I’ve had a few relationships. More than a few, really. A couple ended kind of ugly, but most of them ended when we both simply lost interest in staying together. Thing was, Summer wasn’t my girlfriend. That said, I felt an emotional hit when she left, and, afterwards, life seemed a little empty, at least for a while. It’s not that we drifted apart or had any kind of disagreement. It was simply that she felt a need to continue on her journey…
The day had started out as most had since she’d shown up at my door. I put on the coffee and made myself comfortable until she decided to join me. I decided to cook up strawberry crepes, dusting them with powdered sugar. She’d thrown on a yellow blouse. That was it. We ate, she showered, and then we drove out to the spring. Pretty sure I’d put an Elton John CD on, though I’m not sure which one. Probably a greatest hits thing.
Once we’d gotten there I set up my easel and started painting while she sat on the swing and wrote. It has become a comfortable routine. She was wearing a pink sundress. I know that for a fact, since I took photos of her in it. Her nails matched. Lipstick too. Very feminine and some of my favorite pictures of her, at least of the ones where she was clothed. Yes, I know.
We stopped for lunch. Cold pasta salad, I think, and some fresh peaches. She’d cut some cheese that we’d bought the day before into cubes and packed a bottle of wine which we drank from coffee mugs. Classy, right? I teased her about that and she teased me back, calling me snooty. And then, she dropped the bombshell I’d been halfway expecting…
“Can you drive me to the train station tomorrow?”
“I… sure. Why? Going somewhere?” I’d felt my heart beating hard, my pulse racing. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.
“Yeah. Italy. Remember? Did you think I was going to stay here forever?”
“Maybe?” I replied, then took a deep breath. “No. It’s just… it’s been nice having you.”
“I wasn’t going to stay this long, but yeah, it’s been nice. But I still want to see the world.”
I put my paints away. My inspiration sapped for the rest of the day. Summer? She wandered off and collected more blue chicory, placing one behind her ear. The others she saved as reminders, pressing them between the pages of a book before she left.
The trip back was quiet. Not somber, but not joyful, either, although it was comfortable. I wasn’t upset at her or anything stupid. I was just a little sad that this idyllic time in my life was about to come to an end.
And no, there wasn’t a big blow out of any kind. We didn’t make passionate love that night. Summer, being Summer simply got stoned on the back porch and made herself come while I finished off the wine from earlier and watched. And, when she asked me, I held her from behind, my hands on her tits as I played with her nipples through a pair of volcanic orgasms. Later, after she’d retired to her room, I jerked off to the image of her sitting in the wicker chair, her heels on the table as she climaxed in my arms…
The next day I dropped her off right after breakfast. Her and her small suitcase which no longer held everything she owned, so she left a few things in my… her… the closet in the spare bedroom.
“I’ll write you.”
“Promise?”
“Every day. I’ll tell you everything. Don’t be sad.”
“I’m not sad.”
“You are,” she said, laughing softly and then kissing me tenderly on the mouth.
And just like that, she was gone.
I admit that I sulked for a day or two and drank a little more than I should have, but it was hard to keep it up, especially when Summer seemed determined to keep her promise, writing me emails every day, sometimes just short bursts of words telling me where she was, but most much longer, talking about what she’d done or seen or was thinking, condensing her days into short stories, making me feel like I was there with her.
She spent a week in Tuscany, then travelled down the coast. Eventually, she made her way north to Rome. Then Venice. Zurich. Bern. Madrid. Barcelona, staying in each a week or two. And then silence. A week went by. Two. I kept writing, but it was like throwing a bottle into the ocean, a message stuffed into it. And then…
I’m home now. LA, although it doesn’t feel much like home. Mom hasn’t decided if she’s forgiven me yet. Not sure what for. Did you finish the painting yet? Don’t send me a picture. I want to see it in person. When’s your next show? I finished the book and shopped it around and found a publisher. Already working on another. A novel. Maybe you can do the cover? Love that. Miss you. Summer.
After that, the emails slowed down. I’d get one here and there. In the meantime, I kept painting, using the photos I’d taken of her as my source, trying to capture her sensuality, her spirit. Trying to portray Summer being Summer. I showed them to people whose opinions I trusted and they thought it was some of the best work I’d ever done.
A year after she’d left, I had a show, showcasing her portraits. It was a huge success and I sold them all. All except that first one, of her standing in the pond. I had several very generous offers for it, but I turned them all done. I’d promised I’d show it to her one day… I’d sent her an invitation, but she’d been unable to attend, busy with her book. Jennette was there, though. The woman I’d met the night I’d finger fucked Summer by the fountain.
