’s time for Mabel and Bartleby to go have their real lunch.”

  I give Mabel one last pet, staring into her eyes. They seem so gentle and playful, the best aspects of humans in one innocent creature. Carefree, but dolphins will step in and save people from sharks and danger…and I’m totally anthropomorphizing, but whatever.

  “I’m starving too,” Mel says, grinning at me over Bartleby’s back. “But I definitely do not want to eat any fish.”

  * * *

  Mel steals a bite of my cheeseburger, so I swipe the end from one of her chicken strips in retaliation.

  “Hey,” she protests around her bite. “That was mine.”

  “Says the woman fondling my lunch.”

  She takes a theatrically big bite. “Mmm, it’s so good.” She feeds me another bite of chicken, and I nip her fingertips.

  “Thank you.”

  She hands my burger back and her mouth quirks like she’s suppressing a smile, but she covers it by eating another fry.

  “Thanks for this today, Mel.”

  “I give good date.”

  I laugh. “Yes, you do. I can’t believe you remembered this was something I wanted to do.”

  She shrugs with one shoulder. “I think it’s on everybody’s bucket list at some point. I don’t know anyone who hates dolphins.”

  “They do get a lot of love.”

  “Deservedly so. Though I’m a little annoyed that I won’t be able to eat tuna guilt-free again.” She munches on another fry.

  “Funny how no one seems to care about saving the tuna.” I take a sip of soda.

  Mel tips her head. “Huh. I never thought about that. Maybe it’s about personality. Dolphins are showier. Same as how we don’t eat cats and dogs.”

  “Some cultures eat dogs.”

  “That’s gross.” She frowns. “We should do an article about that.” She fires off a quick text. “Seems like it’s all about perception. We attribute value to things we like and decide to protect them just because of that attachment. It seems arbitrary.”

  “I know. Maybe if we got to know the tuna, we’d see they have personalities too.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Are you trying to put me off my lunch?”

  “Just being devil’s advocate.” I finish my burger. “A hypocritical devil’s advocate.”

  She dunks her last two fries in the ketchup. “At least I don’t have to worry about the humble potato suffering for my enjoyment.”

  “It died for your sins.”

  “Shut up.” She smiles, and we toss our garbage in the trash can before heading inside to the aquarium.

  I don’t take her hand, but I want to. Instead, we sit on the edge of the touch tank, a shallow pool where small turtles and stingrays glide along. If you trail your fingers in the water, you can pet them too.

  “I like how hands-on this place is,” Mel says. She eases her hand into the water, patiently waiting for something to come to her instead of chasing it around like some of the tourists around us are doing.

  A woman with flowing gray hair strides around the pool, and a group of people follow her. They look suspiciously like hippies, reminding me of Fern and Ziggy. “Stingrays represent being an expert in camouflage and waiting for the right opportunity to act—but not hesitating to go for what you want, and not letting anything distract you from your path once you find it.”

  The pack oohs and aahs and moves along, but her words sit heavy with me. She could be talking about me and physical therapy, or me and Mel. What if I hesitate and lose her? What are we even doing together? Is this just a holiday fling? It sure as hell doesn’t feel like “just” anything.

  A turtle nudges Mel’s hand, waving a gentle infinity pattern in the water.

  I flick the surface of the water. “I wonder what turtles mean.”

  “To what?”

  “Hippies. Did you hear that hippie lady about the stingrays?”

  Movement in the pool kicks back a reflection, sending gentle waves of light and shadow across her face. “I was thinking about something else and missed it.”

  “It was about opportunities. You know. Spirit animal stuff…” I feel silly.

  She smiles. “No idea what a turtle would mean then. Slow and steady wins the race? Keep pushing for what you want, even if you don’t think you’ll ever reach the finish line?”<
br />
  Fuck it. “You know what?” I take her hand and she looks up in surprise, then smiles. “That’s perfect.”

  Chapter 17

  Melanie

  I’m so happy it’s nauseating.

  My breaths come out in contented sighs, and I want to spin on the spot with my arms spread wide open. This is what it would feel like to be in a musical. Everyone smiles at me when I pass, but maybe that’s because I have a goofy perma-grin I can’t seem to knock into submission. Every part of my body is light and relaxed.

  And it’s all Blake’s fault.

