I am one of those girls who decided long ago that it would be easier to translate my name from Vietnamese to English, rather than spend the rest of my life explaining the spelling and pronunciation of Summer in Vietnamese. My parents aren't American hippies. They're Vietnamese. So, in English, I'm just Summer.
As a kid, I was skinny, tiny, awkward, and never felt like the pretty girl in school. I had ridiculously long, black hair and pale-cream skin that warmed to gold in the sun. In a white, sub-urban neighborhood, I wasn't one of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauties that most of the boys liked to chase. My sleepy-dark eyes looked like stretched almonds. I liked to talk, so I made friends easily, but I mostly relied on my good genes in school to get good grades.
It wasn't until high school that I started to think that I might be pretty. That was the year that my mother took me to the library to check out some books for a research project, and forgot to pick me up. I was stuck waiting for hours with my stack of books, sitting on the curb of the parking lot, my head lolling in my hands as my long, inky hair brushed back and forth across my arms and my legs. It was hot that afternoon. I was eighteen.
I yanked up cotton skirt to admire the way my golden legs were turning a pinkish-bronze in the strong sunlight. At only five feet tall, my legs didn't stretch on for miles the way that the girls in Seventeen magazine did, but my petite body curled comfortably into my arms when I wanted to feel my own skin. My breasts weren't huge, but they were nicely formed, and I secretly liked to run my hands over them, the firm, satin flesh filling my palms nicely. I liked how they felt pressed against my legs just then, soft and springy, the nipples budding against my thin yellow bra, through the gauzy white tube top. I looked down into the gaping opening, and tugged on the drawstring just a little.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over me, and a cool breeze ruffled over my skin, causing goosebumps on my arms.
"You have pretty cleavage," a deep voice said, and I looked up, startled.
I pushed my bangs out of my eyes, and shielded a hand from the sun. The stranger was uncomfortably tall, and I strained my neck. He had to have been at least six feet-four, with thick, muscular legs adorned by green-black tattoos from his ankle to his thighs. He grinned down at me, green eyes sparkling, and knelt down before I could respond.
"Do you need a ride?" he asked.
I realized that he was an exceptionally handsome man, but his telltale gray hairs over his ears and sprinkled through his thick, wavy brown hair revealed that he must have been in his late thirties or older.
"No thank you," I answered, feeling my heart skip a beat. "My ride should be here any minute now."
He shrugged, but continued to smile, staring at me in a way that caused my skin to warm even more, and I could feel a flush creep up my neck and bloom over my cheeks. He brushed his hand lightly on my arm as he sat up.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" he told me daringly. I knew, even then, that his gesture was highly inappropriate, but it thrilled me anyway, and I felt the warmth seep down to my core, making the flesh between my legs tingle. I was completely innocent, and unsure of what to say in response. So I just looked away, mumbling a "Thank you."
He got up after staring at me a minute more, and started to walk into the library. I felt relief and disappointment.
My cell phone rang. It was my mother.
"Honey, I have a flat tire. I'm stuck on the interstate, waiting for Triple A. I called Mrs. Johnson and she's on her way to pick you up. You have her number?"
"Yeah," I said, although I wasn't sure if I had her number. I was absent-minded. I could see the stranger's powerful form moving through the library as I twisted myself around to watch through the blinds. It had never occurred to me before that day how very small our local library was. I started running my fingers through the silky strands of my hair, noticing the strange tingle between my legs growing ever more prominent, to the point of discomfort. I shifted my legs, pressing my thighs closer together.
"Here's her number, just in case," my mother continued, and started reading the numbers to me. I quickly wrote the number down on one of the book pages. My mom kept prattling on about her day and bad luck. She finally ended the conversation.
"Bye, sweetie. Love you."
"Love you, too, Mom."
I sighed, picking up my phone again and starting to dial Mrs. Johnson's number. She didn't pick up.
Twenty minutes later, the stranger started walking out again. I smoothed my hand over my hair and straightened my skirt a little.
"Well, hey there, gorgeous," he said smoothly.
"Hey," I answered, my voice sounding a little high pitched.
"Looks like your ride didn't make it. You sure you don't want me to give you a lift? The library is closing in ten minutes."
I checked the time on my phone. He was right.
He knelt down again and this time, he stuck out his hand. It was large, browned, and when I hesitantly reached out my hand to him, he swallowed up my fingers easily in his grip.
"My name is Jake," he said.
"Summer," I answered, and smiled. Jake smiled back. "Well, OK. I guess I really don't want to be stuck here. It's getting late," I said. "Thank you," I added quickly, and got up. Jake leaned down and scooped up my pile of books.
"Always willing to help a woman in need," he drawled, and his eyes twinkled down at me. I tried to breathe, noticing how my pulse was racing and the heat was making it worse.
I followed Jake out to his car, which turned out to be a huge, blue F-150 with four doors. He opened up the back seat and stacked my books inside, then opened up the door on my side. How considerate, I thought, silently comparing him to the high school boys at my school who never even thought to open up a door for anyone before themselves. I climbed in and clicked my seat belt.
I decided to give my Mom a call, telling her that I got a ride home. Her phone took me straight to voice mail, indicating that it was either off or in an area with poor reception.
"Where to?" Jake asked, as he pulled out of the parking lot. He glanced at me, and I noticed that his eyes were raking over me slowly, approvingly, lingering on my breasts and legs as I crossed them and uncrossed them.
"Um, take I-78 going west," I said. He nodded. As he started driving, I clutched my hands in my lap.
"Do you mind if I ask what ethnicity you are?" he asked, and I shook my head.
