It's the kind of hot that Brenda remembers from her childhood. The sort that curls her hair damply at her neck, leaves a sticky sheen across skin, no matter how hard you flap the Martin Luther King fan you got at the Baptist church that one time. It's the kind of hot that she moved away from, a humid heat, that scorches your sensibilities, makes drunk men fight, and women who mightn't otherwise, end up in a bed they don't quite mean to be in.
But she is here again. And her tolerance to this sort of assault has waned. She can taste the salt of her own sweat on her lips, she knows that her hair is beyond repair, and all she can think of is Sharon. It was too soon, of course, to invite her to meet the family. Certainly too soon to suggest that her parents accept this new relationship under their roof. Oh, her mama might have an inkling, she supposes, as she lazily kicks the porch swing into motion again, but her daddy would keel over dead. And that's why Sharon is thousands of miles away, and Brenda is sweating against the same wooden slats that had cradled her as a girl.
You would think, that as the sun set, the heat would diffuse, become less like a blanket on your skin, but that doesn't really happen, and Brenda has long since misplaced her Baptist church fan. The mosquitos buzz angrily, thwarted by the screened porch she'd been able to buy for her parents after her second promotion. So she is daring, in a pale peach tank top, and a pair of jeans that might have been Sharon's, and she hopes that they weren't because now they're shorts, hitting well above the acceptable limit of 'just above the knee'.
She looks at her phone again. The accusatory words seem to reflect the heat of the approaching evening back against her eyes.
"I would've come with you. All you had to do was ask."
She knows that it's true. That right now, in the suffocating air of this August night, she could be holding Sharon in her arms. She's been here two days. The funeral for her Nonny is tomorrow, and she will leave the day after that. She hopes that she will find the words to reply to Sharon, something that will heal the damage she never meant to cause.
The hinges on the screen creak, and she looks up, to see Willie Rae holding out a glass of sweet tea, and that it is already sweating, despite the Central Air unit her daddy didn't want her to buy for them after she moved to DC and discovered how much easier it was to think when you weren't on fire all the time. She sits up a bit, and takes the glass from her mother's hand, sipping gratefully.
"You wanna talk about it, sugar?" Her mother's voice is a softer sort of southern. The kind that reminds you of beaches, and raking for oysters.
"It was Nonny's time to go, Mama. She was 99 years old. I will miss her, but I'm sure she's in a better spot." Brenda knows that Willie Rae has had a strained relationship with her Nonny. Clay's mother had never approved of their union, since Willie Rae was from the coast, and not even a city on the coast, just, a little village, with a booming shrimp trade, and separate water fountains until the early 70's.
"That's not what I mean. Who's got you lookin' like your puppy just got run over?" Willie Rae looks at Brenda with the same sort of look that had had a younger her confessing to breaking curfew, and necking with Jesse Collins under the bleachers until the mosquitos got so thick you could hear their wings.
"Mama…" She couldn't admit, even to her mother, that the one person she wanted most was on the entire opposite coast, and probably wasn't speaking to her anyway.
"I won't pry, Brenda Leigh. You are an adult, and you make your own choices, you always have…but if this person, I assume it's not a man, or you would've mentioned by now, if she makes you as happy as you've sounded the last few months? You go back to California on your knees, and you beg. Happiness like that doesn't come along twice. Don't you throw it away cuz of what you think your daddy and I might say." She pulls herself to her feet, and runs her hand tenderly over Brenda's sweaty hair. "I love you no matter what. So does your daddy, even if he does act like a jackass now and then."
Brenda's eyes widen. She's never heard her mother say anything other than kind words about her father. She's about to reply, when the sweep of headlights cut across the narrow strip of grass they called a driveway down here. Willie Rae squints into the darkness, then smiles.
"Your daddy and I are going to bed. Don't be up all night." Her mother winks, winks! And walkes into the house, shutting both the screen and the door. Brenda blinks after her, then turns at the sound of footsteps on the porch. The neighbors have been generous with casseroles. They will be eating cream of something baked for at least a month after Brenda leaves, but it's unusual for a neighbor to come so late. Grief is best addressed in the heat of the day, when perspiration helps you keep that stiff upper lip, so you don't give the Methodists anything to gossip about at the next bible study. She stands to greet the caller, putting her hand on the outer screen door.
"You never texted me back." There is no twang, no southerly lilt to this voice at all, but it is a voice Brenda knows as well as her own.
"Sharon." She breathes, stunned. Then she flings the door open, and pulls the woman against her, the tears she's held at bay since leaving California falling freely. She's heedless of the heels and silk, pressing her damp body against Sharon's curves, as she clings, terrified that she's finally snapped, that the heat has driven her certifiably insane, like that one Yankee who never could adjust, and swore he saw Elvis Pressley everywhere.
"I was concerned that you'd been injured." Sharon keeps her voice low, her tone distant, even as her arms find their way to the places on Brenda's body where they fit best. "You didn't leave me a flight itinerary."
Brenda laughs through her tears, looking up at Sharon in relieved disbelief. "You work for the LAPD. We find people on flight manifestos all the time. You thought…did you DRIVE here?" She is suddenly aware of the association between the car and Sharon's appearance.