  In the four days since we went on our trip to Marathon, we’ve basically been together the whole time—soaking up sun, snorkeling. We even rented paddleboats one day, but that wasn’t my favorite activity, despite being my idea. I’d pictured it as romantic and sedate, something relaxing you do that’s active. I hadn’t realized it was so much exercise and almost fainted in the heat. And while swimming in the water is enjoyable, being trapped in a pseudo-spin class with the sun blazing on you—and being reflected up from the water—was terrible.

  Besides, I can think of about eighteen better ways to work up a sweat with Blake Wilde, and none of them involve clothes. He’s making my life a brighter place, and I’m too smug and happy about it to properly resent it like I should. Because no matter how high a bird soars, eventually it has to come back down.

  But maybe not yet.

  Blake only has one day left here, and we’re going to stick together like Velcro the whole time.

  His good-night kiss tonight was so tender and warm, the physical representation of the feeling in my chest. As exhausted as I should be, a buzzing energy fills me to the tips of my fingers and toes at the memory of it. Who needs sleep? I’m powered by disbelief and glee that this is actually happening.

  Blake wanted me to spend the night, and I want to spend as much time with him as possible, but a selfish part of me wanted time alone so I can wallow in this feeling. I can’t do that when he’s with me, so he went back to his hotel and I’m ambling back to Shelby’s by myself. Maybe it’s also to see how I feel when he’s gone and reassure myself that it’s all real. When he’s around, all I can think about is, well, nothing because he eclipses everything. I’m annoyingly content right now. Even the sidewalk cracks seem charming, with plants growing through, nature bitch-slapping civilization.

  Remnants of sand grit beneath my sandal-clad feet. I need a shower. I’m dry now, but there’s a distinctly crunchy quality to my clothes from the salt in the water, and it pulls at my skin, making it tight.

  Maybe no one’s old in Florida—they’re just all wrinkly from spending so much time in the water. That, or it’s the insane humidity.

  Staying in the water is delightful when Blake’s there with me, shirtless and showing off his dimples. He was so cute with that dolphin last week. I don’t know whose smile was bigger. Happiness bubbling over, I slide the key in the lock…and meet no resistance from the deadbolt.

  Did I forget to lock up before I left? There’s no way. I mentally retrace my steps. I clearly remember locking the door behind us before we went snorkeling today because Blake took full advantage of my hands being occupied.

  Buddy shoots through my legs and out the door like he’s been camped out beside it.

  I trip over a few pairs of shoes, recovering my equilibrium before I fall.

  Someone’s in the house. My mouth waters as nauseating fear slams into me in massive waves. My gaze ricochets around, searching for details as I tense, instincts warring to freeze, confront, or get the hell out of here.

  The air has a distinct rosemary tinge to it, like someone’s baking.

  I strain to hear sounds of smashing or rustling, noises of things being dropped into bags, stolen. Nothing.

  The shoes are a mix of old sneakers and sandals—nothing like I’d expect from someone kicking their way in. Nothing in the immediate area is disturbed or broken.

  A woman’s musical peals of laughter cut through the deep rumbling of male voices. Iron enters my spine, straightening it. I’ll be damned if I’m going to run away. It could be some stupid teenagers having a party.

  I’ve done enough running in my life, enough being scared of the unknown and slinking away from things. I won’t let someone invade Shelby’s house on my watch.

  I cautiously follow the voices into the living room. After all, maybe it’s not teenagers. A quick peek to assess the situation. If it’s a gang doing something illegal, I’ll tiptoe back out and call the police.

  Two pairs of twentysomething men and women have made themselves at home on the couch and floor.

  I pull back out of sight again. Squatters? But they look clean and groomed. Sort of hip. What are those people who go from place to place, taking over people’s houses, never paying rent…free men on the land?

  Their voices become clearer, and I pause to listen.

  “…an ice pick,” a woman says, laughing.

  “No, amputations wins,” a man good-naturedly argues.

  What the fuck? I stride into the room, hoping the frantic beating of my heart—and the fear coursing through me—aren’t visible on my face. “What the hell?” I ask.

  The young woman nestled in a blanket on the floor looks like Lupita Nyong’o but with better arms, which I didn’t know was possible.

  A lanky guy with black hair and ridiculously long eyelashes grins up at me from the couch. “Hey!”

