Scent of Forgotten Summer

The first time I saw Odina after she grew up, I almost swallowed my tongue.

She stood in our doorway with the afternoon sun burning behind her, a silhouette cut from gold and dust. My mother was already chattering, wiping her hands on her apron, pulling her inside like she was rescuing a kitten from the rain. But it wasn't raining. It was the hottest August on record, and the air shimmered over the asphalt outside.

I was seventeen. She was twenty-two. I remembered her as a gangly girl with scraped knees and a laugh that sounded like a chicken being strangled. The girl who used to chase me with earthworms, who dared me to eat a handful of dirt and laughed when I actually did it.

That girl was gone.

The woman who walked into our kitchen had curves that shouldn't have been legal. She was still short, barely reaching my shoulder, but everything about her had rearranged itself into something that made my chest hurt. Her hair was longer now, pulled back in a messy knot, and her skin had that sun-kissed glow that comes from working outside. She wore a simple blue dress, nothing fancy, but it hugged her in ways that made me forget how to breathe.

And her breasts. God, her breasts.

They weren't just big. They were *there*, pressing against the fabric of her dress, moving with her as she walked. I couldn't stop looking. I tried. I really did. But my eyes kept drifting down like they had a mind of their own.

"Aziz, stop staring," my mother hissed, elbowing me in the ribs.

I snapped my head up. Odina was looking at me with a small smile, the kind that said she knew exactly what I'd been doing and found it amusing. My face went hot. I probably looked like a tomato with ears.

"Welcome," I managed to croak. "It's good to see you."

She laughed. That same laugh, but deeper now, richer. It rumbled through me like distant thunder.

"You've grown," she said. Her voice was honey over gravel. "Last time I saw you, you were still picking your nose."

My mother made a sound of disgust. "He still does, don't let him fool you."

"Mom."

"I'm just saying."

Odina sat down at our kitchen table, crossing her legs. The dress rode up just a little. I noticed. I noticed everything. The way her calves curved. The small scar above her left knee. The way she bit her lower lip when she was thinking.

I was in trouble.

---

My mother had invited her for dinner. That was the official reason. But my mother never did anything without an agenda, and I knew there was more to it. She'd been talking about Odina for weeks, ever since she heard she was back in town. "Such a smart girl," she'd say. "So accomplished. A botanist, can you believe it? Traveling all over the world, studying plants. And still so humble."

I'd nodded along, not really listening. I had my own problems. School. My job at the auto shop. The fact that I'd never kissed a girl and was starting to think I never would.

But now Odina was here, sitting in my kitchen, and all those problems seemed very small.

"So," my mother said, setting a pot of tea on the table. "Tell me everything. How long are you staying?"

Odina wrapped her hands around her cup. Her fingers were calloused, nails short and practical. I imagined those hands touching me and felt my stomach flip.

"A few months, maybe longer," she said. "I'm working on a project in the mountains. Collecting samples, documenting rare species. There's a flower up there that only blooms once every seven years. I've been tracking it for three."

"A flower," my mother said, as if this explained everything. "And you're staying alone? In the mountains?"

"I have a cabin. It's small, but it's fine."

"Small? Alone? What if something happens?"

Odina smiled. "I've survived worse. Remember that time I fell out of the mulberry tree and broke my arm? I walked home with it hanging at my side."

My mother shook her head. "You were always too brave for your own good."

"Or too stupid," I said.

Both women looked at me. Odina's eyebrow arched.

"I mean," I stammered, "not stupid. Just. You know. Determined."

She laughed again. That laugh. It was going to kill me.

"It's fine," she said. "I was stupid. I still am. But stupidity and determination look the same from the outside."

---

Dinner was awkward in the way dinners with a crush always are. My mother dominated the conversation, asking about Odina's travels, her work, her plans. I sat there like a statue, shoveling food into my mouth and trying not to stare.

But I couldn't help it. Every time Odina moved, every time she leaned forward to reach for the salt, every time she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, I watched. I memorized. The way her collarbone caught the light. The small mole just above her lip. The way her breath hitched when she laughed.

After dinner, my mother insisted on washing the dishes alone. "You two catch up," she said, shooing us out of the kitchen. "Go sit in the garden. It's a nice night."

