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It happens because of the hot tub. Or, more than likely, Abby inviting Samantha into the hot tub in the softening summer night. The meniscus separating the warm evening and the bubbling water bounces around Sam’s shoulders when Sarah stands. They’ve been in for ten long minutes; Sam can feel the chemicals wrinkling her finger pads. Sarah grabs the edge of the tub in a gesture of caution, but the irony of balance with the sight of an empty wine glass in her hand isn’t lost on Sam.
“You need?” Sarah asks Abby.
“Bring the box,” Abby says, flapping her wrist pointedly. Her voice is sloppy; much louder than necessary to reach the ears of the other women.
“Really expected you two to have finer palates,” Sam quips before ducking the better part of her mouth below the water. The bubbles feel delicious as they burst on her chin.
“Wine in a box is just fine,” Abby argues, slowly like she’s exaggerating a point, not hyper-aware of her probable slur.
“Wine in a plastic bag though,” Sam leads, bobbing up.
“You’re not supposed to care about such things,” Sarah sounds like she’s singing as she disappears into the sprawling kitchen.
The hot tub is on the back deck; they can watch Sarah through the French doors.
“Finish this before she’s back,” Abby suggests in a drunken whisper.
Sam knows when to stay quiet and do as she’s told. Abby deserves to call the shots. It’s not tangible, Abby can’t hang the record from her neck, but it stands nonetheless, awaiting her own addendum. It’s a fresh honor, barely a week old but it’s fitting, traceable in Abby’s shoulders. When the wine slides down Sam’s throat, so wanton and raw from the imposed sobriety this season, she imagines her rich insides like ink drying on the page.
Usually, Sam would close her eyes while taking such an aggressive gulp, but something about the way Abby watches her, keeps one eye on the door like she’s got everything covered, makes Sam feel like every second is precious. Her throat betrays her clandestine fervor; when she gulps, the swallow is audible.
“Good girl,” Abby says. She relaxes a dumb, close-lipped smile like she’s pleased, content.
And Sam wants to leave it at that.
The sound of the door opening breaks the illusion quicker than lightning. Abby’s face twists into hyperbolic panic as she snatches the stemless glass from Sam’s hot, wet hands.
Sarah clears her throat loudly, like she knows exactly what’s been going on. Sam’s feeling brave, cheeky, so she turns in an identical arc towards Sarah and grins.
“You’re lucky I can’t see your tongue,” Sarah knits her eyebrows. The porch has this lovely ambient lighting--a string of holiday lights woven around the railing, hinting at the dreamy wilderness around them.
“I have a good look at your legs, no bother,” Sam makes sure Sarah knows it’s a half-joke.
Sarah sets the box of wine on the lip of the tub so Abby can dispense her own refill. She has to tip the box, but the stream of red fills her glass bountifully.
It’s quiet, so the sound is suggestive in the way that no one wants to make the joke. Abby doesn’t let Sarah settle into her previous place next to her.
Instead, she pulls Sarah onto her lap. It’s like trying to catch wind in a sieve, working against the flow of the jets, but somehow Abby gets Sarah’s weight positioned perfectly.
“She does have great legs, doesn’t she?” Abby concurs.
The water’s moving all around them; it’s hard to tell where Abby’s free hand might be. Sarah’s using both hands to cradle her wine glass. She presses the lip on her jawbone, blinks hard like she’s trying to focus. Abby takes a long sip and Sam’s reminded of the taste.
Sam’s throat feels empty. Every breath whistles in like she’s raw, fighting a cold.
Sarah’s watching Samantha stare at Abby; her eyes are already there when Sam’s vision slides left. Abby sets the glass of wine on the edge of the tub and lets her hand dive under the water.
It’s far too dark to see through the bubbles, but Sam can tell where Abby’s hands settle based on Sarah’s body. Her shoulders slacken, her back melts so she’s leaning fully on Abby. Sam imagines Sarah’s legs fitting around Abby’s, imagines their knees bowing out because Abby’s insisting underwater.
It happens in an exponential gradient, like becoming accustomed to a temperature. One moment Sam wonders, imagines, and then the next moment it’s unfolding. Sarah doesn’t moan; she’s not that brazen. Or drunk. But Abby is. And she’s nonplussed by the swaying movement of the water as she makes Sarah roll with her, relax into her fizzing touch.
Sarah’s eyes close; Sam can tell by the way the gentle light stretches across her lids. And the movement in the tub is untraceable, coming from everywhere like the massaging jets. So Abby’s the only one to see Sam palm Abby’s dejected wine glass. They catch, maniacally, and something about the lightning in Abby’s eyes gives Sam the courage to blow a kiss between them before she raises the glasses to her lips.
She’s not going to admit she’s never been in the same room, hell, the same pool, as another couple when they’ve fucked, but the intimacy of Sarah and Abby, their history and Sam’s undeniable place in it’s formation, turns her on like something so new and fresh that it hurts.
And Sam wants to say that Abby’s not looking at her, wants to leave it at the cheekily lofted kiss between them. Abby must know Sarah’s body like an extension of her own, because she stalls for a moment, delaying the inevitable, without taking her eyes from Sam. Sarah’s still managed her careful hold on the wine glass, steadied with both hands, but the slightest bit tips into the water when she silently urges Abby to finish. Abby doesn’t see that part, the spill, but she sees Sam’s smile from it.
And maybe Abby assumes the reaction is from Sarah’s face, etched in ecstasy like a marble statue, because she dives into her motions underwater with renewed fervor knowing that Sam’s paying attention. Sam gets the sense that Abby thrives on the audience, on the wordless feedback she can sense thrumming in the air.
When Sarah comes, it’s serene, so angelic. Sam doesn’t realize that she’s been panting, or petting her own thighs secretly, until Sarah rolls her head so that her face is hidden in Abby’s neck. Abby takes the wine from Sarah’s hands and swallows a big sip. She makes a show of kissing Sarah’s forehead, tossing her gaze sidelong at Sam too.
Sarah says nothing when she notices Sam’s nursing the other glass. Sam can’t tell if she won, or if Abby did.
It all feels a bit haphazard when they wade from the tub. Sarah wrings out her hair before darting inside to retrieve towels from the mud room. Sam stands on the edge of the deck with Abby. They’re both dripping wet, watching the dogs scour through the backyard in the twinkling darkness.
“What about Ad?” Abby says, from nowhere.
Sam fits her arch along the wooden stair. It helps to point her toes there, to get the added stability when she pulls her calf muscle close to her bones.
“I don’t know,” Sam admits, even though she gets the sense that she does.
Sarah’s return is everything Sam didn’t want it to be--deadening and half-guilty.Sam’s sight is cut off slightly when she has to focus on catching the towel lobbed in her direction, but she gets a hold smoothly. Sarah pinches the worn edges of another and wraps Abby’s shoulders in the towel without asking. The difference is laughable, but it reminds Sam of the American flag, maybe of a cloaked victory.
Sam unfolds the terrycloth without a plan. Even though it takes a moment to get it right, she manages to shiver into the embrace. It smells like that unnameable potpourri of a home, the distinct tones of life infused in every fiber.