Summer Heat, Stolen Wine

Summer of 1977 – A Story of Forbidden Love

Tuesday started like every other day that week. I dragged myself out of Susan's bed at seven, kissed her shoulder while she mumbled something about sleep, pulled on my jeans and a cutoff tee, and drove the Camaro to Wilson's Gas and Go on Route 12. Three days since Nancy walked in on us. Three days since she said *Tuesday. My place. Seven o'clock.* Three days of Susan and me in that house, fucking like the world was ending, talking between rounds about what Tuesday would mean, what Nancy wanted, what we were willing to risk. We hadn't figured out a single thing. We'd just kept touching each other like if we stopped, the whole fragile arrangement would collapse.

Wilson's was a two-pump station with a repair bay and a cash register that still had push keys. My job was simple—fill tanks, check oil, take money, pretend I cared about customer service. I was good at three of those four things. The morning dragged. A woman in a Vista Cruiser needed her tires checked. A guy in a pickup paid in nickels and dimes. By noon the heat had turned the lot into a shimmering plate of asphalt, and I was sitting on an overturned milk crate in the bay, drinking a Coke and sweating through my shirt, when I heard the car.

A blue Pinto. Nancy's blue Pinto. I recognized it before I saw her, and something in my chest tightened—not fear exactly, but something close. She pulled up to the pump nearest the bay and killed the engine and sat there for a moment, one hand still on the wheel, staring through the windshield like she was working up the nerve. Then she got out.

She was wearing a pale yellow sundress, thin-strapped, hemmed above the knee. Her red hair was down, loose around her shoulders, and she had on those round sunglasses she always wore, the ones that made her look like she was trying to be famous. She walked toward me and I stood up and set my Coke on the workbench and waited.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey." She took off the sunglasses. Her eyes were different. Not the sharp, knowing look from Saturday—something rawer, something stripped down. "You're hard to get on the phone."

"We screen calls. My mom's been—"

"I called six times, Mark."

I didn't have an answer for that. I wiped my palms on my jeans. The bay was empty—Lew, the other attendant, had gone to lunch twenty minutes ago, and the lot was dead. Just us and the heat and the smell of motor oil.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"God, you're oblivious." She laughed, but it wasn't a real laugh. "Can we go somewhere? Talk?"

"I'm here till four."

She looked at the bay, at the open roll-up door facing the road, at the Pinto sitting at the pump. Then she looked at me, and her jaw set the way it did when she'd made a decision she wasn't happy about. "There's an office in the back, right? With a door?"

"Yeah."

"Show me."

I led her through the bay, past the lift and the tool chest and the calendar with a topless woman on a motorcycle that Lew had put up in March. The office was small—a desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet, a window that looked out on the junk lot behind the station. I closed the door. The fluorescent overhead buzzed and clicked. A box fan in the window pushed hot air around without actually cooling anything.

Nancy stood with her back against the desk, arms crossed, and looked at me. I leaned against the filing cabinet. The silence lasted long enough that I could hear the fan and the distant hiss of a truck on the highway and my own pulse in my ears.

"I've been trying to figure out how to say this," she said. "I've been trying since Saturday. Since I walked into that room and saw you two and my whole brain just—" She made a gesture with her hand, something exploding. "I wrote it down. I practiced in the mirror. I called my therapist in Lansing and hung up before she answered. I drove past this place three times yesterday and couldn't make myself stop."

"You're here now."

"I'm here now." She uncrossed her arms. Crossed them again. "Okay. I'm just going to say it, and you're going to stand there and let me, and then we're going to go to my house tonight and deal with the rest of it. Okay?"

"Okay."

"The thing is—" She stopped. Pressed her lips together. Started again. "At the drive-in. The night you and Susan were in the front seat and I was in the back with Danny. I saw you. I saw her hand on you. I saw your hand between her legs. And I should have been disgusted, or shocked, or—I don't know what I should have been. But what I was, Mark, was jealous."

She said it flat. Like ripping off a bandage. And I stood there, and the fan hummed, and I didn't move.

