Take Me to the River

I was thinking of this summer as my summer—a transition summer. I was leaving for college in the fall, finally getting a little distance from my parents and this small town I'd grown up in. It wasn't that I disliked my hometown, or that my parents were so awful, but I often felt trapped by the limitations of a small town and a family that did things the way they'd always been done. I'd had a happy childhood, but I was restless too. I wanted something else, something different—I wanted something exciting to happen.

I imagined myself at college, away from all of that, and wondered what kind of person I would be. Would I be the same shy Elizabeth I'd always been—nervous and self-conscious and unsure? Or would the little bit of independence be all I needed to find my voice? Would I meet a guy who liked me, and more importantly, would I be able to return his affections if he offered them?

At that thought, a warmth inside me flared as an image of Paul's face filled my head. I'd always been fascinated by him, but last summer my interest grew more pointed, more specifically interested in Paul as a man, not just the guy who rented my parents' cottage in the summer.

He'd arrived last week and I still hadn't worked up the courage to say more than hi to him, but in the brief moments I'd been able to watch him, I'd soaked up every detail my eyes could absorb. I noticed his sleek black hair curled at the edges where it touched his shirt collar, and his eyes were so dark I only saw the deep brown in them when the bright sun was on his face.

And his face—it was soft, almost feminine, with gentle slopes and curves and subtle lines and wrinkles that appeared when he spoke, like punctuation marks. Just the thought of it made me shiver with a giddy excitement.

It was a typical steamy, upstate New York summer day, late June and already hot and humid. I sat on a large, flat rock by the river, with my feet in the water, watching the sun dance on the surface, thinking about Paul and wishing for the thousandth time I wasn't so shy.

He probably thought I was stupid or weird, the way I acted around him, always looking away, mumbling or talking too loud in my nervousness. How I felt about him only made it worse, so bad sometimes I could barely look at him. It was silly, I knew, but I wanted him to think I was interesting, to find me attractive, but that wasn't going to happen if I couldn't even meet his eyes. Not that it mattered, really, he was over 40—he'd never even notice me as more than a kid.

It took me twenty minutes to walk back to the house from the water, picking my way up the hill in no hurry at all. I was sweating, sticky and hot by the time I got to the top of the rise where the path from the woods followed the edge of our property, it felt like I'd never even been swimming.

I came around the corner of the garden and there—directly in my path to the back porch—sat my dad and Paul, relaxing in a couple of lawn chairs, a table between them with tall glasses of iced tea.

My dad saw me immediately, before I could duck back and hide, and a second later Paul turned to look in my direction.

"Hey Lizzy," my dad said fondly. "Are you heading down to the river?"

I couldn't retreat so I walked toward them, feeling self-conscious. I'd been so hot climbing the hill, I hadn't bothered to put my shirt or shorts on over my suit, and even though it was just a swimsuit, and a modest one at that, I still moved my towel and crumpled clothes in front of me and held them there as a means of covering myself. I went red, I could feel it, even beneath the heat from having climbed the hill, I could feel the blood rush to my face and I prayed it just looked to them like I was overheated.

"I just came back," I said.

"Looks like you need to get back in, you're hot and sweaty already."

"I've never been down to the river," Paul said. I looked at him for the first time and my heart jumped excitedly. "Is it far?"

"Not too far," I said. My heart was beating faster already. "It takes fifteen minutes to get there."

"Is it on your property?" Paul directed this question to my dad, and I saw his brown eyes sweep down my body before he finished turning his head.

"It's technically part of the nature preserve," my dad said. "But none of the hiking paths come up this far. You almost never see anyone else down there. The kids used to play in there a lot when they were little, but not so much anymore. There's a pond, too—it's not too big, but big enough for swimming. Lizzy can show you the path down."

Paul looked back at me, smiling. "I'd like that," he said.

My dad said something to Paul then that I didn't hear because of the buzzing in my head. Paul turned his attention back to my dad, and as soon as I realized they were onto another topic I headed for the house. I sneaked a look over my shoulder once I reached the porch. My dad was talking and Paul was turned toward him, but his eyes were on me. Had he just watched me walk away? Had he been watching my ass? I turned quickly and didn't look back, but the thrill was just as strong as the embarrassment and I could feel it running through me pleasurably as I hurriedly draped my wet towel on the porch rail and dashed inside.