“These are amazing. Where is your friend?”
“Home. Back in the States.”
“You never called me.”
“I was busy…”
She laughed. She had a delightful laugh. It wasn’t Summer’s laugh, but it made me smile.
“Too busy to ask out a pretty woman who is obviously interested in you?”
We ended up going out for drinks the next night. And dinner the next night. Soon we were dating…
I got a package a few weeks later. Her collection of stories, including the story of the girl in the treehouse. It was doing well, apparently.
I thought about signing it, but it just seemed silly. I wrote the last story for you. Sorry I missed the show. Don’t stop inviting me, please!
The last story was titled An Afternoon on a Swing and it was dedicated to me. Not quite erotic unless you had been there and knew to read between the lines.
Loved your stories. How is the novel going? I met someone. I like her.
If I’d thought she might be even a little jealous, I was wrong…
About time. Is she pretty?
I smiled a little at that.
Maybe.
My next show was a year later and, instead of showcasing Summer, it was entirely of her, including some of the photos I’d taken. With permission, of course. Not the ones of her masturbating, but there were some of her nude. None of those were for sale, though. Just the paintings. I sold them all. Not only that, I got a really nice write up in a prestigious online magazine which I linked to Summer.
Sorry I missed it. Deadlines. Next one. I promise?
You have a boyfriend keeping you busy? I replied.
Maybe.
By that time Jennette had moved in with me. The sex was good and I liked her. Even better, she got my relationship with Summer.
“She’s always here, just a little,” she told me once, tapping her finger against my forehead. “Especially when we are fucking.”
“I-“
“Don’t worry,” she said, teasing me. “I don’t mind that sometimes, when you are fucking me, you’re really fucking her. Maybe I’m fucking her too. She’s very desirable. Maybe, when she visits, we have a threesome, Noel. Maybe I just fuck her and you listen to us through the wall.” I’d made the mistake of telling her too much, like how I’d listened to my niece masturbating in the bedroom next to mine. I’d even told her of the times I’d fucked her – once on the bank of the pond and once against the wall in the ally.
“Very kinky,” she told me. “Tomorrow I want you to fuck me there, too. Just like you did her.”
The next night… fuck…
I drove her into town. She’d discovered the clothing Summer had left behind in her room and I’d never bothered to do anything with. Naturally, she’d decided to wear one of her sweaters and a skirt. Jennette’s tits were a little bigger than my niece’s, her hips a little wider, so they were tight on her. She looked good, though. Hot as hell. I had a hard time keeping my hands off her, especially after I’d had a few drinks. She just laughed, and pushed me away, telling me to wait.
Afterwards, we took a stroll, our destination having already been agreed on. It was late, the night sky above full of stars.
“They have stories, you know,” I told her, recalling the story of Cygnus that Summer had shared.
“You’re thinking of her,” she teased, lifting herself up on tiptoes to whisper in my ears. “I’m not wearing anything under my skirt.”
By the time we reached the alleyway, I was hard for her. For Jennette, not Summer. I was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra either. Before we’d even disappeared into the shadows we were kissing passionately, my hand on her tits, hers on the bulge in my pants, fumbling with my zipper, tugging it down as I tore her sweater open. She turned her back to me and I pushed her up against the wall, my hand sliding down to her hips, lifting her skirt up. She really wasn’t wearing panties.
I was so hot for her I couldn’t think of anything but fucking her. It didn’t matter if someone happened by and saw us. I think she felt the same. She spread her legs for me. Reaching between them, I cupped her. God, she was wet, her pussy leaking all over the palm of my hand. She moaned as I pushed my fingers into her, my face next to hers, voice ragged with lust.
“I’m going to fuck you like a little slut.”
“Oui,” she whispered, pushing her ass out as I feed her pussy my raging hard cock.
It wasn’t gentle. Neither of us wanted gentle. It was raw and primal and rough. I started pounding her, my hips hammering against her ass, pushing her against the wall, her moans echoing in the narrow ally way until she came. Hard. Shaking. I think she went weak in the legs, not that it mattered. I held her up, my hands around her waist, my cock deep inside her, fucking them both – the reality of Jennette and the memory of Summer. She came again, just as hard, her cunt spasming and clenching around my prick setting me off as well. I filled her with my cum, pumping into her with a groan until I was spent and all I could do was slump against her, holding on tight…
How long we stayed like that, I have no idea. Eventually, I zipped my pants up and she pulled her skirt down and tired to button her sweater, laughing as she told me she was missing some buttons.