"Not of Susan." She looked at me directly. "Of both of you. Of what you had. Of the way she touched you like she couldn't help it, like she'd die if she stopped. Of the way you looked at her. Nobody's ever looked at me like that. Not Danny. Not anyone."

"Nancy—"

"I'm not done." She held up a hand. "Saturday, when I walked in—I saw you. All of you. And I know I should have been horrified. You're her brother. Stepbrother. Whatever. I know what it is. But I stood in that doorway and I looked at your body and I looked at her body and I thought, *I want that.* Not the situation. Not the secret. *Him.*"

My mouth was dry. I reached for the Coke I'd left on the workbench, but it wasn't there—it was still out in the bay. I settled for putting my hands in my back pockets and staring at the floor and then back at her.

"You want me," I said. Not a question.

"I've wanted you since junior year. Since you came over to swim and you did that flip off the diving board and your trunks came off and you stood there in the pool with everything showing and you laughed about it. You laughed, Mark. You didn't cover up, you didn't freak out, you just laughed. And I went home that night and I thought about you in the shower for forty-five minutes and I've been thinking about you in the shower ever since."

The room felt smaller. The fan pushed hot air against my neck. Nancy's cheeks were flushed, and I could see the pulse in her throat, the way her chest moved under the thin yellow fabric. She wasn't wearing a bra. I could see her nipples pressing through the cotton, and I felt guilty for noticing and I noticed anyway.

"Why are you telling me this now?" I asked.

"Because tonight I'm supposed to host you and Susan and talk about 'figuring it out,' and I can't sit across from both of you and pretend I don't want what I want. I can't do it. I'll fall apart. So I'm telling you now, alone, so at least one person in that room knows the truth about me before we all start lying to each other."

She looked close to tears. Not quite—Nancy didn't cry easily—but her eyes were bright and her chin was trembling and I did what I always did when someone was hurting. I moved toward her.

"Nancy." I put my hand on her arm. Just that. Just my hand on her bare arm, below the hem of her sleeve, and she looked at it and then looked up at me and something shifted.

"Don't," she whispered. "If you touch me right now, I'm going to—"

"Going to what?"

She kissed me.

Not soft. Not tentative. She grabbed the front of my shirt with both fists and pulled me into her and pressed her mouth against mine, and her lips were warm and tasted like cherry lip gloss and she kissed me the way Susan had kissed me the first time—like she'd been holding it back for so long that now that the dam broke, she couldn't control the flood.

I should have stopped her. I knew that. Susan was at home, probably naked in the kitchen making lunch, waiting for me, trusting me. Nancy was her best friend. This was betrayal layered on betrayal, and I knew it, and I still didn't stop her.

Because the truth was simpler than I wanted it to be. I'd noticed Nancy at the drive-in. I'd noticed her in the doorway on Saturday. I'd noticed her just now, the way the sundress clung to her, the way she said *him* like the word was something physical she was handing me. I wasn't innocent. I was eighteen and wanted and wanting, and the combination was more than I could resist.

I kissed her back. My hand slid from her arm to her waist, and I felt her shiver. She made a sound against my mouth—not a moan, something smaller, a relief sound, like she'd been holding her breath for years and could finally let it out. Her hands unclenched from my shirt and moved up to my shoulders, my neck, the back of my head, and she pulled me closer and I felt her body against mine—her breasts against my chest, her hips against my hips, the heat of her through the thin dress.

"You're hard," she said against my mouth. Not surprised. Just stating it. Like she'd known she could do this to me and was glad to be right.

"Nancy—"

"Tell me to stop and I'll stop." She pulled back just enough to look at me. Her eyes were wet and bright and her lips were swollen and her breathing was ragged. "Tell me to stop and I'll walk out of here and I'll never bring it up again and tonight I'll be normal and we'll drink wine and pretend. But if you don't tell me to stop—"

I didn't tell her to stop.

