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You lay on your back, arms spread at your sides, legs dangling over the pool’s edge and into the cool water below, staring up as the breeze dances through the leaves above you. Sunlight filters down between the gaps, flickering brightly in your eyes—not enough to blind you, just enough to keep your attention, too afraid to let your eyes wander lest they linger too long where they shouldn’t.
Somewhere behind you, back at the oversized and empty house, a wind chime catches on the breeze, hanging metal ringing out like the laughter of faeries. Steve’s mother said it was nice. She’s never around to hear it.
Steve lays on his back beside you, damp hair tousled from his fingers running through it, bare chest half dry from summer heat. If you reached out with your hand, just a little bit of a stretch, you could tangle his fingers between yours. You could tether yourself to the day, palm pressed to his despite the encompassing heat, but you don’t know if you’re allowed to. You’re just friends, after all.
It feels like there’s a mile between you.
It doesn’t seem fair to him for you to feel so distant while he’s laughing beside you with a smile that could rival the sun. It doesn’t seem fair to him for you to want more when he’s the one who invited you over, just you—not anyone else—to waste the day away in his pool. Steve doesn’t even know of your transgressions against him. He’s laughing about something Robin did at work the other day, and you’re wishing you were back in his arms as he attempted to dunk you in the pool, more at risk of drowning in his mirth than in the water.
“She thought it would be a good idea to combine all of the flavors just because we get free ice cream,” Steve exclaims. He swings his legs through the pool water absentmindedly as he speaks, stirring up little whirlpools from the motion.
“Did she finish it all?” His leg bumps into yours, he doesn’t seem to notice. It happens again.
“Oh, definitely. Robin is too stubborn not to,” he says between bouts of laughter. “It made her sick though. She had to take the rest of the day off.”
The hollow in your chest, that pointless ache, doesn’t completely go away, but you can’t help the smile that stretches across your lips as Steve animatedly weaves tales about his days at Scoops Ahoy.
“Did she feel any better the next day?” You know he and Robin are just friends, he’s told you as much plenty of times, and you trust him, but it’s beginning to seem like she’s the only girl in Hawkins Steve hasn’t asked out—her and you. Maybe you’re just not his type, or not magazine pretty enough for him. He never talked to you in school, only becoming friends when things in Hawkins began getting a little too weird. King Steve probably never even knew you existed, but he’s changed so much since then. Now Robin is his best friend and you’re, well, you’re not even that. You’re just a friend.
“You should come by more often,” Steve insists, unaware of the flurry of emotions churning in your chest. “I’m not supposed to give free ice cream to anyone that doesn’t work at Scoops, but you can have the Steve Special any day. Ice cream on the house. Just getting to see you is enough payment.”
He says it so earnestly, says it like you mean something to him. It makes your heart soar and your stomach plummet all at once.
“Gross,” you declare through a peel of giggles. “Don’t call it that.”
“What? The Steve Special? It rhymes!”
“It doesn’t rhyme,” you say, quickly kicking up your foot closest to him, causing water to splash out from the pool and all over his once dry stomach.
Steve doesn’t respond, at least not with words. He wraps you up in his arms and pulls you tight into his chest immediately before he falls into the pool, dragging you down with him. He lets go of you as soon as you hit the water, too late to escape your soggy fate.
He surfaces a few feet away from you, head thrown back as he laughs, overjoyed from such a simple act. Or maybe it’s just the day that has him feeling so relaxed. There is nothing to get done except relax.
You wish he hadn’t let you go, always craving his smallest touch so much it aches, you long for it so badly you could cry. But you don’t, you just laugh along with him.
It’s easy to laugh with him.
The sunlight that manages to filter through the trees floods into the water around you, reflecting in swirling lines across Steve’s exposed skin, quick flickers of pale blue light drawing your eyes along with the motion until your gaze finally lands on his face once more.
He’s already looking at you, eyes still scrunched from the lingering laughter, smiling softly like there’s nothing left weighing him down, but there’s an odd sort of gleam in his gaze, like he knows something that you don’t.
