Jennifer Greene - Sunburst

Erica had joined the hilarity with gusto, quickly separating from Martha to take over as hostess. She’d glowed, showing people through both new building and old. The support and enthusiasm and warmth the people showed to Kyle warmed her inside, filling her with pride in her man for the respect he’d earned, and the way people just seemed naturally to like him made her want to gravitate toward him.

She was not fond of beer, but it was hardly the time to be picky when her husband was being toasted. So she had drunk more than she wanted to, and now there was a slight cast of double vision everywhere she looked…but it was not the beer that had altered her mood three-quarters of the way through the party. Perhaps it was the way Morgan kept looking at her oddly every time she turned around; perhaps it was the moment Kyle’s arms were around her and they were cheered as a couple… Suddenly, as on the downgrade of a roller coaster ride, her heart had stopped for a single beat, and then she had heard the sound of her own laughter, high and joyous.

The whole day had been upbeat, as if nothing were wrong…but of course, that was an illusion. She was bubbling on about Kyle’s plans as if she were a part of them; the whole boisterous welcome to the neighborhood included her…and yet it didn’t. For the past few days, Kyle had been so much the energetic, spirited, dynamic man she married that she had almost forgotten-or tried to forget-that she wasn’t sure how long she was going to be in this cozy small town in Wisconsin. How long did he want her there?

Choices; we can’t go on the way we have been; there’s no love without active choice… Her laughter, so right and easy moments before, was suddenly a sham, and a hollow ache had wrenched inside as she saw herself as hostess to a celebration she had no right to.

Kyle stood up abruptly and viewed the sleeping boy with hands on hips, wry smile on his face. “God knows I should have seen it coming. Johnny never was away from the keg, but I don’t know what I’m going to tell his parents.” He shook his head in rueful exasperation, glancing at Erica.

She lurched up to a standing position, absently touching her fingertips to her temples at the unexpected dizziness, swearing off beer in the afternoon for the rest of her life. Silently. “I’ll help you get him to the truck, and then I’ll go after this mess.”

“Hell-just relax, Erica; it isn’t going anywhere,” Morgan insisted. “I’ll help with the boy,” he said curtly to Kyle.

The two men managed to half carry the boy to Kyle’s truck while Erica started trying to make sense of the chaos. The late afternoon sun faded in dusty shadows on the debris, not the best of mood-breakers. She started carting trash bags out to the back, each cumbersome but none heavy. She was in a hurry suddenly. She wanted the room cleared, back the way it was earlier that afternoon, when the scent of brand-newness had touched her: newness had hope in it.

So had she. Kyle had been so loving the night before… She thought of the intricately carved vase, of the half-finished sunburst; she thought of that crazy moment when he had vaulted her up into the tree at Martha’s.

But nothing was quite that simple. He cared; she had never believed he hated her. They were not enemies . Yet she knew in her heart that his feelings had changed for her since they moved here; he had excluded her from every decision that counted. He didn’t want to speak of his real feelings… It was a little too easy to make a lot out of shared passion on a single night. If the man didn’t love her, she couldn’t stay.

An exasperating tear spilled onto her cheek as she battled with the last of the bags. Her head ached from the beer, and the late afternoon sun seemed curiously harsh, eye-blinkingly bright, showing up the emptiness of the rooms that had been filled with dreams before.

“Oh, Erica…”

Morgan was next to her in long, swift strides. She had completely forgotten him, assuming he had gone with Kyle to help with the boy. The deep, husky sympathy in his voice was the last straw; not to mention being caught in the midst of tears, weariness, the wretched beer hangover. He had his arms around her in seconds, stroking her hair, listening to her cry. “I hate to see you so unhappy. And I hate to see you doing things like this!” He made a motion that encompassed her efforts to pick up after the party, which seemed relevant to absolutely nothing.

“It was the stupid beer,” she tried to say, desperately trying to stop crying.

“It wasn’t the beer. You deserve more than this, Erica. I know the life you were meant for, and it wasn’t this. I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to see it…”

She barely heard him as she snatched the handkerchief he offered, mopping at her face and taking great gulping breaths. It worked. The tears stopped, though her control was still shaky. She felt even shakier as she suddenly realized that Morgan’s arm was still possessively around her, and heard something disquieting in the tone of his voice. It occurred to her that Morgan was very, very drunk.

“I need you, Erica. Surely you’ve known that for an age? And no more working yourself ragged, no more living on hamburger, no more being stuck in this little burg…”

Suddenly, he sounded too much like Morgan and not enough like a drunk. Confused, she saw his eyes above hers, fever-bright, aimed like darts, and she felt every nerve ending in her body recoil…

It was just too much. She couldn’t cope with the harshness of sunlight, much less instantly bounce back from the despair she felt as a result of the difficulties between herself and Kyle. The last thing on her mind was old lessons on how to treat a man as villain. And Morgan was no villain; he’d offered comfort so many times as a friend; he’d given Kyle his time and back-breaking work… She simply didn’t know how to begin a wrestling match with him now.

“Morgan-”

She felt a bleak helplessness inside when his lips pressed on hers, when he roughly tried to mold her stiff form closer. Almost detached, she realized what he was doing, noted that his fingers were frenetic in an effort to arouse her sexually. Arrogant hands, so full of confidence… In that single instant, she saw a thousand flashbacks: affection she had innocently invited, sexual innuendos she had unwittingly parried, touching allowed that could be interpreted as her wanting and needing Morgan. She had wanted him-for Kyle. Not for herself. Never in that way.

“Please-”

His mouth tasted like the beer he had had too much of. It was distasteful to her, smothering. Her own guilt almost numbed her…yet not enough. The shorts and top she wore were insufficient covering against the onslaught of his hands, determined on intimacy, claiming her breasts, twisting in her hair, sweeping over her stomach to her hips. Fear warred with a feeling of nausea, of panic. He was far stronger than she was, and his roughness caused her to shake. Her frantic breathing seemed to give him all the wrong messages.

“Morgan!”

“You’re trembling, Erica,” he hissed. “You didn’t think it would be that way only with Kyle, did you? I knew…I knew…”

“ Stop it! Let go! ” She pushed desperately with her hands, wrenching away from him.

Morgan took a step back, breathing heavily, his eyes black with arousal, running his fingers through his thick mat of blond hair. His shoulders arched back as he stared at her, seeing her arms locked protectively across her chest, her wild mane of hair, her blouse hanging open where a button had popped. Her eyes stared at him disbelievingly, waiting for the apology that didn’t come.

He leaned back against the wall, lazily shifting his feet forward. “I think we can safely take it that you’re not in the mood,” he murmured wryly. His smile suddenly slid across his face like a shutter, masking that predatory look in his eyes, inviting her to be calm and make light of it.