Eclats d'été

I slip out of bed careful not to wake her. The floorboard under my left foot knows its job, stays silent. Sarah's breathing stays slow and even, one arm thrown over the pillow where my head just was. She'll sleep two hours at least. That's how her siestas work. Deep and total, like she's been unplugged from the world.

I grab my trunks from the doorknob. They're still damp from yesterday. The chlorine smell follows me down the stairs.

The gite is old, all stone walls and wooden beams that sag in the middle like they've been holding up the roof for centuries and are getting tired of it. We rented it for two weeks because Sarah found the listing on some website that promised "authentic Provençal charm." Authentic Provençal charm means no air conditioning and a kitchen faucet that only runs cold. But the pool out back, that part is real. Heated, tiled in pale blue, surrounded by lavender bushes that hum with bees all afternoon.

I step through the French doors and the heat hits me like a wall. It's three in the afternoon and the sun is doing what it does best here, which is punish. The air shimmers over the stone patio. The lavender smell is so thick you could chew it.

And there's a girl by the pool.

She's lying on a towel, face down. Her body is the kind of long that doesn't fit normal dimensions. I clock her height before anything else. She's got to be six foot three, maybe more. Her legs go on forever, sleek and brown, the kind of legs that make you think about running your hand down them before your brain catches up and tells you to stop thinking that.

She's wearing a bikini bottom. Just the bottom. The top is folded neatly next to her towel, next to a book and a bottle of sunscreen.

Her back is bare. Smooth skin, the color of olive wood. Her spine makes a shallow valley down the middle. She's relaxed completely, like she's melting into the towel. Her arms are stretched above her head. Her ribs show faintly when she breathes.

I stand there too long. I know I'm standing there too long. But there's something about the way she occupies space. She doesn't take up room. She claims it. Like she knows exactly how much of the world she deserves and she's not apologizing for any of it.

I need to get in the pool. That's the whole point of coming out here. The heat is cooking me through my t-shirt. I walk to the deep end, drop my towel on a chair, and slide in.

The water is perfect. Cool enough to wake you up, warm enough that you don't gasp. I push off the wall and glide underwater, eyes open, watching the blue tiles blur past. When I surface, she's turned her head to look at me.

Her eyes are dark. Almost black. Mediterranean dark. She has high cheekbones and a mouth that looks like it's used to getting what it wants. Her hair is black and wet at the ends, like she's already been in the water earlier.

"Sorry," I say. "Didn't mean to disturb you."

She smiles. Not a friendly smile. More like she knows something I don't.

"You didn't." Her voice is low, with an accent I can't place. French, but with something else underneath. Italian maybe. "I was pretending to sleep anyway."

"Ah. The fake siesta."

"The real one is for people who don't have things to think about."

I tread water. The pool is maybe fifteen feet across. She's on the far side, close to the edge, her chin resting on her folded arms. From this angle I can see the side of her breast pressing against her arm. It's huge. Not in a vulgar way. In a way that seems almost sculptural. Like someone decided to test the limits of what a human body could do and just went for it.

"I'm Marc," I say.

"Chloe."

"French?"

"Half. My mother is Italian. My father is Lebanese. I grew up in Marseille."

"That explains it."

"Explains what?"

I shrug. "You look like you come from somewhere specific. Not generic. You know how some people look like they could be from anywhere? You're not one of them."

She sits up. The movement is fluid, unhurried. Her breasts come into full view and I do my best not to stare. I fail. They're impossible. That's the only word for it. Full and round and perfectly shaped, with dark nipples that point slightly outward. They shouldn't look natural at that size. But they do. They look like they grew exactly the way they were supposed to.

She catches me looking and doesn't seem bothered. She reaches for her sunscreen and starts applying it to her shoulders.

"You're here with someone," she says. It's not a question.

"How do you know?"

"The way you came down the stairs. Quiet. Like you were trying not to wake anyone."

I get out of the pool. Water streams off me as I walk to my towel. I sit on the edge of the chair, facing her. She's still working the sunscreen into her skin, long fingers moving in slow circles.