It was a few days before Paul approached me and asked if I'd show him the path down to the river. By then I'd composed a dozen or more fantasies about him, all of them hinging on the two of us being alone together, isolated, away from my family. I didn't really expect him to ask me to show him where he could swim; he'd been coming here for six years and he'd never expressed an interest, even during the really hot summers. It was more likely he was being polite when he and my dad had been talking. So when he approached me in the garden, I was so shocked I didn't have a chance to enter my customary state of panic.

"Hi Elizabeth." His voice was smooth and quiet. "Are you ready for a break?"

"A break?" I looked up at him, confused.

"You've been out here over an hour, you must be roasting."

I stared, temporarily frozen, before I shook off my daze and hastily turned my attention back to the row of tomato plants, looking away from his gorgeous face.

"I promised my mom I'd do the weeding," I said, now aware of how sweaty and dirty I was, how awful I must have looked.

"Let me help you finish," he said, squatting down to my level. "It won't take long. Will you show me how to get to the river then?"

"Um, sure," I said as the blood started to creep up my neck. I ducked my head a little, hoping to hide my blush under the brim of my wide hat. I glanced sideways at him and saw him watching me. I looked away and thought I caught the beginning of a smile on his mouth as I turned.

It took us ten minutes to finish the job. He asked a few questions and made a few observations, but mostly we worked in silence. Once, his hand accidentally touched mine and a little zip of excitement rushed through me, landing heavily and concentrating between my legs.

"It's not far," I said once we'd finished the last row. I wiped the sweat from my face and looked toward the woods. "And it's only the start of the path that's hard to find. Once you do, you just head down the path until you get to the water." I looked at him, dressed in a loose linen shirt and shorts. "Um, do you want me to show you right now, or do you want to change first?"

"Let's change first," he said. "Get your suit on and I'll meet you out here."

I stared, unable to hide my surprise.

"Well, you're coming too aren't you? If anyone deserves a cool swim, it's you."

I continued staring as he smiled, turned, and headed for the cottage.

I was pretty sure when my dad had suggested I show Paul the way down to the river, he hadn't meant to go along, only to show him where the path started and what general direction to go. Would he be angry if I went? He was at work anyway, so he'd never know—besides, it was only swimming. I tossed my gloves into the potting shed as I passed, and ran home to change, my nervousness now confused with excitement.

I grabbed my favorite swim suit—it was two pieces, blue with tiny white flowers. It had a halter top that came to my navel and tied behind my neck, and boy shorts bottoms that sat low, leaving a thin stripe of bare skin exposed at my waist. I pulled it on quickly and looked at myself in the mirror, turning to view my profile and my backside.

I had good proportions—breasts that weren't too big or too small, long legs, and a nice curve at my lower back, but I was pale. Red headed and pale with smatterings of freckles across my face, arms, and chest. How could he possibly find that attractive? Then I realized what an idiot I was for even thinking he'd be looking at me in the first place.

I quickly brushed out my long red hair and braided it again into one thick plait that hung down my back. I grabbed a towel from the porch railing and was slightly out of breath when I met Paul by the corner of the cottage.

He gave me a quick once over—making me blush again—and we headed for the woods. Neither of us spoke as we picked our way down toward the water, but I caught myself hoping he was watching my ass he followed along behind me, watching like he had the other day.

When we reached my favorite spot I stopped. I draped my towel over a big, dry boulder in the sun and turned to see Paul looking out over the water, his face split in a smile.

"It's beautiful," he said quietly.

A moment later he was unbuttoning his shirt and I had to force myself to look away, though I was suddenly very curious to see him without his shirt. I stepped lightly into the shallow water, letting it run over my feet for a few seconds. I made my way carefully across to the spot where I liked to sit—on a little shelf of flat rock that served as a seat, the water just below my breasts. I dared a sideways glance as I lowered myself in.