  Next to him, a woman with the palest skin I’ve ever seen, except for the freckles, turns my way. She tugs on one of her strawberry-blond, shoulder-length dreadlocks with a grin.

  A bearded blond guy sitting on the floor with his back to the couch stands and holds out his hand. “Hey. I’m Andrew.”

  I stare at his hand, not taking it. “Hi? At the risk of sounding like a bitch, who the hell are you people and why are you here?” A couple of them look familiar, but I can’t think why.

  Lupita Look-Alike laughs. “We’re friends of Shelby’s. I’m Ariella.” She points at the woman with dreads. “That’s Lindsay.”

  The pictures on Shelby’s wall! That’s where I’ve seen these people before. So their story checks out, at least. My spine marginally relaxes, and I take a deeper breath.

  Eyelashes on the couch nods. “I’m Gaz.” And Australian, judging by the accent. “Want to join us?”

  The talk of ice picks and amputations comes back to me. “Doing what?”

  Ariella holds up some small black cards. “We’re playing Cards Against Humanity.”

  “Oh.” Belatedly, I notice the cards on the coffee table and in their hands. So they are. I’ve heard of it—never got around to playing it, but it sounds like fun. I’m still unable to wrap my mind around the fact that they just let themselves into Shelby’s house, though. Who does that? “Well, Shelby’s not here, you know.”

  “No, we realized that,” Andrew says, settling back onto the floor. “But we figured we may as well hang and play a game until she gets back.”

  I frown. “She won’t be back for a while. She’s in New York.”

  Gaz grins. “That’s what she said when we called her. Shelby in the Big Apple. I can’t even imagine.”

  Andrew nods. “Remember that time in Denver with the tattoo artist and the chef?”

  “Classic Shelby.” Gaz takes a sip from his can of beer.

  He’s not using a coaster.

  “So you’re from New York?” Lindsay asks. “How did you and Shelby meet?”

  I shuffle my feet. “We’ve never actually met. We connected online through a website where people switch apartments for specific amounts of time. Sort of a way to experience someone else’s life.”

  “That’s wild,” Andrew says, shaking his head. “I could never do something like that. What if the person you switched with was a total psycho?”

  Lindsay pokes h
im none too gently in the ribs.

  “Ouch, what was that?” He follows her gaze to me. “No, I’m not saying you’re a psycho.”

  “Says the strange guy and his friends who let themselves into my temporary place?” I smile, letting them know I’m not offended. “I was worried about the same thing, to be honest. I don’t typically do things like this.”

  “Shelby does.” Ariella sets her cards on the table. “She’s always doing strange things, getting caught up in things that would freak most people out. She thinks they’re exciting. Somehow, she always ends up OK.”

  She sounds too good to be real, and yet I’m in her house with her too-hip friends.

  “You attract what you expect,” Lindsay declares. “She puts out nothing but positivity, and that’s why she only gets that back.”

  Sounds like hippie bullshit to me, but I smile politely while they nod among themselves. Is that why things don’t always work out for me? Because I expect them to fall apart? Whatever. Things are obviously turning around—look at Blake and me.

  “So, do you want to join us?” Andrew asks.

  Suddenly, I’m hyperaware that I’ve been snorkeling with marine life all day. I probably smell a little ripe. “I really need to grab a shower first.”

  “Cool. I’ve got some fries in the oven, so they should be done by the time you get out, if you’re hungry.” Lindsay’s blue eyes crinkle at the edges with her disarming smile.

  “That sounds awesome.” I smile back and head to the bedroom first to grab a change of clothes.

  It’s odd, but I don’t feel weird having a shower while strangers sit in the living room playing a subversive card game.

  Maybe because they’re only my strangers, not Shelby’s. And they obviously do this all the time. Still, I double-check the photo collage, making sure I remembered them correctly. If the sheer number of photos of them is any indication, they’re a huge part of Shelby’s life.

  There’s a shot of Ariella and Shelby, arms around each other at the top of a rock-climbing wall, which explains Ariella’s arms. She’s as sporty as Shelby seems to be. Another is a candid of Ariella in a kayak—which always makes me feel claustrophobic because it’s like a boat you wear. Your legs aren’t really trapped in them, but I’ve had bad experiences with too-small shirts in department store changing rooms that made me panic when I thought I’d be stuck. I can’t imagine being in a kayak that’s flipped over. I don’t have to do it to know it’s not for me.