"Girlfriend," I say. "Sarah. She's napping."

"Good girlfriend or bad girlfriend?"

I laugh. "What kind of question is that?"

"A simple one. Is she good to you or bad to you?"

"She's good to me. She's great, actually."

"But?"

I don't answer. I didn't know there was a but. But now that she's said it, I feel one. Something small and nameless sitting in the back of my throat.

Chloe finishes with the sunscreen and lies back down on her stomach. She turns her head to the side, eyes closed. The sun catches the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist.

"You should put more sunscreen on," I say. "You're going to burn."

"I never burn."

"Everyone burns."

She smiles without opening her eyes. "Not me. I'm built for this sun. It's in my blood."

I dry off and sit on the chair. I should go back inside. Sarah might wake up early. She might come looking for me. But the chair is comfortable and the air is warm and Chloe is lying there like a landscape I want to explore.

"What are you doing here?" I ask. "In Provence, I mean."

"Visiting my grandmother. She lives twenty minutes from here. I came for the summer."

"Alone?"

"Alone works better for me."

"Boyfriend back home?"

She opens one eye. "You ask a lot of questions for a man who's supposed to be on vacation with his girlfriend."

I feel heat climb up my neck. "Sorry. I'm just making conversation."

"Don't apologize. I like questions. Most people are too afraid to ask what they actually want to know." She closes her eye again. "No boyfriend. I don't do boyfriends. I do what I want when I want."

The way she says it isn't arrogant. It's matter-of-fact. Like she's telling me the sky is blue or the sun is hot. Just a truth about the universe.

I look at the house. The window to our bedroom is dark. Sarah's still asleep. I can picture her in there, tangled in the white sheets, her mouth slightly open, her hair spread across the pillow. She looks peaceful when she sleeps. Like a child. Like nothing in the world can touch her.

I used to love watching her sleep. I still do. But something has changed in the last few months. I don't know what it is or when it started. It's like a crack in a wall. Barely visible at first, then one day you look at it and realize it's been there for a while and it's deeper than you thought.

Chloe shifts on her towel. Her hand reaches back and scratches the base of her spine. Her fingers move slowly, like they're enjoying the sensation.

"Your girlfriend," she says. "Does she know you're out here?"

"Does she need to know?"

Chloe laughs. It's a real laugh, low and warm. "That's not an answer."

I don't give her one. Because the truth is, Sarah doesn't know I'm out here. And I didn't tell her because I wanted to come down alone. And I wanted to come down alone because some part of me knew there might be someone like Chloe here.

That's the part I don't want to look at too closely.

"I should go back inside," I say.

"You should."

I don't move.

Chloe rolls onto her side, propping her head on her hand. Her breasts shift with the movement, settling into a new position that somehow looks even more improbable. She looks at me with those dark eyes and I feel like she's reading something written on my skin.

"You're not going anywhere," she says. "You're going to sit there for another ten minutes, then you're going to tell yourself you should go, and then you'll stay for twenty more. That's how men like you work."

"Men like me?"

"Men who want things but need permission to take them."

The words land hard. I feel them in my chest. I want to argue but I can't because she's right. I've always been like that. Waiting for someone to give me the green light. Waiting for circumstances to decide for me. I've never just taken what I wanted. I've never had the nerve.

"I'm not going to give you permission," she says. "If you want to stay, stay. If you want to go, go. But don't sit there pretending you're waiting for a sign. That's coward's work."

She lies back down. Puts her head on her arms. Closes her eyes.

I look at the house again. The window is still dark. Sarah is still asleep. The whole world is holding its breath.

I stay in the chair.

The minutes pass. The sun moves across the sky. The bees drone in the lavender. Chloe's breathing slows and deepens and I think she might actually be asleep this time. Her back rises and falls. A bead of sweat rolls down her spine and disappears into the fabric of her bikini bottom.

I watch it. I watch the whole thing. And I don't look away.