Paul was working his way into the water too, though he'd taken a more direct route and was heading straight for the deeper end. I watched his body move as he balanced on the slippery rocks, the current tugging at his body as he moved further and further into the water. He was lean and athletic, with long, graceful arms and bronze skin. He wasn't muscular, but he was fit, and my whole body went hot in reaction to the sight of his bare chest. My eyes followed the dark line of hair that led down his stomach and vanished beneath the waistband of his swimming trunks, leaving me curious to see where it ended. What did he look like under there?

I watched him push off the rocks, slicing across the surface of the water, pulling himself along with an easy stroke. I relaxed in the water, kicking my legs slowly to watch the patterns of light jump and twist over my skin. I felt a little guilty being here, I was sure my dad wouldn't approve, but my thoughts didn't linger there, it was my nervousness that I was focused on. Just being around him made me self-conscious, and when I got self-conscious I couldn't talk. And if I couldn't talk, why would Paul even want to be around me? I desperately wanted to overcome my shyness so I could at least have a conversation with him.

I watched as he swam the length and breadth of the pond, slowly making his way around until he was heading back in my direction. At one point he went under, diving. His back curved like a dolphin's as he curled into the water. His legs followed—feet together, toes pointed—and then there was only the ripple blooming on the surface where he'd disappeared.

I waited and he resurfaced closer to me, his head bobbing back up, the surface of the water cut into bright shards of sunlight that swelled and shrank and danced. He took a deep breath and wiped the water from his eyes before swimming toward me again. He was a strong swimmer and was soon directly in front of me, squatting to keep his shoulders below the water's surface.

He turned, offering me his back. "Here," he said, "let's go to the other side, the water's so much cooler where it's deep, and there's a great spot to sit in the shade."

He turned his head over his shoulder to look at me, moving backward until his body touched my knees.

"Come on, I'll be your water taxi."

I wasn't sure what to do—I thought I should say no and just swim myself, but I couldn't make the words come out of my mouth. Instead, I reached out and put a hand on each of his shoulders, surprised by the rush of excited terror I felt. He took them at once and drew them forward, around his neck.

"Hang on," he said, and a second later I was holding him tight as we launched into the water together. At first the closeness of our bodies made my heart pound with fright, but I was also excited by the slippery smooth heat of his skin against mine, the softness of the water passing over my body, and the way he pulled us both toward the far shore, so efficiently and smoothly.

His legs kicked below mine and I felt the power in his shoulders as he sliced and pulled the water, propelling us to the other side of the pond. I laughed out loud, half from nervousness and half from delight. I'd never been this close, this intimately close, to a man before and it was a heady thrill.

He turned again as we reached the far side of the pond. He took my arms from around his neck and pulled me toward a long, flat submerged rock. He sat down, the water reaching his waist, and I sat beside him.

"It's shadier on this side of the pond," he said, looking around us. "More secluded too."

We were quiet for a few minutes, listening to the summer sounds of water and birdsong.

"You must burn easily," he said, making me look up. "With your fair skin and all those freckles."

He reached forward and rolled the strap of my bathing suit toward my neck once, straightening it, and then let his finger travel outward and down, along the outside of my arm.

A heat lingered where his finger had touched me, sending a shiver through me that hardened my nipples. I looked away from him, embarrassed, but excited.

"You're so shy," he said.

I'd heard that my whole life, usually spoken by exasperated parents or teachers, but all I heard in Paul's soft voice was a gentle sweetness. I looked up at him even though I was blushing.

"And pretty, too." He smiled and I had to look away again. His words were so exciting, but they made me squirm uncomfortably too.

"Could I see you with your hair down, Elizabeth?" he asked after a minute of silence. "I never have." He sounded like someone asking permission, as if it was something he'd always wanted and had finally dared to ask.

I thought I should say no—it seemed inappropriate, but why? Examining my feelings I knew I wanted to do it, I wanted to do what he wanted. I wanted him to tell me I was pretty again. I wanted to hear it, to believe he really thought so.

I brought the end of my braid around and slid the elastic off, putting it on my wrist for lack of a better place. He watched me, and as I started unraveling the strands I felt exposed, like I was undressing. I unwound it, letting it fall in wet strands over my shoulders and combed it out with my fingers. I kept my eyes down, all too conscious of his unblinking stare.