It wasn't a nice night. It was still hot, the air thick and heavy, and the mosquitoes were out in force. But I wasn't about to argue.

We sat on the old wooden bench under the grape arbor. The sky was darkening, the first stars appearing like pinpricks in velvet. Odina sat close enough that I could smell her. Soap. Earth. Something floral, like jasmine.

"So," she said. "You're in high school?"

"Graduated. I work at the auto shop now."

"Ah. A mechanic."

"Something like that."

She turned to look at me. Her eyes were green, really green, like moss after rain. "You always liked taking things apart. I remember you once dismantled your mother's sewing machine."

"I put it back together."

"Not before she caught you."

I grinned. "Worth it."

She smiled back. It was different from her laugh, softer, more private. Like she was sharing something with me that no one else got to see.

"I missed this," she said.

"Missed what?"

"Home. The way it feels. The way people talk." She looked up at the sky. "I've been all over the world. Seen things most people only dream about. But there's something about this place. It pulls you back."

I nodded, even though I didn't really understand. I'd never left. I'd never wanted to. This town was small and boring and full of people who knew my business, but it was mine.

"Why did you come back?" I asked.

She was quiet for a long time. The crickets filled the silence, a constant chorus that seemed to pulse with the heat.

"Because I needed to," she said finally. "Because there's something here I've been running from. And I'm tired of running."

I wanted to ask what it was. I wanted to know everything about her. But something in her voice told me to stop, that I was stepping onto ground that might not hold my weight.

So I just sat there, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin, and watched the stars come out.

---

The next few weeks were a slow kind of torture.

Odina came by often. Too often, according to my mother, who pretended to be annoyed but was clearly thrilled. She'd bring samples to show us, pressed flowers and strange seeds, and she'd explain their properties with a passion that made me want to listen forever.

I learned things I never thought I'd care about. The difference between annuals and perennials. How certain plants could heal wounds or poison you if you touched them wrong. The way a flower's color changed depending on the soil it grew in.

But mostly I learned about her. The way she bit her lip when she was thinking. The way she talked with her hands, sketching shapes in the air. The way she'd sometimes go quiet, her eyes going distant, and I'd know she was somewhere else entirely.

I wanted to follow her there.

One evening, she came over with a basket full of mushrooms. "These are edible," she said, holding up a brown one with a cap that looked like a tiny umbrella. "And these," she pointed to a cluster of orange ones, "will make you see God. Or think you do. Don't eat them."

"Noted."

She laughed. "You're good at taking notes. That's a useful skill."

"I'm good at other things too."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

I shrugged, trying to look casual. "I can fix almost anything with an engine. I can cook three meals without burning water. I can hold my breath for almost two minutes."

"Impressive."

"And I'm a very good listener."

She looked at me then, really looked, and something shifted in her expression. A softness. A warmth that hadn't been there before.

"I know," she said. "That's why I keep coming back."

---

It happened on a Thursday.

My mother was visiting her sister in the city. She'd be gone for three days. I was alone in the house, trying to fix a leaky faucet, when I heard a knock at the door.

Odina stood on the porch, her hair damp, her clothes clinging to her. It had been raining, a sudden summer storm that came out of nowhere. She was soaked.

"Your mother said I could borrow some dry clothes," she said, shivering. "My cabin roof has a leak. I'm waiting for it to stop."

I stepped aside. "Come in. I'll find something."

She walked past me, leaving wet footprints on the floor. I grabbed a towel from the bathroom and handed it to her. She took it, rubbing her hair, and I watched water droplets slide down her neck, disappearing into her collar.

"I should change," she said. "Before I catch cold."

"Yeah. Of course. My room's down the hall. There's a dresser with old shirts. Take whatever."

She disappeared into my room. I stood in the hallway, heart hammering, trying not to imagine what was happening behind that door. The sound of fabric rustling. The soft thud of wet clothes hitting the floor.

Stop it, I told myself. She's a guest. She's practically family.

But she wasn't family. She was Odina. And I wanted her in ways that made me feel like I was burning from the inside.

She came out wearing one of my old flannel shirts. It was too big for her, hanging off her shoulders, the hem reaching her thighs. She'd rolled up the sleeves, exposing her forearms. Her legs were bare.