At some point I realize I've been sitting here for half an hour. My skin is starting to pink. I should put on sunscreen. I should go inside. I should do a lot of things.

Instead I get up and walk to the edge of the pool. I dive in. The water is still perfect. I swim laps, back and forth, feeling my muscles work, feeling the burn in my shoulders. It clears my head. For a few minutes I'm not thinking about Sarah or Chloe or the crack in the wall. I'm just moving through water.

When I stop, Chloe is sitting up again. She's watching me with that same knowing smile.

"You swim well," she says.

"I was on the team in college."

"Competitive. I like that."

She stands up. And I mean she stands up. Her body unfolds like something that was folded too small for too long. She's even taller than I thought. I'm six feet and she's got three inches on me easy. Her legs are absurd. Her hips are narrow. Her stomach is a flat plane of muscle with a faint line running down the middle.

She walks to the edge of the pool and dives in. Her entry is clean, almost no splash. She glides underwater, a long dark shape, and surfaces next to me.

Up close, her face is even more striking. Her features are strong. A nose that's slightly too large for conventional beauty, but it works. It gives her character. Her lips are full and her teeth are white and her eyes have little gold flecks in them that I didn't notice before.

"The water is nice," she says.

"Yeah."

"Better than the chair, I think."

"Much better."

She floats on her back. Her breasts rise out of the water like islands. Water beads on her skin. She closes her eyes and lets her arms spread out.

"Have you ever been in love?" she asks.

The question comes out of nowhere. I tread water, buying time.

"Thought I was," I say. "Maybe I was. I don't know anymore."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

She opens her eyes and looks at me sideways. "I've never been in love. I don't think I'm built for it."

"Everyone's built for it."

"No. Some people are built for other things. Passion. Pleasure. Intensity. Love is too slow for me. Too patient. I don't have patience."

"You seem patient to me. Lying in the sun for hours."

"That's not patience. That's stillness. There's a difference. I can be still for a long time. But I can't wait. When I want something, I want it now."

She turns and swims to the edge of the pool. She pulls herself out with a single motion, water streaming off her body. She doesn't look back. She walks to her towel and picks up her book.

"I'm going inside," she says. "My grandmother will be wondering where I am."

"Will you be back tomorrow?"

She looks at me over her shoulder. "Will you?"

I don't answer. She smiles, that same knowing smile, and walks away. Her wet feet leave prints on the stone. She disappears through a gate in the hedge, into the property next door.

I float in the pool for a long time. The sun starts to drop. The shadows get longer. The bees get quieter.

Eventually I hear the French door open. Sarah comes out, squinting, her hair messy from sleep.

"There you are," she says. "I woke up and you were gone."

"Couldn't sleep. Came down for a swim."

She walks over and sits on the edge of the pool. She dips her feet in. She's wearing my t-shirt and nothing else. Her legs are pale next to the blue water.

"Water nice?"

"Perfect."

She looks at me. Her eyes are blue. Kind. Trusting.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

She smiles. "Good. Come here."

I swim over to her. She leans down and kisses me. Her lips are warm from sleep. She tastes like morning, even though it's afternoon.

"I love you," she says.

"I love you too."

I say it. And I mean it. But something in my chest feels tight. Something that wasn't there before Chloe walked through that gate.

Sarah pulls her feet out of the water. "I'm going to make dinner. You want to help?"

"Give me five minutes."

She stands up and goes back inside. The door closes behind her.

I float on my back and look at the sky. It's starting to turn pink at the edges. The first stars are coming out, faint and shy.

I think about Chloe's question. Have I ever been in love? I think about Sarah. I think about the crack in the wall. I think about the way Chloe's body looked when she stood up, unfolding like something that had been waiting to be seen.

I think about the fact that I'm still in the water. Still not moving. Still not going anywhere.

Coward's work, she said.

Maybe she's right.

I get out of the pool. I dry off. I walk back inside to help Sarah make dinner.

But I don't close the gate behind me. I leave it open. Just a crack.

Just in case.