Anniversary
"Forty years of marriage celebrated in the backyard. Seven years of his own slowly dying. His wife's sister finds him alone on the porch, and years of restraint finally break."
Forty years.
I watch my in-laws slow dance on the patio, fairy lights strung above them, their grown children and grandchildren forming a loose circle of witnesses. Frank dips Maria—she laughs, swats his shoulder, kisses him anyway. They're seventy years old and still can't keep their hands off each other.
I wonder what that's like.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Claire appears at my elbow with two glasses of champagne. She hands me one without asking if I want it. I take it without pretending I don't.
"They're something else," I say.
"Goals." She clinks her glass against mine. "If I ever find someone who looks at me like that after forty years, I'll die happy."
I take a long drink. Don't say what I'm thinking—that seven years ago, I thought I'd found that. That Rachel used to look at me like that. That somewhere between year three and year five, the light went out and neither of us noticed until we were standing in the dark.
Claire leans against the porch railing beside me. Close. Closer than a sister-in-law should stand.
"Where is my sister, anyway?"
"Inside. Work call."
"At Dad's anniversary party?"
"Big client. Couldn't wait."
Claire makes a sound—not quite a scoff, not quite sympathy. Something in between.
"That tracks."
Here's what I know about Claire Mendez:
She's twenty-nine to Rachel's thirty-four. The baby of the family—spoiled, according to Rachel; free-spirited, according to their mother. She works in event planning, dates musicians who break her heart, and has never stayed in one apartment longer than eighteen months.
She's also been looking at me since my wedding day.
I noticed it during the reception—the way her eyes followed me across the room, the way she held my hand a beat too long during our obligatory dance. I told myself I was imagining it. Newlywed ego. Too much champagne.
But then it kept happening.
At Christmas dinners, her foot would find mine under the table. At summer barbecues, she'd brush past me in the kitchen, her hip grazing mine. At birthday parties, she'd lean in to whisper something about Rachel—my sister's so lucky, you know that?—and her lips would almost touch my ear.
I never acted on it. Never even acknowledged it. Rachel is my wife. Claire is her sister. Some lines you don't cross.
But standing here now, watching Frank and Maria sway to Sinatra while my wife takes a conference call in her childhood bedroom, the line feels very thin.
And Claire is wearing a dress that makes thin lines hard to see.
It's burgundy. Fitted. The kind of dress that was designed to make men stupid.
Claire isn't skinny like Rachel. She's built differently—shorter, softer, thicker in all the ways that make my jaw tight. Her hips strain against the fabric. Her waist curves in, then flares out to an ass that's been haunting my peripheral vision all night. Her breasts are pushed up by something structural, creating a cleavage deep enough to get lost in.
She catches me looking. She always catches me looking.
"See something you like?"
"Nice dress."
"It's new." She does a little spin, and the skirt flares, giving me a flash of thick thigh. "Figured if I'm going to be the single sister at another family event, I might as well look good."
"You do."
The words come out heavier than I intended. She hears it. Her eyes darken.
"Careful, David. That almost sounded like a compliment."
"It was."
"Hmm." She takes a sip of champagne, watching me over the rim. "Your wife doesn't compliment me. She tells me I should try Pilates. Join her gym. Take better care of myself."
"Rachel is..."
"Rachel is a lot of things." Claire sets down her glass. "But we're not talking about Rachel right now, are we?"
The party noise fades. The fairy lights blur. It's just us on this porch, standing too close, saying things we shouldn't.
"We should go back inside," I say.
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
"Can I ask you something?" Claire's voice is lower now. Softer. "And you have to promise to be honest."
"Okay."
"How long has it been?"
"How long has what been?"
She gives me a look—patient, knowing, a little sad.
"David. I see how you look at her. How she doesn't look at you. How you sleep in separate beds when we do family vacations—don't think I haven't noticed." She steps closer. "How long since she touched you?"
My throat tightens. "Claire—"
"Two years? Three?"