I kissed her again, harder, and my hands moved down to her ass, the round full curve of it under the dress, and she gasped into my mouth and pressed herself against me. I could feel her heat through my jeans. She was warm and shaking and her fingers dug into my shoulders and she whispered, "Touch me, please, I need you to touch me—"

I slid my hand down between us, under the hem of her dress, up her thigh. She wasn't wearing underwear. Her skin was hot and smooth and when my fingers reached the junction of her thighs she was soaked—wet and slippery and the heat of her was incredible. She groaned and her head dropped against my chest and her hips tilted forward, pressing into my hand.

"Oh God," she said. "Oh God, Mark—"

I found her clit. She was different from Susan—smaller, more sensitive, her reaction sharper. When I pressed against it she jerked like I'd shocked her, and then she was grinding against my hand, her breath coming in short pants, her nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt. I rubbed her in slow circles, feeling her swell under my fingers, feeling the wetness spread, and she was so wet that my fingers slid through her folds without resistance.

"I've thought about this," she said, her voice thin and breathy. "So many times. Your hands on me. What you'd feel like. What you'd—" She broke off with a sharp gasp as I slipped one finger inside her. She was tight—tighter than Susan, her walls clenching around my finger like a fist. I worked it in and out, slow, feeling her stretch around me, and she whimpered and pushed her hips forward, wanting more.

I added a second finger. She moaned, a real moan this time, loud enough that I was glad the office door was closed and Lew was still at lunch. I fucked her with my fingers, curling them inside her, finding the spot that made her jerk and gasp, and my thumb stayed on her clit, circling, pressing, and she was shaking against me.

"Mark—" She grabbed my wrist. Not to stop me. To hold on. "Mark, I'm going to—"

"Come," I said. "Come for me."

She did. Her whole body seized, her thighs clamping around my hand, her back arching, her mouth open against my chest. I felt her clench and pulse around my fingers, felt the rush of wetness, and she cried out—my name, something profane, a sound that was mostly just air leaving her body. She shook for what felt like a long time, her face pressed against my shoulder, and when it passed she was breathing hard and her legs were trembling and she still hadn't let go of my wrist.

"Oh my God," she said. "Oh my actual God."

I slid my fingers out of her, wet to the knuckles, and she watched me and her eyes were dark and hungry and she took my hand and brought my fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean. The sight of it—her lips around my fingers, her tongue between them, tasting herself—hit me like a punch to the gut.

"Your turn," she said, and her hands went to my belt.

She had it open in seconds. The button, the zipper, and then she was pushing my jeans and briefs down and my cock was out and she looked at it the way Susan had looked at it the first time—like she was memorizing it, like she needed to keep the image for later.

"I knew it," she said. "I knew you'd be—" She wrapped her hand around me and stroked, slow, base to tip, and I groaned and braced myself against the desk. "I thought about this. At night. In the shower. With my fingers inside me, thinking about your cock in my hand, in my mouth—"

She sank to her knees. The concrete floor of the office was filthy and she didn't care. She leaned forward and licked me, one long slow stroke from the base to the tip, and I felt her tongue swirl around the head and my hips jerked forward involuntarily. She laughed, a low, pleased sound, and then she took me in her mouth.

She was different from Susan. Where Susan had been deliberate, almost reverent, Nancy was hungry—fast and wet and sloppy, her hand working the base while her mouth worked the top, her tongue moving in patterns I couldn't predict. She took me deep and I felt the head of my cock hit the back of her throat and she gagged slightly and didn't stop, just adjusted and kept going, and the wet heat of her mouth was so good that I had to grip the edge of the desk to keep my knees from buckling.

"Nancy—" I was going to warn her. I was close already—too close, between the confession and the feel of her and the sight of her red hair spilling over my thighs. "I'm going to—"

She pulled back just enough to speak, her hand still stroking me, her mouth still close enough that I could feel her breath. "In my mouth. I want it in my mouth."

She took me back in and I was gone. I came hard, my cock pulsing against her tongue, and she swallowed and kept sucking, her hand milking me, her mouth soft and relentless until I was shaking and overstimulated and had to pull away. She sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at me with an expression that was equal parts triumph and vulnerability.

"So," she said. "That happened."

"That happened."

