23. Flying Always Takes It Out of Me #2
Tuma moves closer to my side to say something. I lean down, so he can get closer to my ear. “I think you found a keeper,” he says.
I glance at my friend as his mouth glimmers into a grin, and I try to shrug it off. But my heart is pounding because I know he’s right.
To Lillian’s surprise, the fileting competition is finished after just a few minutes. Each contestant fillets two fish consecutively and is judged on their speed, the quality of the filet, and the amount recovered in the process. No use being a quick filet if you’re going to waste the meat.
“What happens with all the fish now?” Lillian asks in a whisper.
“They get smoked and divvied up among the community for winter food,” I whisper back, not wanting to break the heavy concentration of the competition. “Nothing goes to waste.”
We wait with bated breath as the judges tally up the times.
Tuma’s knee bounces, though he maintains a calm demeanor for the kids.
Amka is almost fifteen, which is hard to fathom given that I still feel so young.
She’s a spitting image of Katoo, and even draws the black line on her chin since she isn’t allowed to get the traditional Aleut tattoo of maturity for women until she’s eighteen.
Lusa is ten, and Toklo, the only boy, is seven.
Tuma might be my best friend, but in this one place in our life, our paths diverged immensely. Katoo and Tuma married right after we finished school and babies followed swiftly. Meanwhile, I kicked the can around as a bachelor, worked hard, and built up my business.
We all have struggled through the changing of the seasons together. The poor fishing seasons and the strange weather patterns.
But when we go home at night, our lives are completely different. I am alone, and he has a family. Those were our choices.
I didn’t envy him until I turned thirty, though.
I heard all about the hardships of being a parent and a husband on long boat journeys.
Not to mention the weight he carries as an Aleut man.
Their history is tragic, marked by oppression from settlers on all sides.
It’s a tale known throughout Alaska. Only white people like to pretend it doesn’t exist.
Lillian’s hand wraps around my bicep. “I’m nervous,” she whispers.
I smile. It's hard to keep an even keel when she’s touching me, but I manage it. “Don’t need to be nervous for Katoo. She was the fastest.”
“This is my first time! I don’t know what to expect,” she says, elbowing me.
I tilt my head down to meet her gaze. “Yeah. Your first time?”
Lillian’s eyes widen. She smacks my hand. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
I start to laugh, but the mic feedback cuts me off. One of the judges is ready to announce the winner.
“Ada, Ada— –” Toklo exclaims hurriedly, thwapping Tuma on the thigh.
Lusa shushes him and wraps her arm around her little brother to calm him.
The judge, an Aleut elder, clears her throat into the mic. “It should come as no surprise for the fifth year in a row?—”
We’re up on our feet cheering before she can even announce Katoo as the official winner. And with the filleting competition finished, the barbecue begins. The smell of smoke permeates the air as fillet after fillet is cooked up for the festivalgoers.
Lillian and I break from the rest of our party to eat together.
We chat and flirt while a band of Alaskan musicians—dressed in their traditional leather and fur tunics—strikes up on a stage overlooking the water.
Lillian pauses to listen and watch as the drummers begin, each of them holding their paddle-like skin and wood drum.
“Gosh, that’s just . . .” She trails off, allowing the melodic drumbeats to speak for her.
A funky beat emerges from an electric bass and an organ sound from a keyboard as the song opens up.
Lillian does a doubletake. “Traditional?”
“Traditional adjacent?” I say with a shrug. “They’re a popular group around here. They take traditional songs and transform them by combining with other genres. The group is called Tribal Funk, after all.”
Lillian taps her foot, her head grooving with the beat.
“Yeah, you got it,” I tease.
She looks away with a laugh. “I like it.”
I glance over at the band. Some singers have come forward, and they’re moving and grooving in their traditional Aleut attire, singing new melodies and lines along with the ancient instruments.
Festivalgoers swarm the stage, some of them jamming out on their own, others taking partners and dancing together.
I’m not much of a dancer on a normal occasion, but I’ve got a gorgeous girl sitting next to me, who clearly would like to get on her feet and dance. “You wanna . . .” I tilt my head toward the musicians.
Her forehead scrunches. “Wanna what?”
“Um, you wanna dance?” I manage, though it feels a bit foolish coming out of my mouth.
Lillian bites her tongue, smiling. That does something to my insides. Oh no. Not here. I can’t start getting horny here, all the way in Dillingham, a plane ride away from Naknek where we have nowhere to go. Hell, she didn’t even fly with me.
Don’t act like you haven’t been thinking about it all day, dumbass.
“You dance, Matthew?” Lillian asks, leaning toward me.
“I dance,” I say, unsure. “Not well, but I do.”
“You can follow my lead then,” she says and gets to her feet, pulling on my hand.
I follow her onto the dance floor, my eyes trained on her ass despite my best intentions. Once we’re amidst the crowd, she turns to face me, drops my hand, and sways her hips, lifting her arms into the air.
I watch, forgetting that if we’re going to dance, I have to dance too. But I’m entranced by her body, how free she looks, and how her auburn hair falls in and out of her face as the music flows through her.
“You’re not dancing,” she says in a sing-song tone.
I guffaw, pulling at the front of my shirt as if I’ve just been struck by a hot wind. “Ha! Sorry, sorry, I just don’t know how to—where to start.”
Lillian spins around and steps back until she’s pressed against my front.
She lifts her chin up, locking her eyes with mine, and .
. . holy shit, her eyelids waver low and wanting.
I’m really regretting that plane ride now.
“You know how to move your hips. I’ve seen it. On the boat. You move with the water.”
She takes my hands and places them on her hips. Swinging them back and forth, they brush up against my crotch, not in a lewd, obvious way, but enough for my body to get the message. “Felt it, too.”
I am immediately inundated with the memory of our first night in bed together. God, I want more of that. Soon.
She spins back around, facing me again. Throwing her arms around my neck, she glances down at the space between us. “There, you got it now.”
And I do. I’m moving without thinking too hard about it, letting her guide me. But that space between us makes my heart pulse with the anticipation of closing that gap. Makes me want her more than I can possibly say with words.
“You nervous?” Lillian asks.
I scoff. “What?”
She glances over her shoulder, scanning our surroundings. “To be seen so close to me?”
I don’t respond. Not with words at least. I fondle a skein of her hair and move it off her shoulder as we move together, the throbbing bassline threatening to send me into overdrive. Then, I situate my hand on the back of her neck and lean in to kiss her.
Her body slows, now merely wavering as my lips overtake hers.
Lillian’s hands grip the front of my shirt as the kiss ebbs and our mouths break. She smiles up at me, licking her bottom lip.
“Does that answer your question?” I ask. I decide not to tell her some unicorn paint has transferred onto her cheek.
It’s Lillian’s turn not to answer with words. She rises on her tiptoes and brings her mouth close to mine but does not kiss me. Her breath coasts along my mouth as her hands slide lower, lower, lower, until her fingers slip into the belt loops of my jeans. With a single tug, our bodies are flush.
And there’s no question.
It’s fucking on.