Fireworks
"At the lake house for the holiday, his stepmom shows him a different kind of fireworks after everyone else falls asleep. Some explosions happen in the dark."
The lake house was my mom's idea.
Before the cancer took her, she made my dad promise. "Take the kids somewhere special every Fourth of July. Make memories." She was always sentimental like that, always looking for moments to anchor.
That was eight years ago. I was sixteen. Now I'm twenty-four, and Dad has remarried, and the kids is just me and my stepbrother who couldn't make it this year.
Which means it's me, Dad, and Linda.
Linda, who's been my stepmom for three years.
Linda, who I can't stop staring at.
She's fifty-two.
Caribbean roots—Jamaican father, Trinidadian mother—with warm brown skin and natural hair she wears in twists. She's soft-spoken, kind, the exact opposite of my high-strung mother in every way.
She's also built.
Wide hips that sway when she walks. A belly that rounds out her sundresses. Breasts that strain against every top she wears, heavy and full. An ass that makes me look away every time she bends over.
My father is a lucky man.
My father is also drunk and asleep by 9 PM every night of this trip, snoring in the master bedroom while Linda and I are left to entertain ourselves.
"He really can't hang anymore, can he?"
It's day three. We're on the dock, watching the sun set over the lake. Dad passed out an hour ago, right after dinner.
"He's sixty-three," Linda says. "He's earned the right to fall asleep early."
"On vacation?"
"Especially on vacation." She sips her wine. The sunset paints her skin in golds and reds. "Besides, it's nice out here. Peaceful."
"Yeah." I look at the water. "Mom would have loved this place."
"Tell me about her?"
So I do. For an hour, maybe more, I tell Linda about my mother—her laugh, her terrible singing, the way she used to make banana bread when I was sad. Linda listens. She doesn't try to compare or compete. Just listens.
"She sounds wonderful," Linda says when I'm done.
"She was." I take a breath. "You're nothing like her."
"I know."
"That's not—I didn't mean it as an insult."
"I didn't take it as one." She turns to look at me, and her eyes are soft. "I knew when I married your father that I could never replace her. I wasn't trying to. I just wanted to make him happy."
"You do. Make him happy, I mean."
"I hope so." She looks back at the water. "I hope I make all of you happy. Or at least not miserable."
"You don't make me miserable, Linda."
"What do I make you?"
The question hangs there. I know what she's asking. What she's really asking.
"Confused," I admit.
She nods slowly. "Yeah. Me too."
July 4th.
The fireworks start at nine. Dad is awake for these, at least—we sit on the dock as a family, watching colors explode over the lake. Linda is between us, and in the dark, I feel her hand brush mine.
Just a brush. Could be an accident.
Could be.
"Beautiful," she murmurs.
"Yeah." I'm not looking at the sky.
Dad goes to bed at ten.
"Wake me up if anything exciting happens," he mumbles, kissing Linda's cheek. Then he's gone, and we're alone on the dock, and the last of the town's fireworks are fading from the sky.
"One more drink?" Linda asks.
"Sure."
She goes inside. Comes back with a bottle instead of glasses.
"Felt like sharing." She sits next to me—closer than before. Our thighs touch. "Is this okay?"
"Yeah."
"I've been thinking about what you said. About being confused."
"Linda—"
"Let me finish." She takes a drink from the bottle, passes it to me. "I've been confused too. Since... God, since the wedding, maybe. You stood up there as best man, and I looked at you, and I thought—" She stops. "I thought things a new stepmother shouldn't think."
My heart is hammering. "What kind of things?"
"The kind that keep me up at night when your father is snoring next to me." She looks at me, finally. Her eyes are dark and deep. "The kind that make me touch myself and pretend my fingers are yours."
"Linda."
"Tell me to stop." Her voice is barely a whisper. "Tell me this is wrong, and I'll never mention it again."
"It is wrong."
"I know."
"You're married to my father."
"I know."
"If anyone found out—"
"I know, Jaylen." She's crying now, silently, tears tracking down her cheeks. "I know all of it. I've been carrying this for three years. And I can't—I can't keep pretending I don't feel it."
I should walk away. Go to bed. Forget this conversation ever happened.
Instead, I take her face in my hands and kiss her.
She tastes like wine and salt and longing.