“Come here,” he beckons, opening his arms to you. It’s probably a trick but you gravitate towards him anyway, lured by the promise of being held, a silent siren song. Steve pulls you into him without hesitation, skin as warm as the summer air and smelling of chlorine. He doesn’t try to dunk you in the water again. He just tucks you in close, and the ache you’d been feeling eases immediately.
“What’s this?” You ask, voice quiet for fear of breaking whatever train of thought caused him to want you so near, but he doesn’t answer your question.
“Promise you’ll come see me more,” Steve urges, squeezing you gently to emphasize his words. You simply nod, causing several drops of water to fall, streaming slowly down your neck. Steve brings his hand up to your neck, brushes one of the trails away, fingertips gentle against your skin. “Good. Now I’m going to get us something to drink. It’s important to stay hydrated.”
You miss Steve’s warmth as soon as he lets go.
He sends a wink your way as he hops out of the pool, and you half expect the “hydrating drinks” to be alcoholic. It wouldn’t be the first time the two of you drank by his pool without his parents around.
Steve’s feet slap against the pool deck as walks, leaving little puddles behind each step, echoes of him that aren’t half as beautiful but still catch your eye. He doesn’t bother drying off before he goes inside his house. You can’t imagine his parents would be happy about it, but they’re not around to tell him off. You’re certain that’s exactly why he does it.
You get back out of the pool yourself not long after Steve ducked out of sight. It really is a hot day, and the clear sky offers no respite from the sun. Only the woods behind Steve’s house provide any kind of shade, the tall trees keeping half of his yard dappled, the flecks of sunlight shimmering against everything it manages to reach. It’s pretty, you think, but maybe everything is when he’s around. He even manages to make that silly sailor uniform he’s required to wear for work look pretty.
You wonder again why it is that Steve invited you here today, or, rather, why he only invited you. It sparks a little glimmer of hope, and once again the longing doesn’t seem so bad. He cares about you, at least in some regard. He cares enough to want to spend time with you on his day off in spite of the summer heat.
This is enough, you tell yourself. This has to be enough.
You take up residence in one of the poolside chairs, the long kind meant for lounging, anticipating that Steve will be done swimming for a little while, or at least until you give him another reason to throw you in the pool.
It doesn’t take Steve long to return to you, hands full with two tall glasses of lemonade. The ice clinks against the glass as he walks, condensation already forming around his fingers.
“All we have is lemonade,” he says. “The powdered kind, not fresh. It should still taste alright.”
He hands you one of the glasses, ice chilled fingertips brushing briefly against your own during the handoff, before taking a seat in the chair next to yours, leaning back so far he’s practically lying down.
You take a small sip and the flavor immediately settles on your tongue, at once bitter and sweet. He put too much powder in, so much that you can almost feel the fine grains, only half dissolved. Maybe when the ice melts it will be better mixed, even if it won’t be as cold. You take another sip, simply because Steve made it for you.
Steve takes a deep gulp of his own drink, much bigger than your own small sips, and his reaction is immediate.
“It’s terrible! Absolutely awful,” he groans. He sets his glass down on the small table set up between the chairs.
“It’s not that bad,” you console.
“You don’t need to lie, it’s disgusting. I put way too much powder in and we both know it.” He smiles as he says it, brown eyes shining, a reassurance.
“I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just a little more flavor than I would have expected.”
“It’s grainy!” You can’t help but laugh about the situation. Still, you take another sip of your drink. It’s no better the third time and it makes you laugh again. You set your glass down next to Steves, planning to let the ice melt before you even attempt another sip, content instead to just sit with Steve. It’s easy being with him like this.
It’s easy being with him and it’s getting harder and harder not to tell him that you really like being his friend, but selfishly you want to be something more as well. As your laughter dies the two of you settle back into a comfortable silence, lost in your own thoughts, eyes finding their way back to Steve’s profile each time you think he can’t see you.