“Sorry,” I said, chuckling a little.
“I’m not,” she replied, giggling a little. It wasn’t Summer’s giddy, sometimes shy, giggle. It was hers. I kissed her, tenderly this time, and she kissed me back, her hand finding mine.
“Let’s go home. Maybe by then, you’ll be ready for me again.” I felt her hand on my groin. It felt nice.
“Keep that up and I’ll take you against my truck.”
“Promises, promises.”
I didn’t, although I could have. Instead, we went home and crawled into my bed… our bed. This time, we didn’t fuck. We made love. It was tender and sweet. After, she fell asleep in my arms, and I soon joined her.
A few days letter I got another email from Summer. It wasn’t a daily thing anymore, but it was rare that a week went by without exchanging thoughts at least once.
You ruined me. I hate LA. Mom’s driving me insane. Dad’s not much better. The novel is going well. Have published some shorts in a couple of collections too. Sending. Have you been out to our spring? I miss it. I write on the balcony of my apartment but it’s not the same. Thought about putting a swing in the living room though! How are things with Jennette? I miss you sometimes.
I miss you sometimes. I don’t know why, but it made me wonder if she was happy. I only knew her from the relatively brief time she spent with me. I’d never seen her at home, back in LA. I wondered if she got to be Summer there. The Summer who’d sit at the breakfast table half-naked. Who thought nothing of masturbating out on the back porch. Who wandered around a meadow in the nude and posed for me in the middle of a pond while I took pictures of her.
I doubted she’d lost that, honestly, but I wondered if she’d maybe she’d traded a little bit of freedom away when she’d gone home…
I miss you too. I think you belonged here. My next showing is in September. No excuses this time. You can have your room back for as long as you want.
I told Jennette, of course. Later. After I’d sent it, wondering if she’d be upset. She wasn’t.
“Maybe we can listen to her masturbate together, Noel,” she said, giggling.
I just rolled my eyes at her and went back to my latest painting. And no, it wasn’t of Summer. Not all of them were. Just the best ones.
The books arrived as promised. There were three, collections of different authors. I was impressed to see her name on the top of the list on all three covers, as if she was the main draw.
We read them together, Jennette and I, while lying in bed that evening. I’d thought what I’d read before was good. Really really good. These were even better, maybe because I recognized a lot of her in them.
“She is excellent, your niece. And still young. She will be a superstar one day.”
I had to agree.
The days went by quickly. August rolled around and Jennette and I started getting ready for my next showing. I had, over the past few years, garnered some attention and this one promised to be an actual event. My big break, maybe.
Summer’s paintings were, of course, the main focus, but I had some others on display, including one of the old oak tree by the spring, the swing hanging from a limb, empty. I hadn’t planned on painting that one. It had just happened. Jennette told me it felt sad, and I had to agree with her. Still, it was a beautiful piece, or so I thought.
I’d invited Summer, of course. She’d said she’d do her best but of course, she was being kept busy. Her novel had been finished and was about to be released and she was expected to do a book tour in its wake.
I love writing, she wrote a week before the opening of my show. I just don’t care for everything that goes with it. I just want to start a new story now that this one is done.
If you can’t make it, I understand, I wrote back. You’ll be missed, though.
We’ll see.
And that was that.
The big day came and went and it was a success. I got my picture taken and interviewed and everything. Even better, everything sold. Everything that was for sale, at least. The picture of the empty swing, however, wasn’t. I wasn’t ready to part with it quite yet. I’d named it The Ghost of Summer…
“You look sad,” Jennette said, sitting down next to me towards the end of the day.
“I do?”
“Yes. A little. She did not come.”
I shrugged. “She said she might not be able to.”
“I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh? Does it involve you not wearing any panties again?”
Jennette grinned and kissed me playfully on the mouth.
“It might.”
Taking me by the hand, she led me back out to the gallery where my work was still displayed, sold signs next to all but one piece, that of the empty swing. A woman stood in front of it, her back to us, staring at it. She was wearing a light blue sundress and a pair of sneakers and had strawberry blonde hair that was tied in a loose ponytail.
“She really does have an amazing ass,” Jennette whispered to me, kissing my cheek tenderly. “Marie said she’d give me a ride home. See you later.”
“She does,” I said distractedly, thinking the same thing, my pulse racing as Summer turned towards me, smiling shyly, a slight blush coloring her cheeks.
“It’s beautiful. Is it for sale?”
“Maybe,” was all I could think of.
