Summer at the Lake

The cabin hasn't changed.

I pull into the gravel driveway and sit for a moment, just looking. The same weathered wood siding. The same screened-in porch. The same dock stretching into the lake, where I learned to fish at seven and swim at eight and kiss a girl at fifteen.

Every summer of my childhood, I spent two weeks here with Aunt Monica. Mom's sister. My favorite person in the world.

I'm twenty-six now, and it's been four years since I've made the trip. College, then work, then life—the usual excuses. But when Monica called last week and asked me to come, I couldn't say no.

Not after what she'd been through.

She meets me at the door.

"Ethan!" She pulls me into a hug before I can set down my bag. "God, look at you. You're so grown up."

"I'm the same as last time."

"Last time was four years ago." She pulls back, holds me at arm's length. "You've gotten handsome. All that baby face is gone."

I could say the same about her, but different. Monica is fifty-one now, and the divorce has aged her—not badly, just noticeably. There are lines around her eyes that weren't there before. Grey streaks in her auburn hair. A tiredness in her smile that makes my heart ache.

But she's still beautiful. Still Monica.

And still built like a goddess.

My aunt has always been big. Five-seven, easily two-fifty, maybe more. She carries it in her hips and thighs, in breasts that strain against every top she wears, in a soft belly that curves beneath her sundress. She's sun-kissed from summer, freckled across her shoulders, and she smells like coconut sunscreen and something floral.

"Come in, come in." She takes my bag. "I made lunch. Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

She leads me inside, and I try not to watch the sway of her hips.

I fail.

The first few days are gentle.

We fall into an easy rhythm: coffee on the porch, swimming in the lake, long dinners that stretch into longer conversations. Monica talks about the divorce—the betrayal, the lawyers, the house she had to sell.

"Twenty-three years," she says one night, wine-warm and sad. "I gave him twenty-three years, and he left me for a woman half my age."

"He's an idiot."

"Maybe." She stares into her glass. "Or maybe I'm just... too much. Too old. Too fat. Too—"

"Stop." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "You're none of those things."

"You're sweet." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "But you don't have to lie."

"I'm not lying." I lean forward. "Monica, you're gorgeous. You've always been gorgeous. Any man who can't see that doesn't deserve you."

She looks at me for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe. Or something else.

"You really mean that."

"Every word."

She doesn't say anything else. But that night, when she hugs me goodnight, she holds on a little longer than usual.

Week Two

We're on the dock, watching the sunset.

This has become our ritual: wine, water, the sky turning pink and gold. Monica sits in her lounge chair, wearing a swimsuit cover-up that hides nothing. I'm in swim trunks, trying to focus on the view instead of her.

"Can I tell you something?" she asks.

"Anything."

"When David left..." She pauses. Sips her wine. "He said things. About my body. About how I'd let myself go." Another pause. "He said he couldn't be attracted to someone who looked like me anymore."

The anger that surges through me is immediate. "He's a fucking asshole."

"Maybe. But sometimes, when I look in the mirror..." She trails off. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't burden you with this."

"You're not a burden." I set down my wine. Move to her chair. Sit on the edge. "Monica, look at me."

She does. Her eyes are wet.

"You are beautiful," I say. "Not in spite of your body. Because of it. Every curve, every inch. Beautiful."

A tear slips down her cheek. I reach out, brush it away. My fingers linger on her skin.

"Ethan..."

"I mean it." My voice is rougher than I intended. "I've always thought so. Since I was old enough to think it."

Her breath catches. "We shouldn't—"

"I know."

But neither of us moves away.

That night, I can't sleep.

I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment on the dock. The way she looked at me. The way her skin felt under my fingers. The way something crackled in the air between us.

I shouldn't want her. She's my mother's sister. She changed my diapers. She taught me to ride a bike.

She's also the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

There's a knock at my door.

"Ethan?" Monica's voice. "Are you awake?"

My heart hammers. "Yeah. Come in."