"Better," she said. "Thanks."

I couldn't speak. My mouth was dry. She looked smaller in my clothes, softer, like something I could break if I held too tight.

"You're staring again," she said, but there was no accusation in her voice. It was almost teasing.

"Sorry. I just. You look good."

She smiled. "You're not so bad yourself."

We stood there, the rain drumming against the roof, the air thick with something unspoken. She took a step closer. Then another. I could smell her, rain and soap and something underneath, something that was just her.

"Aziz," she said, her voice low. "I'm going to ask you something. And I need you to be honest."

"Okay."

"Have you ever been with a woman?"

The question hit me like a punch. I felt my face go red, felt my pulse spike. "I. No. I mean. Not really."

"Not really?"

"I've kissed a girl. Once. At a party. It didn't go anywhere."

She nodded slowly. "And do you want to? Be with a woman, I mean."

"Yes." The word came out before I could stop it. "I mean. Yes. I do."

She stepped closer. Now she was right in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat coming off her body. She reached up and touched my face, her fingers cool against my skin.

"Good," she said. "Because I've been thinking about you. More than I should."

I couldn't breathe. "What do you mean?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she leaned in and kissed me.

Her lips were soft, warm, tasting of rain and mint. I froze for a second, my brain short-circuiting, before my body took over. I kissed her back, my hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. She sighed against my mouth, and the sound sent a jolt through me.

"Slow," she whispered. "Go slow."

I tried. I really did. But I was seventeen and she was everything I'd ever wanted, and my hands were shaking as they moved up her back, tangling in her damp hair.

She pulled back, just enough to look at me. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked.

"Yes. Are you?"

She smiled, that private smile that was just for me. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

She took my hand and led me to my room.

---

The rain had stopped by morning.

I woke up with Odina's head on my chest, her hair spread across my skin like a dark fan. The room was gray with early light, the air cool and clean. I could hear birds outside, the distant sound of a car engine.

I didn't move. I didn't want to. I wanted to stay in this moment forever, with her warmth pressed against me, her breath slow and even.

But then she stirred, lifting her head to look at me. Her eyes were sleepy, soft.

"Good morning," she said.

"Morning."

She smiled. "You're still here."

"Where else would I be?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe you'd run away. Panic."

"I thought about it."

She laughed, a quiet huff of air. "But you didn't."

"No. I didn't."

She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at me. The sheet slipped, and I caught a glimpse of her bare shoulder, the curve of her breast. I looked away.

"Hey," she said, touching my chin, turning my face back. "Don't be shy now. Not after last night."

"I'm not shy. I'm just. Processing."

"Process faster. I want to do it again."

My brain short-circuited. "What?"

She leaned down, her lips brushing my ear. "You heard me."

---

We spent the rest of my mother's absence together.

It was a fever dream, a blur of tangled sheets and whispered secrets. She taught me things I'd only read about, showed me what it meant to be wanted. I learned her body the way she learned her plants, slowly, carefully, with reverence.

But there was always something in her eyes. A shadow. A distance that opened up when she thought I wasn't looking.

On the last night, we lay in the dark, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing patterns on her arm.

"What happens when your mother comes back?" she asked.

"I don't know. We figure it out."

"She won't approve."

"I don't care."

She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, "I'm not a good person, Aziz. I've done things. Things I'm not proud of."

"Everyone has."

"Not like this."

I turned to look at her. Her face was half in shadow, her expression unreadable.

"Tell me," I said.

She shook her head. "Not yet. Soon. But not yet."

I wanted to push. I wanted to know everything. But I'd learned that pushing her only made her retreat further. So I held her instead, letting her silence fill the room.

---

My mother came home the next afternoon.

I was in the kitchen, making tea, when she walked in. She looked tired, her hair disheveled, her eyes red-rimmed.

"How was your trip?" I asked.

"Fine. Your aunt sends her love."

"Good."

She sat down at the table, watching me. "You seem different."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Happier." She paused. "Did something happen while I was gone?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. The truth was too big, too raw, too dangerous.

But she saw it anyway. Mothers always do.

"Aziz," she said, her voice careful. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

I poured the tea, set a cup in front of her. My hands were steady, but my heart was racing.

"Nothing," I said. "Everything's fine."

She didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes. But she let it go, for now.

---

Odina didn't come by the next day.

Or the day after that.

I told myself she was busy. Working on her project. Collecting samples. But the silence felt wrong, heavy, like the air before a storm.

On the third day, I walked to her cabin.

It was a small wooden structure at the edge of the forest, surrounded by wildflowers and tall grass. Smoke rose from the chimney. The door was open.

I knocked anyway. "Odina?"

"Come in."

I stepped inside. The cabin was cluttered with books and specimen jars, dried plants hanging from the ceiling. She was sitting at a table, sorting seeds into piles. She didn't look up.

"I was worried," I said.

"Don't be. I'm fine."

"You didn't come by."

"I know."

I walked over, stood beside her. "Did I do something wrong?"

She finally looked at me. Her eyes were tired, ringed with dark circles.

"No," she said. "You didn't do anything wrong. That's the problem."

"I don't understand."

She set down the seeds, rubbed her face with both hands. "I'm not supposed to want you, Aziz. I'm too old for you. I'm too broken for you. And your mother would kill me if she knew."

"Then we don't tell her."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

She stood up, walked to the window. The light caught her face, illuminating the lines of exhaustion.

"Because I'm not staying," she said. "When my work is done, I'm leaving. I always leave. That's what I do."

"Then take me with you."

She laughed, but it was bitter, hollow. "You don't mean that."

"I do."

"No, you don't. You're seventeen. You have your whole life ahead of you. You don't want to throw it away on someone like me."

"Someone like you? What does that even mean?"

She turned to face me. Her expression was hard, walls up.

"It means I'm not good for you. It means this was a mistake. It means we should stop before someone gets hurt."

"Too late," I said. "I'm already hurt."

She flinched. For a moment, the walls cracked, and I saw something raw and vulnerable underneath. Then she looked away.

"Please go," she said.

"Odina."

"Please."

I stood there, frozen, wanting to argue, wanting to fight. But the look on her face stopped me. It wasn't anger. It was fear.

I left.

---

I didn't sleep that night.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment. The way she'd kissed me. The way she'd laughed. The way she'd whispered my name in the dark.

I wanted to believe her. Wanted to believe it was a mistake, that she was right, that I should move on.

But I couldn't.

Because I'd seen something in her eyes that night. A hunger. A need. The same hunger I felt, the same need. She was scared, but she wanted me. I knew it.

And I wasn't going to let her run.

The next morning, I went back to her cabin.

The door was closed. I knocked. No answer.

I knocked again. "Odina. I know you're in there."

Silence.

"Look, I'm not leaving. I don't care what you said. I don't care about age or your past or any of it. I want you. And I think you want me too."

The door creaked open. She stood in the doorway, wearing the same flannel shirt from that night. Her hair was messy, her eyes red.

"You're stubborn," she said.

"I learned from the best."

She almost smiled. Almost.

"I told you to go."

"And I told you I'm not leaving."

She stared at me for a long moment. Then she stepped aside, letting me in.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," she said.

"I won't."

She closed the door behind me.

---

That night, she told me everything.

The things she'd done. The people she'd hurt. The reason she couldn't stay in one place for too long. She spoke in a flat voice, like she was reading a report, but I could see the pain in her eyes.

When she was done, she looked at me, waiting for me to run.

I didn't.

"I don't care," I said.

"You should."

"I don't."

She shook her head. "You're too young to understand."

"Then explain it to me. Make me understand."

She opened her mouth, closed it. Then she laughed, a broken sound.

"You're impossible."

"I know."

She reached out, touched my face. "I'm going to hurt you, Aziz. It's what I do."

"Maybe. Or maybe you'll surprise yourself."

She looked at me like I was something precious, something fragile. Like she wanted to hold me and break me at the same time.

"I'm scared," she whispered.

"Me too."

I took her hand, laced my fingers through hers.

"But I'd rather be scared with you than safe with anyone else."

She kissed me then, hard and desperate, like she was trying to memorize me. I kissed her back, holding her close, feeling her tremble against me.

Whatever came next, we'd face it together.

That was the plan, anyway.

But plans have a way of falling apart.

And I was about to learn that some secrets are too heavy to carry, no matter how strong you are.