"That's not—"
"I'm not judging. I'm asking because—" She stops. Takes a breath. "Because I've watched you for seven years. Watched you be the perfect husband to a woman who doesn't appreciate you. And I've wanted..."
She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to.
"This isn't a conversation we should have."
"I know."
"You're her sister."
"I know."
"If we—if anything ever—"
"I know." Her hand finds my arm. Warm through my sleeve. "I know all the reasons why not. I've been reciting them to myself since your wedding day, David. Do you think I want to feel this way about my sister's husband?"
Her eyes are wet. Not crying—just full. Full of years of wanting something she couldn't have.
"Claire..."
"Just once." Her voice cracks. "Just once, I want to know what it's like. To be touched by someone who looks at me the way you do. To be wanted. To feel like I'm not invisible."
"You're not invisible."
"Then prove it."
I should walk away.
I should go inside, find my wife, remind myself why I married her. I should tell Claire this was a mistake, that the champagne went to our heads, that we'll laugh about this tomorrow.
I don't.
I take her hand and lead her off the porch.
The pool house is dark.
It's where I changed into my swim trunks last Fourth of July, where the kids play video games during Thanksgiving. Now it's empty, lit only by the glow from the party filtering through the blinds.
Claire closes the door behind us. Locks it.
We stand there, breathing.
"We don't have to—" I start.
She kisses me.
It's nothing like kissing Rachel. Claire is hungry—desperate—her mouth hot and open, her tongue sliding against mine before I can think. Her hands grab fistfuls of my shirt. Her body presses against me, all those curves I've been pretending not to see, soft and warm and real.
I grab her hips.
God, her hips. My fingers sink into the flesh, and she moans against my mouth. She's so much softer than Rachel—so much more to hold, to grip, to feel.
"Tell me you want this," she gasps between kisses. "Tell me I'm not imagining it—"
"I want this." I walk her backward until she hits the wall. "I've wanted this for years."
"Fuck—"
I kiss her neck. Her collarbone. The swell of her breasts above that burgundy dress. She arches into me, her head falling back, her fingers raking through my hair.
"We have to be quiet," I murmur against her skin. "Everyone's right outside."
"Then make me quiet."
I drop to my knees.
She gasps when I push her dress up. Her thighs are thick—soft and dimpled, spreading slightly under their own weight. Her panties are black, lacy, already damp.
"David—"
I press my mouth to her through the fabric. She slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle her cry.
"Quiet," I remind her.
"Trying—"
I hook my fingers in her panties and pull them down. She's bare underneath—smooth and glistening, her clit swollen and desperate. I lean in and lick.
Her knees buckle.
I grip her thighs—so much soft flesh, spilling over my fingers—and hold her against the wall while I eat her. She tastes like salt and need, and I can't get enough. I lap at her folds, circle her clit, slide my tongue inside her while she writhes above me.
"Oh God—oh fuck—David—"
She's loud. Too loud. I reach up and cover her mouth with my hand while I suck her clit. Her eyes go wide. Her moans vibrate against my palm. Her hips rock against my face, chasing the pressure.
When she comes, her whole body shakes. I feel her thighs clamp around my head, feel her pussy spasm against my tongue, feel the scream she can't release hot against my hand.
I don't stop until she pushes me away.
"Your turn," she pants.
She hauls me up, reverses our positions, shoves me against the wall. Her hands work my belt—frantic, clumsy, determined. My cock springs free, and she stares.
"Jesus, David."
"What?"
"My sister's an idiot."
She wraps her hand around me and strokes. I groan—too loud—and now she's the one covering my mouth.
"Quiet," she teases. "Everyone's right outside."
I bite her palm gently, and she laughs—then drops to her knees.
Her mouth is heaven.
Hot, wet, eager. She takes me deep on the first stroke, and I have to lock my knees to stay standing. She looks up at me while she sucks—those dark eyes, her sister's eyes, full of something Rachel hasn't shown me in years.