She opens the door. She's wearing a silk robe, loosely tied, and nothing else—I can tell from the way her breasts move beneath the fabric. Moonlight streams through the window, painting her in silver and shadow.

"I couldn't sleep," she says. "I keep thinking about what you said."

"Which part?"

"All of it." She comes to the bed. Sits on the edge, the same way I sat on her chair. "Did you mean it? Really mean it?"

"Yes."

"Even the part about thinking I'm beautiful since you were old enough to—"

"Especially that part."

She's quiet for a moment. Then: "Show me."

"What?"

"Show me." She reaches for the tie of her robe. "Show me you mean it. Because I need—" Her voice breaks. "I need someone to see me. Really see me. The way David never did."

The robe falls open.

She's magnificent.

Her breasts are heavy, full, tipped with dark nipples that harden in the cool air. Her belly is soft, round, marked with faint stretch marks that catch the moonlight. Her hips flare wide, and between her thick thighs, I can see the dark triangle of her sex.

"Monica..." I can barely speak.

"Tell me." She's shaking. Vulnerable. "Tell me what you see."

I reach out. Trace a line from her collarbone to the swell of her breast. She shivers.

"I see the woman I've fantasized about since I was sixteen." My voice is thick. "I see curves I want to get lost in. Flesh I want to worship. I see you, Monica. And you're fucking beautiful."

A sob escapes her. Then she's in my arms—all that softness pressing against me—and she's kissing me.

It should feel wrong. It doesn't.

It feels like coming home.

I lay her down on the bed.

She's still crying, but it's different now—release instead of pain. I kiss her tears away. Kiss her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. Then lower.

"You don't have to—" she starts.

"I want to."

I kiss her throat. Her collarbone. The soft valley between her breasts. I take one nipple in my mouth and suck, and she arches off the bed with a moan.

"Ethan—God—"

I worship her. There's no other word for it. I kiss every inch of her body—every roll, every curve, every part she's been taught to hate. I tell her she's beautiful until my voice goes hoarse. I show her what David never did: that her body is a gift.

When I finally settle between her thighs, she's shaking.

"Please," she whispers. "I need to feel you."

I slide inside her slowly. She's so wet, so warm, and she gasps as I fill her completely.

"Okay?" I ask.

"More than okay." She pulls me closer. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."

I move. Slow, deep strokes that make her moan. She wraps her arms around me, pulls me against her, and I sink into all that softness. Her breasts press against my chest. Her belly cushions my hips. Her thighs cradle my body.

"You feel—" She can't finish. Just clings to me, moving with me, making sounds that drive me wild.

"Tell me what you need."

"This." Her voice is a sob. "Just this. Just you. Touching me. Wanting me."

"I've always wanted you." I thrust deeper. "Always, Monica. Always."

She comes with a cry that echoes off the walls. Her body clenches around me, pulls me over the edge with her. I bury myself deep and let go, filling her while she shakes in my arms.

We stay tangled together for a long time.

"Thank you," she whispers finally.

"For what?"

"For making me feel beautiful again."

I kiss her forehead. Her nose. Her lips.

"You've always been beautiful. You just needed someone to remind you."

The rest of the summer is ours.

We swim naked in the lake. Make love on the dock, in the kitchen, on every surface of the cabin. She learns to believe me when I tell her she's gorgeous; I learn every sound she makes when she comes.

When it's time to leave, I don't want to go.

"Come back," she says at my car. "Whenever you can. As often as you can."

"I will."

"Promise?"

I pull her into a kiss. Long. Deep. Right there in the driveway where anyone could see.

"Promise."

I come back every month.

Sometimes for a weekend, sometimes longer. The lake in fall. The cabin in winter, snow piling on the roof while we pile on each other. Spring, when everything blooms, including whatever this is between us.

We don't define it. Don't need to.

She's my aunt. My lover. My reminder that beauty has nothing to do with size and everything to do with how you make someone feel.

And she makes me feel like the luckiest man alive.