Free Lovestruck Summer by Melissa Walker Page A

snarkily to hide my embarrassment. “You could die of skin cancer.”We pay a small admission fee and enter alongside what looks like a really long, narrow swimming pool. The springs are blocked off partially by a dam at one end, and Russ and I walk that way to cross over to the far side, which is grassy. He leads me to a huge pecan tree. “Shade for you, sun for me,”he says, pull- ing a blue cotton blanket out of the huge bag he brought. I spread out my piddly off-white bath towel. “There’s room on mine,”he says, laying half of his blanket in the shade. “That’s okay,”I say. “I’m fi ne over here.”I put my towel on the far side of his blanket, well in the shade, so that there’s a good four feet between us. I sit down and slather sunblock on
    109 my arms, hands, calves, feet, and face, which are the only parts that are exposed right now—I’m not ready for the bikini reveal. I start to click through my iPod, trying to fi nd the right album for the day. Then Russ takes off his shirt, and I lose my mind. I’ve never been one of those girls who goes gaga for muscles. I never tore out a teen magazine centerfold for my locker—I was more likely to put up Venus Zine interviews. I never got the appeal of Nick Lachey when there were guys like Jack White who deserved my atten- tion. But up close and in person, let me just say that muscles look good. “Do you really think I need sunblock?”asks Russ, squinting at me. I will my eyes to move up from his abs, thank- ing God again for sunglasses. “Yeah, I do,”I say, handing over the bottle. I lie back on my little towel and concentrate on a good iPod selection, willing my head not to turn to the left, willing my eyes not to be drawn to the way his hands are moving over his unde- niably beautiful body.
    110 “A little help?”He laughs, breaking my do- not-stare concentration. “Huh?”I ask, looking over and focusing my eyes on his face, just his face. “I can’t reach my back,”he says. I feel like I’m in the middle of a horribly awk- ward movie scene. I take the sunblock from him and scoot over onto the shady side of his blan- ket. After I pour the lotion into my hand, I close my eyes and start to spread it over his back. My heartbeat speeds up as my hands touch his skin, and I hope he can’t feel my freakishly fast pulse. I do a really shoddy job, honestly, because I’m eager to stop and slow down my racing heart. “Done!”I say overly cheerful, wiping the extra lotion on my legs. Then I slide back to my towel, press PLAY, and lie down with my eyes closed. Within three minutes, I’m so hot I might scream. I sit up on my elbows and look at everyone splashing in the water, running around in next to nothing. I guess my bikini will fi t in here. Slowly, I unbutton my jeans and pull them off my pale legs. Then I slip off my T-shirt.
    111 “Hook ’em, Horns!”shouts Russ. “Wooooo- hoooo!”“Excuse me?”I ask, hoping he’s not making some crude reference to my body, which I’m comfortable with, but not, like, confi dent about. Is anyone really one hundred percent sure of herself in a bathing suit? I mean, besides Olympic swimmers. Did he say “Horns”? “That’s a UT bikini—burnt-orange and white!”Russ says. Then he whistles in appreciation. “I had no idea,”I say. “Well, it was a good choice,”Russ says, smiling at me. I wish he would quit looking over here. I lie back down. “Let’s go in the water!”he says. And it’s one of those requests that’s not really a question—it’s a demand. Like the neighbor boys who used to spray me with Super Soakers in my front yard, Russ will take no prisoners. Because I don’t feel like being dragged into the spring, I willingly stand up and saunter to the concrete edge behind him. He jumps in, shaking his head with a “brrr”when he surfaces. I can’t imagine being cold
    112 right now in this hundred-degree heat, but the idea is appealing. I spring off the side and into the