Patriotic Poundage

Chapter 1

The grass was already up to her ankles, wild and tickling her shins as Kalene picked her way across Uncle Hank's backyard. It was just past five, but the July sun still hung heavy and gold, painting everything in a thick, syrupy light. The air smelled of charcoal lighter fluid and cut grass, of burgers beginning to sizzle and the sweet, fake-cherry scent of sunscreen.

She adjusted the strap of her tote bag on her shoulder, feeling the familiar, pleasant strain of the yellow sundress across her back. It was the same one she'd worn last year, but the cotton hugged her differently now. It was snugger across her breasts, the empire waistline riding just over the gentle, firm curve of her belly. The skirt, which used to swing, now brushed against the fuller swell of her hips and backside with each step. She liked the feeling. It was solid. Real.

"Look what the cat dragged in!" The voice boomed from near the cooler. Renee stood up, a beer in each hand, her dark braids swinging. "Girl, you are glowing. And I'm not talking about sweat."

Kalene laughed, a warm, easy sound. "It's the bronzer I just rubbed on myself. For shine factor, you know. Just in case Marcus is here."

"Uh-huh." Renee strode over, her eyes doing a quick, appreciative scan. "No, last year you were cute. This year you're a threat. You're filling out that dress like it's your job." She nudged Kalene's hip with her own. "The girls are getting out of control. I approve."

"Your approval is noted and filed." Kalene took the proffered beer, the bottle cold and wet in her hand. She took a long pull, the bitterness cutting through the heat.

Uncle Hank waved a pair of tongs from his post at the giant, blackened grill. Smoke billowed around him like a personal cloud. "Kalene! Get over here. You're late. The ribs are almost ready to give up the ghost."

She made her way to him, kissed his stubbly cheek. He smelled of smoke and Old Spice. His eyes, crinkled at the corners, did their own quiet assessment. He didn't say anything about the dress. He just smiled, a slow, satisfied thing, and used the tongs to lift a bratwurst from the grill. He dropped it onto a waiting bun already drowned in mustard and onions and pressed the paper plate into her hands.

"Eat. You look hungry."

She wasn't, not yet, but she took it. It was part of the ritual. The first savory bite was a covenant with the day.

That's when she saw Marcus.

He was sitting at the far end of the splintering picnic table, under the shade of the sad, listing patio umbrella. He was nursing a beer, his forearms resting on the wood. They were thick forearms, dusted with dark hair, the muscles defined from a decade of turning wrenches and lifting engines. A faint smear of grease was still visible near his wrist, a tattoo of his trade. He was watching her.

He always watched her on the Fourth.

Last year, his gaze had been curious. The year before, friendly. This year, it was different. It was slower. Heavier. It traveled from her sandaled feet up her calves, lingered on the way the dress stretched across her thighs as she walked, rested on the roundness of her belly under the yellow cotton, and finally rose to meet her eyes.

There was no smirk, no leer. Just a deep, patient observation that made the skin on her arms prickle despite the heat.

She walked over, plate in hand. "You saving this seat, or is it reserved for gnats?"

"Gnats were here earlier. I evicted them." His voice was low, a gravelly rumble that matched his hands. He nudged the bench with his foot. @Sit. You're blocking my view of Hank's tragic umbrella."

She sat, the old wood creaking. The bench was close. Their thighs weren't touching, but she could feel the heat coming off him. She took another bite of her brat, chewing slowly. The silence between them wasn't empty. It was full of the crackle of the grill, the shrieks of kids with sparklers by the fence, the distant thump of someone's stereo.

"You cut your hair," he said finally.

She touched the ends of her blonde waves, now brushing her shoulders. "A little. Gets heavy."

"Looks good." He took a swig of his beer. His eyes drifted back to her, not to her face, but to her middle, where the yellow fabric was pulled taut. "You look good."

"Renee says I'm a threat now."

A faint smile touched his lips. "Renee talks too much." He paused. "But she's not wrong."

She felt a flush that had nothing to do with the sun. It spread from her chest up her neck. She focused on her food. "How's the shop?"

"Hot. Busy. Same." He leaned back, stretching his arm along the top of the bench behind her. Not touching. Just there. "You?"

"Good. Promoted to managing the whole front-end at the clinic. More paperwork. Less yelling at people about their copays."

"Congratulations." He said it like he meant it. He always did.

Renee plopped down across from them, setting down a bowl of potato salad that was mostly mayo. "You two doing the silent communion thing again? Marcus, you staring at her because she's the only thing prettier than a '69 Camaro?"

Marcus didn't look away from Kalene. "Something like that."

The intensity in his eyes was a live wire. Kalene had to look down, to fiddle with her paper plate. She was used to comments. Used to Renee's boisterous praise and Uncle Hank's culinary indulgences. This quiet, steadfast attention from Marcus was new territory. It felt like being seen under a microscope, if the microscope was warm and smelled like engine oil and summertime.

The feast began in earnest. Plates were piled high. Kalene's own was a display of indulgence: an ocean of baked beans, a mountain of macaroni salad, four ribs glistening with sticky sauce, 2 cobs of corn buttered to within an inch of its life. She ate with deliberate pleasure, savoring each rich, salty, creamy bite. She felt the eyes on her-Uncle Hank's proud nod, Renee's grinning approval, Marcus's unwavering watch.

She didn't feel ashamed. She felt hot. Each bite was a show.

As dusk bled into proper night, the fireworks started. Not the big show-that would come later-but the careless ones from neighbors. Roman candles whistled and popped. Kids waved fizzy snakes of light.

She stood to get another beer, her body full and pleasantly heavy. The dress felt even tighter now, accommodating the feast within. As she passed behind Marcus, his hand came up. Not a grab. Just a touch. His broad, calloused palm settled against the small of her back, right where the fabric dipped. He held it there for just a second, the heat of it searing through the cotton, a point of connection as startling as a sparkler's burn.

He felt the solid curve of her, the warmth. He pressed, just slightly, as if testing her firmness, her reality.

Then his hand dropped.

She didn't stop walking. She didn't look back. But her whole body was buzzing, the imprint of his hand a brand on her spine. At the cooler, she plunged her hands into the icy water, letting the shock of it bring her back.

When she returned, he was still there, looking up at the first faint stars. He took the beer she offered him, his fingers brushing hers.
"Thanks," he said.

An hour later, the official town fireworks started, painting the sky in rippling flowers of red and blue. Lying back on the scratchy blanket next to Renee, her full belly a contented weight, Kalene watched the colors bloom and fade. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marcus, a solid silhouette against the flashing sky, his head turned not toward the explosions overhead, but toward the soft, rising and falling slope of her body on the ground beside him.

She didn't move. She just breathed, in and out, feeling the dress strain with every inhalation, feeling the weight of his gaze as another kind of heat in the cooling night.