pool.”
“Did you bring a bathing suit?” I asked.
“Bathing suit?”
“Yes. A bathing suit. It’s what we call the garment you wear for swimming.”
Jill raised her eyebrows. I wasn’t normally snide to Lars. I wasn’t normally snide to anyone. But I was tired and cranky and I just wanted them to leave.
“Do pool regulations require proper bathing attire?” Lars asked in an almost Shakespearean diction.
“What. Ever.” I rolled my eyes, channeling my inner adolescent. I certainly had enough role models. “You can borrow one of my Dad’s, I guess.” Lying to Jonathan was one thing. Letting another man swim naked in my parents’ pool was a far greater sin.
“Underwear’s pretty much the same thing as a bathing suit,” Jill announced. “Don’t be so inhibited.” And with that, she stood up and yanked off her tank top, revealing a big strapless black bra with substantial underwires. She pulled at the sides of her pouffy skirt and let it fall to the ground. Her underpants were a faded blue. The elastic on one side was coming unraveled. Her thighs were strong and shapely, but her belly was mushy. As if recognizing her imperfections, she scurried over to the edge of the pool with uncharacteristically tiny steps and jumped in, creating a huge splash. She came up screaming.
“Holy crap, it’s cold!” She treaded water, gulping down air. “C’mon, Lars! You’re the one who started this. Get in!”
Lars fumbled with the buttons on his tropical print shirt. “You want a hanger for that?” I asked, smirking.
He missed the sarcasm. “If you have one, that’d be great.” He beamed his Mr. Handsome smile.
Inside, I did a quick change into my most flattering bathing suit (boy shorts and a bikini top) and returned with a wooden hanger for Lars. His shirt lay crumpled on his chair, label exposed: it was a Tommy Bahama, after all. I picked it up and slid it onto the hanger, then hung the whole thing from the back of the wrought iron chair.
Jill and Lars were in the spa, bubbles brewing. “Is the water warm?” I asked. I hadn’t turned it on, and the air temperature was falling by the minute.
“No, but it’s better than the pool,” Lars said, teeth chattering dramatically.
“Lars is a pussy,” Jill said. “You pussy!” She splashed him. He laughed and splashed back.
I went over to the pool equipment and hit a switch. “It’ll warm up in a minute.” I padded over to the spa. The Arizona flagstones were warm under my feet, still clinging to the heat of the day.
“Join us!” Lars said before submerging briefly. When he reemerged, his hair was slicked off his face. He had a very high forehead. He rubbed the water out of his eyes. “It feels good once you get used to it.”
“Bullshit!” Jill said. “It’s fucking freezing!” It was odd to hear Jill swearing—like she was the Chess Club president trying to sound cool.
“I’ll wait till it warms up.” I sat on the edge of the spa and stuck my feet into the frothy water, right at the spot where the warm water gushed out. The bubbles obscured the bodies underneath. “You are wearing underwear, aren’t you, Lars?”
“Yes, ma’am!” He popped up. “Calvin Klein’s finest.” They were black and form fitting and revealed the smallest beginnings of an erection. I looked away.
“They’re boxer briefs,” Jill said. “Or brief boxers. I told Lars they demonstrated a fear of commitment. You know the old question—boxers or briefs? Well, for Lars, it’s neither!”
“Or both!” he piped in, lowering himself back into the froth. “It’s getting warmer.”
“I feel like we’re on Elimidate, ” I said. They both cackled furiously. I am very funny when other people are drunk.
I heard a faint whirring from inside the house. “The phone,” I announced, pulling my legs out of the water.
The answering machine had picked up by the time I reached the kitchen.
“We’re in Flagstaff,” my mother’s voice informed me,
“Did you bring a bathing suit?” I asked.
“Bathing suit?”
“Yes. A bathing suit. It’s what we call the garment you wear for swimming.”
Jill raised her eyebrows. I wasn’t normally snide to Lars. I wasn’t normally snide to anyone. But I was tired and cranky and I just wanted them to leave.
“Do pool regulations require proper bathing attire?” Lars asked in an almost Shakespearean diction.
“What. Ever.” I rolled my eyes, channeling my inner adolescent. I certainly had enough role models. “You can borrow one of my Dad’s, I guess.” Lying to Jonathan was one thing. Letting another man swim naked in my parents’ pool was a far greater sin.
“Underwear’s pretty much the same thing as a bathing suit,” Jill announced. “Don’t be so inhibited.” And with that, she stood up and yanked off her tank top, revealing a big strapless black bra with substantial underwires. She pulled at the sides of her pouffy skirt and let it fall to the ground. Her underpants were a faded blue. The elastic on one side was coming unraveled. Her thighs were strong and shapely, but her belly was mushy. As if recognizing her imperfections, she scurried over to the edge of the pool with uncharacteristically tiny steps and jumped in, creating a huge splash. She came up screaming.
“Holy crap, it’s cold!” She treaded water, gulping down air. “C’mon, Lars! You’re the one who started this. Get in!”
Lars fumbled with the buttons on his tropical print shirt. “You want a hanger for that?” I asked, smirking.
He missed the sarcasm. “If you have one, that’d be great.” He beamed his Mr. Handsome smile.
Inside, I did a quick change into my most flattering bathing suit (boy shorts and a bikini top) and returned with a wooden hanger for Lars. His shirt lay crumpled on his chair, label exposed: it was a Tommy Bahama, after all. I picked it up and slid it onto the hanger, then hung the whole thing from the back of the wrought iron chair.
Jill and Lars were in the spa, bubbles brewing. “Is the water warm?” I asked. I hadn’t turned it on, and the air temperature was falling by the minute.
“No, but it’s better than the pool,” Lars said, teeth chattering dramatically.
“Lars is a pussy,” Jill said. “You pussy!” She splashed him. He laughed and splashed back.
I went over to the pool equipment and hit a switch. “It’ll warm up in a minute.” I padded over to the spa. The Arizona flagstones were warm under my feet, still clinging to the heat of the day.
“Join us!” Lars said before submerging briefly. When he reemerged, his hair was slicked off his face. He had a very high forehead. He rubbed the water out of his eyes. “It feels good once you get used to it.”
“Bullshit!” Jill said. “It’s fucking freezing!” It was odd to hear Jill swearing—like she was the Chess Club president trying to sound cool.
“I’ll wait till it warms up.” I sat on the edge of the spa and stuck my feet into the frothy water, right at the spot where the warm water gushed out. The bubbles obscured the bodies underneath. “You are wearing underwear, aren’t you, Lars?”
“Yes, ma’am!” He popped up. “Calvin Klein’s finest.” They were black and form fitting and revealed the smallest beginnings of an erection. I looked away.
“They’re boxer briefs,” Jill said. “Or brief boxers. I told Lars they demonstrated a fear of commitment. You know the old question—boxers or briefs? Well, for Lars, it’s neither!”
“Or both!” he piped in, lowering himself back into the froth. “It’s getting warmer.”
“I feel like we’re on Elimidate, ” I said. They both cackled furiously. I am very funny when other people are drunk.
I heard a faint whirring from inside the house. “The phone,” I announced, pulling my legs out of the water.
The answering machine had picked up by the time I reached the kitchen.
“We’re in Flagstaff,” my mother’s voice informed me,
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