Summer Heat by Harper Bliss Page B

hard to draw my gaze away from her.
    “Will you be dressed this time?” She splashes some water in my face and ducks under, away from me. I swallow hard and try to process what just happened. Then I remember that processing was more Jenny’s thing and I shrug it off as friendly banter.
    * * *
    “Jenny was a nice girl,” my mother inappropriately says, “apart from that enormous tattoo on her back.” She sips from her glass of wine. Sometimes, when I get really bored with dinner conversation, I count the glasses and hold them against her later. This time I’m more annoyed—on the verge of a breakdown, really—than bored. “Very well-mannered and with a promising career in the city.” I half-expect her to say, “If Catherine really has to be with another woman, Jenny was an acceptable choice.”
    “She can’t have been that stellar, what with the way she treated Cat.” Rose comes to my rescue. I could kiss her, but only metaphorically, of course.
    “I suppose not.” Mum’s eyes drift off and she stifles a yawn.
    “Darn straight,” dad says, “excuse the pun Kit-Kat.” A wide grin crosses his face. He always thinks he’s so funny and ever since he retired he’s been watching too many westerns, hence the Texas vocabulary.
    The way they’re talking about me makes me feel sixteen years old again, except that some of my parents’ dreams have been categorically dashed since then and, apparently, on top of everything else, I can’t hold on to a decent girlfriend.
    “You look positively shattered, Helen.” Rose doesn’t usually speak like this, being more than a decade younger than my parents. “It’s getting late. Maybe you and John should retire to your boudoir.”
    “I believe we might.” Dad stands up and makes a clumsy effort to clear some dishes.
    “I’ll take care of that.” I pull at his hot pink polo shirt and smirk at the memory of his last birthday when Billy successfully made him believe that all men his age wear bright colours now. He was so desperate to believe it, and so tired of his starched shirts in all shades of beige, that it made him stubborn enough to ignore mum’s disdainful pout. Wearing ghetto colours, as Billy calls it, constitutes his own mini mid-life crisis and, despite not doing wonders for his pale complexion, I can only applaud it—from a daughter’s perspective, it beats getting a bit on the side.
    “How are you holding up?” Rose glares at me from the sink while I dry the last wine glass, my behind leaning against a cream-coloured kitchen cabinet. “How long were you and Jenny—”
    “I’m fine. Really. I just don’t want to talk about it all the time.” My stomach tightens as I remember Jenny’s close-cropped blond hair and the way it stuck out to all sides in the morning. Waking up alone has been the hardest. Jenny had this rule of never leaving the bed without an extensive hug—not even for a bathroom visit in the middle of the night. From dusk till dawn, her skin clung to mine and could only be torn away with great difficulty.
    “I’m sorry.” Her eyes find mine. “It can’t be easy.”
    I swallow back some tears, but not enough to keep one from plopping down on the just-dried glass in my hands.
    “Hey.” She closes the distance between us and takes the glass from me before brushing away a lingering teardrop from my cheek with her thumb. Her other hand curls around my neck and presses my face against her shoulder. The smell of fresh tomatoes mixed with wine and herbs fills my nostrils and I inhale deeply. “It’s all right.”  
    The second hit comes from her perfume, which is fruity and nutty and so indisputably feminine it makes my knees go weak. I close my eyes for a split second and accept the unexpected tenderness.
    “Did you want that book?” I manage to ask.
    “Tomorrow’s fine.” Rose’s fingers caress my scalp and draw me closer. “I promise I won’t mention her anymore,” she whispers in my ear and, suddenly, the painful