"Look at you," he said with a wonder that thrilled me to my toes. He lifted his hand and ran it from the top of my head down, drawing a waterlogged ribbon of it between his fingers, squeezing a drop of water from the tip. He took a moment to arrange it, pushing some hair from my shoulder, bringing some forward where it fell heavy and wet at the top of my breasts.

As he touched my hair, ripples of pleasure moved through me, like the ripples that spread across the surface of the pond from the water that dripped from Paul's outstretched hand, radiating outward and fading away.

"Do you ever wear it down like this? It's so beautiful."

He combed his fingers through once more, and when he lifted his hand again he touched my cheek.

"You're beautiful too," he said.

I blushed and in my nervousness, looked away, letting my hair swing forward to curtain my face. He reached and tucked the hair behind my ear.

"Don't hide," he coaxed me gently. I could hear the smile in his voice, making the request benign. "I want to see you, let me look."

I let him turn my head, his hand light on my chin, and looked at him nervously. His ran his eyes over my face slowly, his smile still held on his lips as he studied me. He looked at me for so long and so intently my excitement turned panicky, but nothing in his facial expression stirred that fear—he looked curious, a little expectant, like he was waiting for something, for me to do something, but I didn't know what.

My face was hot and my heart was beating fast. Fear and excitement mixed with worry that I'd do something wrong, something to change his interest. I looked away again and immediately his hand was on my cheek, gently turning my face back to him. The very next instant, he leaned toward me and pressed his lips to mine.

A panic rose in me, making me freeze. I held completely still as his lips touched mine. Alarms were going off in my head: Kiss him back! Kiss him now! He turned his head slightly, kissing me again and I responded with an awkward twitch of my lips. Another kiss, my chin cupped lightly in his hand, but I failed to respond at all, paralyzed by my fear.

He drew back quickly, his hand dropping from my face. "I'm sorry, I thought—"

"No, I'm sorry," I said, cutting him off.

He looked confused and leaned back.

"I'm sorry," I said again. In my nervousness, my voice was too high and strained. "I want to, but I'm not—I mean, I'm—I've never—um. I've never done...anything."

The confusion in his expression deepened. He eyed me carefully before he spoke. "Never?"

My head swam for a second as embarrassment overwhelmed me. I shook my head knowing I'd just ruined everything.

"Never kissed?" His voice was gentle, but the disbelief was obvious.

I shook my head again, horrified by the turn of events.

He continued looking at me for a few seconds and I wished for once he wouldn't. I felt like crying. A second ago he'd said I was beautiful, he'd kissed me, and now he was retreating.

"I didn't know." His voice held an apologetic tone. He started to turn as if to turn away from me, and I reached out suddenly, touching his arm.

"No, I want to, I want to." I felt so stupid for having no experience, for being young, for having to admit I was so naive. "I just never have before."

He was quiet for a while and then he lifted his hand again and ran it up my arm soothingly. He looked away for a second, then back at me. He seemed to make a decision.

"Let's try again." He brought his hand to my face and leaned in. He spoke slowly and carefully, his voice even softer than before. "Forget about what just happened, it didn't happen—this will be your first kiss."

He looked at me, his dark eyes so close to mine, and I shivered in anticipation.

"Alright?" He paused, waiting for a response.

"Yes," I said.

"You have to kiss me back, though. Otherwise it doesn't count."

He paused a few seconds longer and moved toward me again. His eyes closed and I closed mine too, shutting out the light, trying to concentrate on how it felt. There was the heat of his lips first, and then a light pressure that very slowly, very gradually increased as he pressed his mouth to mine softly, so softly. I felt the slight movement of the muscles of his mouth, the change in the shape of his lips as he kissed me more firmly. It was all so subtle, the touching and testing, and the pleasure swirled through me like a current, filling me up.

He moved very slowly and I tried to follow his lead, to return his advances, but I wasn't sure how successful I was. My head was spinning and my stomach was knotted and tense. I could feel how tightly I was holding myself, noticed my hands were clenched at my sides, and tried to relax. I reached up to touch his shoulder, to bring myself back to reality, and the heat of his body against my palm made the knot of tension loosen a little.