Want. Need. Presence.
"Claire—fuck—"
She pulls off with a wet pop. "Inside me. Now."
I don't argue.
I spin her around.
She braces her hands on the wall, and I flip her dress up over that magnificent ass. Round and full, two perfect globes that jiggle when I squeeze them. I line myself up, feel her heat, her wetness, and push inside.
We both groan.
She's tight—tighter than I expected—and so slick I slide in with one thrust. Her walls grip me, pull me deeper. I bottom out and hold there, buried in my sister-in-law while fifty feet away, our family celebrates forty years of faithful love.
"Move," she begs. "Please—"
I move.
I fuck her slow at first—long, deep strokes that make her whimper into her forearm. But slow doesn't last. It can't. Seven years of tension, two years of deprivation—I have nothing left but need.
I grip her hips and take.
The sound of skin on skin fills the pool house. Her ass ripples with every thrust. She's biting her arm to keep from screaming, and I can hear it anyway—muffled cries, desperate pleas, my name repeated like a prayer.
"Harder—harder—don't stop—"
I give her harder. Pound into her until the wall shakes, until her legs tremble, until I feel her clench around me.
"Coming—David, I'm coming—"
She shatters. Silent this time—or trying to be—her whole body rigid, her pussy milking me in waves. I last three more thrusts before I follow, spilling inside her with a groan I can't contain.
We collapse against the wall.
Breathing. Sweating. Tangled.
Reality returns in pieces.
The party noise. The fairy lights through the blinds. The wet heat of her still wrapped around me.
"We should..." I start.
"I know."
I pull out. She turns around, and we look at each other—really look—for the first time since this started.
"I don't regret it," she says.
"Neither do I."
"That makes us terrible people."
"Probably."
She laughs—soft, broken, real. Then she fixes her dress, smooths her hair, checks herself in the dark reflection of the window.
"I'll go first. Give it five minutes."
"Claire—"
"Don't." She puts a finger to my lips. "Don't make promises you can't keep. Don't tell me this changes everything. I know what this was."
"What was it?"
She kisses me. Soft. Almost chaste.
"Something we both needed." She opens the door. "See you in there, brother-in-law."
She's gone.
I give it five minutes.
I clean up, straighten my clothes, try to remember how to breathe normally. Then I step out of the pool house and walk back toward the party like nothing happened.
Rachel finds me on the porch.
"There you are." She's holding a plate of cake she won't eat. "I've been looking for you."
"Just needed some air."
"Work call went long. Sorry." She doesn't sound sorry. "You okay? You look flushed."
"It's hot out."
"Hmm." She turns back to the party. "My dad wants to do another toast. Come on."
She walks away without waiting for me. Without touching me. Without looking back.
Across the patio, Claire catches my eye.
She raises her champagne glass. A tiny smirk. A secret.
I raise mine back.
Three Weeks Later
My phone buzzes at 10 PM.
Rachel's at that conference in Denver. The one through Sunday.
I stare at Claire's text. My thumb hovers over the screen.
I know, I type back.
So?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
I'll leave the door unlocked.
I look at Rachel's empty side of the bed. At the pillow that hasn't been disturbed in months. At the wedding photo on the nightstand—two people who don't exist anymore, smiling at a future that never came.
I get dressed and drive across town.
Claire answers the door in a silk robe and nothing else.
"Took you long enough," she says.
I step inside. Close the door. Lock it.
"We're doing this again."
"Looks like it."
"This makes us terrible people."
"I know." She unties the robe. It falls. She's all soft curves and warm skin, and she's looking at me like I matter.
"I don't care anymore," I say.
"Good."
She takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom.
And somewhere across the country, my wife sleeps alone in a hotel room, and she doesn't know, and she doesn't care, and I'm done pretending that's okay.
Some marriages end with a bang.
Some fade with a whimper.
Mine might end with both.
But tonight, I'm not thinking about endings.
Tonight, I'm finally alive again.