Her hands fly to my chest, grip my shirt, pull me closer. We're still on the dock—anyone on the lake could see—but I don't care. I kiss her like she's the only air in the world.
"Inside," she gasps. "The guest house—he never goes there—"
We run.
The guest house is small and dark and smells like cedar.
I don't bother with lights. I just pull her to me, and we're kissing again, and my hands are finding all those curves I've been dreaming about.
"I've wanted this so long," she whispers. "So fucking long—"
"Me too." I find the zipper of her sundress. "Let me see you. Please."
The dress falls.
She's not wearing a bra.
Her breasts are magnificent—heavy, full, dark nipples already stiff. Her belly is round and soft, marked with stretch marks from children she had before I met her. Her panties are simple white cotton, and I can see the shadow of her through the fabric.
"You're beautiful," I breathe.
"I'm fat."
"You're perfect." I kneel. Hook my fingers in her panties. "Let me show you."
I pull them down.
She's bare. Wet. Glistening in the moonlight through the window.
I lean in and taste her.
She cries out—loud, too loud, and her hand claps over her mouth. But I don't stop. I can't stop. I lick through her folds, find her clit, suck gently while she shakes above me.
"Jaylen—God—it's been so long—"
I don't ask how long. I don't want to think about my father right now. I just want to make her feel good—to give her what she's been wanting, what I've been wanting.
I slide two fingers inside. Curl them. Find that spot.
She comes with a muffled scream, her thighs clamping around my head, her whole body shaking. I lick her through it, gentler now, until she's pushing me away.
"Too much—I need—" She pulls me up. "Inside me. Now."
I strip.
She watches, eyes hungry, and when my cock springs free, she reaches for it.
"It's been so long since..." She strokes me. "Your father can't—he hasn't been able to—"
"Don't talk about him."
"I'm sorry—"
"Just—" I push her back onto the bed. "Let me take care of you."
She spreads beneath me. All those curves. All that softness. She's everything I've wanted, everything I've been denying myself.
I position myself at her entrance.
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
I push inside.
She's tight.
Years without this—I can feel it. She gasps as I fill her, her nails digging into my shoulders, her legs wrapping around my waist.
"Okay?"
"Move."
I move.
Slow at first, savoring every inch. Her body ripples beneath me—her belly, her breasts, everything jiggling with each thrust. She's so wet I can hear it, the slick sound of our bodies joining.
"Faster," she begs. "Please—"
I give her faster. Harder. The bed creaks beneath us, and in the distance, I can hear the last remnants of someone's backyard fireworks. But the real explosions are here—in this room, in this woman, in the way she's coming apart beneath me.
"I'm gonna—Jaylen—"
"Do it. Come for me, Linda—"
She comes.
Her whole body locks up, clenching around me so hard I can barely breathe. And I follow her—burying myself deep, filling her while the fireworks fade and the world narrows to just us.
We lie tangled together.
"What happens now?" she asks.
"I don't know."
"Your father—"
"I know." I pull her closer. "I can't think about that right now. I can only think about you."
"This can't happen again."
"I know."
"It can't."
"I know, Linda."
She's quiet for a long moment.
Then: "One more time. Before we go back to pretending."
I roll on top of her. She gasps.
"Jaylen—"
"One more time."
I take her again. Slower this time. Sweeter. Like if I'm gentle enough, I can make this last forever.
We sneak back to the main house before dawn.
Dad is still snoring. Nothing has changed.
Everything has changed.
We don't speak of it for the rest of the trip.
I drive home alone. She rides with Dad. We exchange polite texts about great vacation and thanks for coming.
But at night, when I close my eyes, I still feel her.
And I know she feels me too.
Three months later, my father calls.
"Linda and I are separating." His voice is flat. "She says she fell in love with someone else. Won't tell me who."
My stomach drops.
"Dad, I'm sorry—"
"Don't be. It happens." He sighs. "I just wanted you to know. She'll be out by the end of the month."
I hang up. Stare at my phone.
Then I text her.
Where are you going?
Three dots. Then:
I was hoping you'd ask.
She moves in two weeks later.
We don't tell anyone, at first. There are questions—how did you two reconnect, isn't it strange, what about your father—but we have answers. Rehearsed ones. Believable ones.
My father never forgives me.
But Linda is worth it.
Every night, in our bed, with fireworks that never fade.
She was always worth it.