Rose of Summer

a The O.C. story

by dirty diana

Marissa slams the door behind her as she comes back into the room. "I told you. Did you see the way that he was staring at you?"

"So?" Summer shrugs, because everybody stares at her. "What's that he's going to? Star Wars? Guys like the dumbest things."

Like you, Marissa thinks meanly, then feels bad almost instantly. She flops onto her bed, and opens last month's Rolling Stone, so that she can pretend she isn't watching as Summer tugs her shorts down over her hips and throws them onto the floor.

Marissa is reminded of the time Summer pulled down the waistband of her Miss Sixty's in the driveway, so that she could show Marissa her new tattoo. It turned out to be a rose - rose of Summer, get it? - and it turned out to be the temporary kind. Because Summer couldn't even commit to a handbag or a brand of makeup, never mind permanent body art.

"You like it?" Summer had asked.

"Sure," Marissa had answered. Resisting the urge to reach out and touch it, the curve of dark pink petals on tanned skin.

Summer has eased into one of Marissa's dresses, cherry red silk that drops low in the front and even lower in the back. Her lavender bra shows from underneath, and Summer scowls at her reflection. She takes the dress off again, and reaches for the clasps in back. Her bra drops to the floor, and now Marissa really isn't watching, isn't watching as smooth round breasts appear and then disappear again into the dress, nipples still visible against the fabric.

Summer spins, silk swishing around her thighs. "It makes me look fat, right?"

Marissa pink mouth is pulled tight, to hide her thoughts. "Maybe. Try the black one."

"Okay," Summer says, and turns back to the open closet. Marissa flips another page in the Rolling Stone.