Billie-Jean & Sammie-Rae I
[Softer, Slow Burn, To Very Intimate Storytelling. Monday to Sunday]
The sun beats down on the concrete, turning the mosaic tiles of the pool deck into a griddle. The air, thick with the sharp, clean scent of chlorine and the sweeter, coconutty smell of sunscreen, shimmers above the turquoise water.
I shift in my high chair, the plastic sticking to the backs of my thighs. My red one-piece, the same one every lifeguard wears, feels like a second skin, tight and unforgiving in the midday heat.
Below me, the pool is a chaos of splashes and shouts, a kaleidoscope of bright floats and flailing limbs. I watch it all with the practised, half-lidded gaze of someone who has seen too many near-drownings to be impressed by a simple cannonball.
My partner is late. Again. I glance at the clock on the adjacent office wall, the hands crawling past ten. I picture him—some guy named Kevin or Kyle—with a frat-boy haircut and a perpetually sleepy expression, probably nursing a hangover from a Sunday night beer pong tournament.
It's always the same. I'll have to cover his lane, listen to his half-hearted apologies, and pretend to find his stories about parties I'd never be invited to even remotely interesting. I sigh, the sound lost in the collective shriek of a group of kids launching themselves off the diving board.
Then, the gate to the pool deck creaks open. My gaze, which was scanning the water for any sign of distress, snaps to the sound. It's not a hungover jock. It's a girl. She moves with a loose-limbed confidence that immediately sets her apart from the hesitant, sunburnt tourists.
The standard-issue red lifeguard swimsuit on her is… different. It's not just a uniform; it's a statement. The vibrant Lycra clings to generous curves, the colour a stunning contrast against her olive skin.
Her long, glossy brunette hair is pulled back into a high ponytail that swings like a metronome with each step she takes toward the tower. My throat goes dry. I watch her approach, my usual composure suddenly feeling like a flimsy shield.
She reaches the base of my tower and squints up against the sun, a hand shading her dark, almond-shaped eyes.
"Hey. I'm Sammie. Sammie Thompson. New partner."
Her voice is Bacall husky, with a casual, self-assured lilt.
I swallow, trying to find my own voice.
"Billie-Jean."
I climb down the ladder, my movements feeling stiff and awkward compared to hers. I stick out a hand.
"Nice to meet you."
Her grip is firm, her palm warm and dry.
"Likewise."
She lets go, and a flick of her head sends her ponytail swaying over one shoulder. She turns to survey the pool, her posture straight, her chin up. Then, she reaches up, hooking her thumbs under the straps of her swimsuit. She pulls at them, adjusting the fit, the simple gesture making my chest heave.
The red fabric shifts against her skin, and a hot flush creeps up my neck, blooming across my cheeks. I turn my head quickly, focusing on a particularly aggressive game of water polo, pretending I didn't see a thing.
I can feel the heat in my face, a dead giveaway.
The rest of the shift passes in a blur of whistles and routine. The sun begins its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The crowd thins, the frantic energy of the day softening into a lazy, contented lull.
We work well together, our movements falling into an easy rhythm. She's sharp, observant, and doesn't miss a thing. When the last swimmer finally leaves, and we begin the process of closing up, the silence between us is comfortable, not strained.
As we're coiling the long rescue hoses, she nudges me with her elbow.
"You wanna grab ice cream? My treat."
She points toward the small, bright stall near the park exit, its light still blinking invitingly.
"Sure," I say, a little too quickly.
We walk across the now-quiet grass, the cool evening air a welcome relief on my sun-baked skin. At the stall, she orders two double cones—one strawberry, one chocolate.
When the vendor hands them to us, Sammie grins. "Here." She loops her arm through mine, her skin warm against my own. The gesture is bold, unexpected, and goosebumps form on my arm.
We start walking again, our arms linked, licking at our respective cones.
Then she stops and holds her chocolate cone out to me.
"Wanna try?"
I nod and lean in.
I take a small lick of the rich, dark chocolate. Before I can pull back, she leans toward my strawberry cone, her eyes on mine. Her tongue darts out, pink and quick, tasting the melting ice cream.
A tiny drop of pink clings to her full lower lip, making it glisten in the twilight. My heart hammers against my ribs.
The air feels languid and unhurried, charged with an energy I can't name, but can feel in every finger whorl.
We finish our cones in a shared, sweet silence and head back to the staff office to sign out.
The small room is empty, smelling faintly of ink stamps and old invoices. The only light comes from a single desk lamp, casting long shadows across the floor. Drinks fridge in the corner.
I scribble my name on the timesheet, my hand feeling unsteady. Sammie signs below me, her handwriting a confident, flowing script.
She puts the pen down, but doesn't move away.
Instead, she steps closer, into my personal space, so close I can feel the warmth radiating from her body.
In total stillness, the air catches in my lungs.
She lifts a hand, her fingers gently brushing a stray strand of blonde hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear.
Her brown eyes are locked on mine, and in their depths, I try to see answers, but none form.
She leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away, but I don't.
I can't.
Strange what we imagine holding a bolster between our thighs under a doona. That a girl will lean in…
Sounds outside my window: a fire truck, crickets, leaves rustling in the wind.
Reality in slow motion.
Her lips meet mine.
No hesitant peck.
It's lush, slick, and wonderful.
The cool, sweet ghost of chocolate and strawberry mingles with the warm, undeniable taste of her.
The kiss deepens, a soft sigh escaping her lips as mine part to meet her. One of her hands cups the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at my nape, while the other rests on my hip, pulling me closer.
It's a breathless, passionate collision, a moment that stretches and contracts until all I know is the feel of her mouth on mine, the scent of her skin, the racing of my own heart.
Then, as suddenly as it began, she pulls back.
Her lips pout, her eyes shining.
A slow, sassy smile spreads across her face.
"Catch you Tuesday," she says, her voice a low murmur.
She gives a little shimmy, turns, and walks out the door, leaving it slightly ajar behind her.
I stand there in the quiet office, the hum of the refrigerator the only sound.
My fingers rise to my own lips, tracing their fullness. They feel different, alive.
The world slowly comes back into focus—the desk, the timesheet, the blinking light of the ice cream stall outside.
My mind replays the last ten minutes in a dizzying, silent loop. The linked arms, the shared taste of ice cream, the searing, perfect pressure of her mouth.
Wow.
My breath hitches, and bolster-hugging imaginations fragment and spread faster than pages turned in a steamy romance novel.
I kissed my first girl.
Well, a girl kissed me.