She stood up, her knees cracking, and straightened her dress. Her hair was messed up. Her lips were swollen. She looked like someone who'd just been thoroughly undone, which she had. I tucked myself back in and buckled my belt and we stood there in the tiny office with the fan buzzing and the fluorescent light flickering and the smell of sex mixing with the smell of motor oil.

"What do we do now?" I asked.

She picked up her sunglasses from the desk and put them on. The armor going back up. "Tonight. My place. Seven. You and Susan and me and wine and whatever this is." She gestured between us. "I'm not going to pretend this didn't happen. I'm not going to pretend I don't want more. But Susan is my best friend, and I'm not going to do this behind her back. I did it *ahead* of her back, which is a terrible distinction, but it's the one I've got."

"She's going to be angry."

"She's going to be a lot of things." Nancy looked at me through the tinted lenses. "But so am I. And so are you. And we're all going to be in a room together tonight with a bottle of wine and the truth, and maybe it blows up and maybe it doesn't, but at least nobody will be pretending."

She walked past me, close enough that her shoulder brushed my arm, and I felt the warmth of her and the ghost of her mouth and the weight of what we'd just done. At the door she stopped.

"Mark?"

"Yeah."

"Tell her before I get there. Tell her what happened. Don't make me walk in and do it again, because I will fall apart, and when I fall apart I cry, and I refuse to cry in front of you twice in one day."

She left. I heard the Pinto start, heard it sputter and catch, heard it pull out of the lot and onto Route 12. I sat down in the desk chair and put my head in my hands and tried to figure out how to tell the woman I loved that I'd just let her best friend go down on me in the back office of a gas station.

The phone on the desk rang. I stared at it. Three rings. Four. I picked it up.

"Wilson's Gas and Go."

"It's me." Susan's voice. Warm and lazy and the sound of everything I wanted. "When do you get off? I'm making that pasta thing again and I thought maybe we could—" She paused. "What's wrong?"

I looked at the office door. At the calendar with the topless woman on the motorcycle. At the faint wet spot on the concrete where Nancy's knees had been.

"Nothing's wrong," I said. "I'll be home by four. We need to talk before tonight."

A silence. Then: "About Nancy?"

"About Nancy."

Another silence, longer this time. When Susan spoke again, her voice was careful, measured, the way it got when she was already three steps ahead of me. "Did something happen?"

"Something happened."

"Mark."

"I'll tell you everything when I get home. I promise. All of it."

She was quiet for a moment. I could almost hear her thinking—the same mind that had figured out Nancy's intent from a single loaded sentence on Saturday, the same mind that had said *she wants in* with absolute certainty. I waited.

"If you're telling me to be ready for tonight to be complicated," Susan said, "I already knew that. If you're telling me something happened that I need to hear in person, then come home. Come home and tell me. And bring the wine—Nancy said to bring wine, and if we're going to have this conversation, we're going to need more than one bottle."

She hung up. I set the receiver down and sat there in the buzzing office and thought about the two women in my life and the conversation ahead and the fact that in approximately three hours I was going to sit across from both of them and try to explain how I'd ended up with my fingers inside one and my cock in the other's mouth on the same day I'd promised to be honest.

I stood up. I straightened my shirt. I went back out to the bay and sat on the milk crate and drank my warm Coke and waited for four o'clock, and the whole time I was thinking about Susan's voice on the phone—calm, unsurprised, almost amused—and Nancy's mouth on my skin, and the way both of them had said my name like it was the only word that mattered.

Some guys spend the summer before college lifting weights or driving cross-country or working on their car. I spent mine learning that the truth doesn't set you free—it just gives you more interesting problems. And the biggest problem I had wasn't the guilt or the secret or the fact that I was in love with my stepsister.

The biggest problem was that in three hours I was going to walk into Nancy's apartment with a bottle of wine and the woman I loved on one side and the woman who'd just swallowed me whole on the other, and I was going to have to look them both in the eye and say something that made sense of all of it.

I finished my Coke. I crushed the can. I threw it in the trash.

I had no idea what I was going to say. But I had the wine.