He’s almost dry again, brown hair falling across his brow without anything to keep it styled. His eyes are shut, lips parted slightly, relaxed. You lean back in your own chair, a mirror image of him, intent to make a home in the moment for as long as possible.
Somewhere, hidden in the woods, birds are singing and cicadas drone, the soundtrack of summer. You try to focus on the surrounding noise instead of Steve lying next to you. It’s no easier with your eyes closed.
“I can feel you thinking,” Steve states, breaking the silence. You can feel his eyes on you, can imagine the quirk of his lips, slightly upturned to put you at ease, contrasting with his concerned gaze.
“Steve, I really like you,” You blurt out, speaking before you even have time to think of what you’re saying. You don’t look at him as you talk, too afraid of his reaction. “I like you—as more than just a friend. And sometimes I think you might want more too, but other times, other times it seems so foolish to think you could ever see me as anything else.”
Everything is silent for a moment, long enough for the slamming of your heart in your chest to engulf you, for your breath, which suddenly seems much more difficult to get a hold of, to seem too loud. Even the birds, ever present despite the heat, seem to have fallen quiet. It feels as though the whole world is waiting, or maybe it’s just your whole world that’s come to a halt, on the precipice of collapse.
Steve reaches across the small table, takes your hand in his own like it’s the easiest thing in the world. His fingers are cold from holding the lemonade, still wet from the condensation. A part of you wants to clutch onto him tightly so that you might warm his hand up. Another part of you is grateful for the reprieve from the summer heat. The biggest part of you is simply happy to have his hand in yours.
He tugs gently, guiding you out of your chair and pulling you close to him. You can feel him sitting up as you inch closer, but you keep your gaze cast downward, looking at your toes, anything to avoid the risk of seeing disappointment in his eyes.
“Will you please look at me?” He asks gently, fingers of his free hand coming up to cup your cheek, coaxing, but not forcing, you to look at him. You grant him that, even though you’re afraid, but you find only something soft in his gaze. He’s smiling again, always smiling.
“I like you, like, really like you,” he continues. “Everyone keeps saying it’s totally obvious. I thought you knew!”
“What? Really?” You desperately want it to be true. This would be a cruel trick to play, and Steve isn’t callous.
“Oh, one hundred percent. I’m an idiot! I really thought you knew, thought there was no way you couldn’t see it all over my face.”
“I had no clue.” You feel giddy, stupidly happy, hardly able to believe that Steve could ever like you back. It feels like a dream— a cheesy, childish confession—like an illusion brought on by the summer heat. “I really like you too.”
“I know,” he says, tugging you even closer, forcing you to sit beside him, leaving no space between you,“or at least I thought you might.” It’s as if he can read your mind, as if he knows what’s been worrying you all day. And maybe he does, maybe that’s what he saw in the pool when you were too oblivious—that gleam in his eyes, that knowing.
Maybe your feelings are more obvious than his, or he’s just better at reading them than you, more experienced. It doesn’t matter now though, not anymore. He pulls you in close, just like he had done in the pool, but it feels different now. Longing turned to fondness, sweet as honey, soothes the ache.
“Can I kiss you?” Steve asks, forehead already pressed to yours, eyes half lidded, lips only an inch away. Still, he waits.
“Please,” you practically whisper. It comes out needier than you meant for it to, almost begging, but you don’t mind, because he’s kissing you as soon as the word slips past your lips.
He kisses you desperately, like he’s been waiting a long time to do so, lips warm and pliant against your own. He presses firmly against you, removing any and all space between you both, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. You can’t help but wonder if he felt that ache too, if now, dizzy from the heat of summer and each other, he feels just a little bit lighter.
Steve bites your bottom lip gently, shifting into something slower, deeper, more assured, and you melt further into him, pulling lightly at the back of his neck to bring him ever closer. He sighs softly against you, a quiet sound you can’t help but return, hands wandering to take in every inch of him that you forbade yourself from knowing, thought he wouldn’t want you to know. His own hands tug you closer still. You’re practically in his lap now, but there’s still a sweetness to the kiss that leaves you almost trembling.
He tastes like lemonade.