Snapshots by Pamela Browning Page B

while. “We’d better go.” He dropped a kiss on my cheek, caressed my breast one last time.
    I sat up, loath to leave him. “I wish we didn’t have to.” His eyes were dark, the outline of his face limned in moonlight. Rick had been my friend for half my life. He’d inhabited my days and nights since I was nine years old, but now I felt as if I’d never seen him— really seen him—before.
    â€œMartine may wake up and wonder where you went.”
    I ignored his comment. Suddenly shy about my nakedness, I clutched the blanket around me. Rick pulled on his clothes and bent to gather mine before I preceded him down the ladder, and then we wordlessly picked our way through the woods to the dark and somnolent house.
    At my back door, I raised my lips for his kiss, which he gave freely. I accepted the bundle of my prom gown from him and said, “Don’t forget Dad’s breakfast tomorrow. You’re invited.”
    He shook his head. “I don’t think so, Trista. Not after—” And he gestured toward the woods. “I can’t.” For a moment, he looked stricken, but he quickly masked the expression and I didn’t think anything of it.
    â€œAre you going to the party?”
    He shook his head. “I’ll say I didn’t go because you and Martine didn’t. That’ll work, I guess.”
    â€œAll right. Good night, Rick.” I touched his cheek, and he smiled briefly.
    â€œGood night.”
    Rick waited while I went inside, and I watched from the kitchen window as he angled off through the hedge and disappeared in the direction of his house. I stopped in the downstairs bathroom and flipped on the light, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Recognition of our new status as lovers burned through me, but I marveled that I didn’t appear any different except for my lips, which were swollen from Rick’s kisses. This was a disappointment. I wanted to be marked by an experience that had irrevocably changed me.
    Upstairs, Martine lay sound asleep, breathing audibly with her mouth open. I shoved the blanket into the back of the closet for washing in secret later and tossed my dress and underwear on the desk chair. Then I crawled into bed and slept, oblivious to the possible consequences of what Rick and I had done.

    The next day I was surprised when I heard from some of the kids that Rick had driven down to Tappany Island early that morning with his brother. I didn’t understand how he could have left now that we were lovers, and I could hardly wait to see him again. Afire with a new urgency, I walked around in a trance of desire, obsessed with my own sensuality. My body seemed heavy and ripe, my breasts pendulous and sensitive to the chafing of my clothes. Love songs on the radio acquired a special significance. Mom or Dad would speak to me, and I wouldn’t hear. Martine would suggest something fun to do, and I’d forget about it.
    When finally Lilah Rose called and suggested that Martine and I join her family at Sweetwater Cottage, I was so eager to get there that I counted the hours until it was time to leave. I was sure that once we were together, Rick and I would renew our passion for each other. I planned how and where Rick and I would rendezvous—in the woods on a blanket, and on the beach at night, and even during stolen moments in the house in the afternoons when everyone else was on the beach.
    In midweek, with Martine behind the wheel, we drove to the island in Mom’s BMW convertible. My sister knew nothing about what had happened between Rick and me, and I wasn’t eager to enlighten her.
    Rick wasn’t at the cottage when we arrived, and showed up barely in time for dinner. He was unexpectedly gruff, though he did tease Martine about the decals on her fingernails and asked me if I’d lined up a job for the summer. As usual on our first night there, we went for our ritual walk on the beach. Rick