"Using my LAPD credentials to find my absent girlfriend would have been a misuse of my authority. And no, I took a flight. Coach." She manages to make the last word seem unpleasant.
Brenda can't think anymore. Sharon is here, in her arms, and it is so hot, and her mother has suggested that she go to Sharon on her knees, but Sharon is here, so Brenda does the only thing that seems sensible. She curls her arms against the planes of Sharon's back, sliding a hand up into the tangle of hair hanging heavily against the neck she loves so much, and she pulls Sharon into a kiss. But it's not any kiss. This is the sort of kiss you would only bestow on a person who had flown, Coach across the country because they were worried about you. Her tongue is demanding as she sweeps it against the delicate skin of Sharon's lower lip, feeling her own body sag with relief and tighten with arousal when Sharon allows her access, tasting of poorly brewed sweet tea, and the salt of every southern kiss.
"I missed you." She whispers against the kiss, before delving back into the dark promise of Sharon's mouth. "I wanted you to come. I thought…" She nibbles gently on Sharon's jaw, "I thought it was too soon, and I didn't want to scare you away."
Sharon is beginning to relent, her tongue tangling with Brenda's, and she hears the words Brenda isn't saying; don't leave me. Her anger melts in the heat of the evening, and beneath the force of Brenda's passion. She skims her hands over shapely thighs, teasing the torn edges of the denim.
"I've never seen you in jean shorts. And if you wanted me here, as I said, Brenda, all you had to do was ask." She slips her hands into the back pockets of the shorts, feeling very much like a teenager, as she pulls Brenda firmly against her, arranges her so that she straddles Sharon's thigh.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just..I think these were your jeans." Brenda is busily unbuttoning the ridiculous silk blouse, because, honestly, she can't not be touching Sharon right now, and also, who wears silk to Atlanta in August? Her mouth is mapping a heated trail, and Sharon's head falls back, as Brenda licks from her jawline to the lace edge of her bra, before tonguing her nipple hard through the lace.
"You do realize that we're on your parent's porch?" Sharon hisses, even as her hands are guiding the gyration of Brenda's body against her own, even as she matches the pace, her skirt somehow having made its way up to her hips, and the heat of Brenda's skin against her equally impractical silk panties is maddening.
"They're in bed. And daddy has apnea, so the CPAP machine means they can't hear us at all." Brenda gasps, as Sharon's hands find her breasts, talented fingers teasing her nipples through the thin cotton of the tank top.
"I have a hotel room." Sharon is sucking the sticky flesh where Brenda's neck and shoulder meet, the place that makes Brenda make that noise that sends jolts through Sharon's body.
Brenda groans, and grinds harder against Sharon's thigh, all of the heat and humidity of a southern summer night seems to have congregated here, where their bodies meet, and Brenda knows when Sharon's teeth graze that spot, that neither of them are going to make it to the hotel room, at least not yet. So she ignores the implied invitation, and focuses all of her attention on freeing Sharon's breasts from the lace, teasing the dusky tips with her tongue, until she feels the quiver begin in Sharon's thighs, and then she moves, trapping the slick nipples between her fingers, capturing Sharon's lips, and plunging her tongue in, a graceless, clumsy kiss, as she pinches the tender nubs, holding the weight of those beautiful breasts in her hands. Sharon moans into the kiss, and her whole body shakes against Brenda's, as she holds onto denim clad hips, feeling the echoing shudders from Brenda's body.
The sound of their breathing is louder than the mosquitos, as they lean their foreheads together.
"I want you to meet my family." Brenda finally says, and her voice sounds gruff from the gasping.
"I hope you understand, I'm going to need to go take a shower and change clothes. I hardly think this is an appropriate first impression." Sharon smirks, and Brenda knows that she's teasing, the glow of that smile goes right through her.
"Maybe I should run in and leave a note, grab my bag. Let them know that I'm going to make sure you don't get lost on the way to the hotel. It all sort of looks the same down here, til you get the hang of it."
"The GPS in the rental actually works." Sharon replies, as Brenda begins straightening her clothes, her hands tender as she buttons Sharon's shirt back up, smoothing the skirt back down.
"Still. It'd be unmannerly of me not to accompany a lady to her overnight accommodations." She imitates her father's city south twang, her vowels becoming almost optional. Sharon chuckles, and smooths back an errant lock of Brenda's hair.
"All right. I'll go turn on the A/C in the car. What will you tell them tomorrow?" She wonders, as Brenda puts her hands on the railing behind Sharon, and stretches her back.
"That you're coming to breakfast. And then, to my Nonny's funeral, if you'd be okay with that. She would've liked you, I think. You both have that…first child syndrome." Brenda bumps her hip against Sharon's.
"All right. As long as it doesn't disrupt the service, I have no problem with attending." Sharon nods. She kisses Brenda's bare shoulder, then pulls open the screen, and starts down the steps. "Try not to disappear between the porch and the car, okay?" She tosses over her shoulder, tone light, but she knows Brenda hears what she isn't saying.
"I'm coming right back. Won't even have a chance to miss me."
"I've had enough of that for the week, anyway." Sharon retorts, and then they are moving in separate directions, but Sharon knows that Brenda is coming back this time, so she feels fine about injecting a little levity. God knows, when it's hot like this, you have to keep a sense of humor about you.