Billie-Jean & Sammie-Rae IV
My phone vibrates against my nightstand, rattling against the wood before my alarm even thinks about going off.
I squint at the screen. Sammie.
Weather says 94 and humid. Don't forget lip gloss & sunscreen, sweetie đ
I roll onto my back, the sheet sticking to my shoulders.
Thursday.
The word sits heavy somewhere behind my ribs.
Thursday's child has far to go.
Her voice echoes from yesterday, from the steam and the tile and the way she left me standing under the spray, aching.
Applying mine RN, her next message reads.
Want to see my tech!
My thumb hovers. I type: Show me.
The photo loads slowly, pixel by pixel. Sammie's mouth fills my screenâglossed, plump, slightly parted. Her bottom lip catches the light like she's been biting it.
Below the photo: Ur turn, blondie.
I sit up, sheet pooling at my waist.
The morning light through my curtains is already thick and golden.
I find the gloss on my dresserâcherry, slightly stickyâand swipe it across my lower lip, then press them together. The camera clicks. I study the image: my mouth, smaller than hers, the gloss making it look dewy and deliberate.
Sent before I can overthink.
Her reply launched fast.
Another photoâher whole face this time, chin tilted up, skin gleaming with something that looks like sunscreen but catches the light like highlighter.
Her brown eyes are half-lidded, knowing.
Sunscreen applied. Face protected â
I smooth sunscreen across my own cheeks, over my nose, down to my jaw. The coconut scent mingles with the cherry on my lips. I snap a selfie, my blue eyes looking slightly startled, my fair skin already luminous with product.
Protected â
Three dots pulse on my screen.
Then another photo. Lower this time. Sammie's collarbones, her chest, the red swimsuit pulled down just enough to reveal the swell of her cleavage, olive skin disappearing into fabric.
FYI. Chest protected 2. Very important.
My breath catches. I'm wearing an old tank top, no bra. I pull the neckline down, just enough, and angle the phone. My skin is paler, freckled across the chest, my cleavage shallower but visible.
I take the shot. My hands tremble slightly as I hit send.
The response is almost instantâanother photo, but this time there's movement, a blur of fabric shifting, and thenâher nipple, just barely visible at the edge of the frame, the dark areola like a slip of something private.
A follow-up text: Whoops đ accidental
Accidental.
Right.
My skin prickles hot.
I stare at the image longer than I should, then prop my phone against my pillow. I pull my tank top down further, lower than before, until one of my own nipples catches the morning light, pink and already tight.
The photo I take is deliberate, framed, and my stomach is visible below.
I send it without a caption.
Her typing indicator pulses for a long moment. Then a video loads.
Sammie's stomach fills the screen, her skin warm and golden. Her fingertip traces circles around her navelâa deep innie, shadowed and soft. She dips her finger inside, slowly, deliberately, then pulls it out glistening with somethingâoil, maybe, or lotion.
The text below reads: Innie appreciation đ« Ur turn
I set the phone down and reach for the sunscreen again.
My navel is an outie, a small bump I've always been self-conscious about.
I squeeze a dollop onto my fingertip and dab it onto the raised skin, then smear it slowly with my index finger, circling, pressing.
The sensation sends a pulse to my lower core.
I record a short clipâmy finger tracing, the sunscreen making my skin shineâand send it.
The next video makes my mouth go dry. But my tongue wets my lips.
Sammie's standing, the camera pointing down. She's wearing a high-cut G-string, barely there, and her hand smooths sunscreen over the edges of her mound, making the skin gleam.
Her fingers trace the edge of the fabric, the curve of her hip, and the text says simply: Every inch matters
I'm about to respondâabout to reach for the sunscreen again, about to do something I can't take backâwhen my door erupts in rapid knocks. It part swings open.
"Billie! Breakfast! Your eggs are getting cold!"
Mum's voice cuts through the haze like a splash of pool water.
I shove my phone under the pillow, yank my tank top up, and try to look like someone who wasn't justâ
"Coming!" My voice cracks.
The pool shift drags.
Arnold stations Sammie at the far end of the pool all day, running swim tests for the kids' group, then inventory in the storage shed, then gate duty under the shade umbrella.
Every time I glance over, he's hovering nearby, his polo stretched tight, sweat gleaming at his temples.
Sammie catches my eye once, rolls hers dramatically, and I have to look away before I laugh.
We don't speak.
We don't touch.
The morning's messages and cute images sit in my phone like contraband.
By four o'clock, she's goneâ
Any chance of a shower repeat goes into the same category as expected rain today: zilch.
A note on my backpack in the change rooms: Honey, soz, off to pick up my mum at the airport.
My phone buzzes as I'm heading for the shower.
Haven't forgotten you, babes. Friday's girl is all loving and giving. catch u slippin đŻđ
I read it three times, standing in the changeroom, a chlorine scent mixing with cut grass and my fading sunscreen.
Friday.
I press the phone between my breasts, the screen still warm.
What will loving and giving look like when Sammie-Mae Thompson finally stops teasing and starts delivering?