tay

The pool party had been a riot of the Jackson brothers splashing and being idiotic; Randy doing cannonballs and hitting the water so hard that his mother, Katherine started yelling at him that he was getting water on the patio windows, Janet and Latoya peering out from behind her to see what all the racket was.

Tito had been grilling burgers for the whole family, that Jermaine insisted on seasoning with something he called “soul paprika.” When he pulled it out everyone started making disgruntled noises and tutting.

"'Maine, why you gotta be so pretentious?" Tito had asked, shaking hsi head. "My burgers are damn good without that nonsense"

You’d been pulled into the chaos of the pool as well, laughing as Jackie kept lifting you up in your floatie and throwing you. This made Michael laugh - his big, head back high cackle he did when he was really tickled, and swim to come save you.

It truly felt like summer. The blue skies, the vintage lawn furniture, the bassy speakers playing It Only Takes A Minute by the Tavares. It felt fitting. You were absolutely smitten with Michael and his crazy family.

At some point you ditched the floatie and Marlon challenged you to a breath-holding contest, and much to your dismay, you kept losing. Michael had joined in, whining that he didn’t want to be left out, and won every consecutive round, popping up from the crystal clear water with a massive smirk on his face. This would not last long because Jackie and Tito would then tag team trying to playfully drown him for being smug. You’d laughed so much your ribs hurt.

Michael had been a little sunbeam; smiling at you like you were his world all day. You had been dating for about 8 weeks at this point, and it still was incredibly tender. This was both of your first experiences in a relationship.

There was an element of frustration on your part as not much had… happened yet. Other girls would tell you of their boyfriends holding their hands and kissing you, touching you whenever they could. Tigerbeat magazine described boys as more wanting, impatient and crude. Michael wasn’t really like that. He was awfully shy, and wanted to be very gentle with everything in his life, including you. Michael's sister Janet told you not to worry, and if judging by their other brothers antics, Michael just needed to come out of his shell.

He shifted on the lounger, the plastic creaking under his weight. His fingers, delicate and long, tapped a nervous rhythm on his knee. 

You could see the decision hardening in his expression.

“I want to kiss you, properly” he said, the words rushing out like a secret he’d been holding underwater. 

“Not like before. Not just a… a peck.”

Your heart did a silly little flip. “Okay,” you breathed, because what else could you say?

He leaned in, eyes fluttering shut. You met him halfway, your lips parting expectantly. What followed was so far removed from the soft, cinematic meeting of mouths you’d imagined. What you’d seen in the movies.

It was a sudden, earnest mash; his front teeth clacked directly against yours with a dry, ceramic tock. You jerked back, eyes flying open.

Michael’s eyes were wide with alarm. “Oh! Did I—?”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, though your gums tingled with pain. “Just… go a little to the left.”

“Right. The left.” He nodded, steeled himself, and dove in again. This time he aimed lower, but his enthusiasm overcorrected; his bottom lip smushed against your chin, his nose bumped yours, and in the adjustment, his teeth grazed your upper lip. It felt less like a kiss and more like a slightly aggressive greeting from a very beautiful bunny rabbit.

He pulled back, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s just… I’ve thought about this. A lot. In my head it’s smooth. Jackie told me ‘it just happens’.”

“Well, can go slow,” you offered, your voice gentle.

“Slow. Yes.” He took a deep, theatrical breath, as if preparing for a high note. 

He cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones—a gesture so tender it made your chest ache. 

He tilted your head, leaned in with meticulous care, and—

You got 2 seconds in and his teeth were there again.

Smacking against yours. A distinct, dull crunch that made you both wince in unison. 

You couldn’t help it, a snort of laughter escaped you, which you instantly tried to swallow into a cough.

Michael’s face fell into a look of such profound, comical dismay it was all you could do not to burst out laughing. 

“Why is this happening?” he asked the universe plaintively. “The angles are all wrong!”

“Maybe we just need practice,” you suggested, biting your own lip to keep a straight face.

“Practice. Right. Okay. From the top.” He was treating it like a choreography session. “On three. One… two…”

Before he could reach “three,” the sliding glass door from the house slid open. Marlon strode out, a fresh can of soda in hand, his swim trunks on from earlier. They had little yellow rubber ducks on them. 

He took in the scene: you and Michael, faces inches apart, Michael’s hands still framing your face preciously.

A huge, wicked grin split Marlon’s face. “Well, well. Look at Mikey, tryin’ to get his smooch on!” he crowed, his voice echoing in the quiet yard. “Sounded like two billiard balls kissin’!" He then started to laugh even more.

"Y’all are so sweet. Looks like a whole new interpretive style!”

Michael dropped his hands as if burned, shrinking into himself. “Marlon, don’t,” he said, but it came out more like a thin whine.

“Nah, come on—is this the new move? The lip-lock moonwalk?” Marlon demonstrated, launching into a ridiculous, stiff-legged shuffle toward you both, his arms swinging while he made exaggerated, silent kissing faces. “Pucker up, baby! Ooh-whee!”

“Marlon, please, be cool” Michael hissed, his embarrassment turning into something hotter. You saw his jaw tighten, a rare flash of frustration in his usually gentle eyes. 

“Aw, I’m just playin’!” Marlon laughed, taking a swig of his soda. “Don’t let me stop y’all. Though from the looks of it Mike, you’re more likely to chip a tooth than steal a kiss.”

That was the last straw. Michael stood up abruptly, the lounger scraping against the patio stones. 

He didn’t look at Marlon. He looked at you, his eyes blazing with a resolve that was both desperate and utterly serious. Without a word, he grabbed your hand, his grip surprisingly firm, and pulled you to your feet.

“Hey, where you goin’ all of a sudden?” Marlon called after them. “I was joking, giblets!!”

Michael didn’t answer. He was on a mission. He pulled you past the chuckling Marlon, through the sliding door into the cool, dim interior of Hayvenhurst. 

The house was quite quiet now, soft melodic sounds coming from the TV in the den. He didn’t pause in the plush living room with its gold records on the wall, didn’t even glance at the grand piano where you both spent a lot of time. 

He marched you down a hallway, past a confused-looking housekeeper, and straight into the large, spotless kitchen.

The overhead fluorescents were off, only the ambient glow from a digital clock on the oven and the moonlight through a window lit the space. He beelined for a heavy, polished wooden door near where the fridge sat; the pantry. 

He yanked it open, revealing a deep walk-in cupboard lined with shelves of canned goods, pasta boxes, and industrial-sized sacks of flour. It smelled of dried herbs and clean wood.

He tugged you inside, into the cozy, dark space, then turned and closed the door firmly behind you both.

Click.

Darkness, total and velvety, swallowed you whole. You could hear his breathing, a little quick and shallow, and your own heartbeat in your ears. You could barely make out the silhouette of his slender frame.

Then his voice came, low and close, tinged with that unique Michael-esque blend of vulnerability and absolute conviction. 

“Everyone’s watching,” he said, the words rushing out in the dark. “Out there… everyone’s eyes on me. God, even the animals. They were all watching me. I could feel them. And when I feel watched, my… well, I overthink when it comes to girls.”

You could hear him shift, his shoulder brushing against a shelf. “But in here,” he continued, and his voice gained a soft, triumphant confidence. “In the dark… it’s just my other senses. I can hear you breathing. I can smell your perfume; it’s like… gardenias and pool water. I can feel the heat of you from right here where I am standing. Just… me. And you.”

A hand found your waist in the darkness, his touch sure now. The other gently cradled the back of your head. His breath fanned your lips, warm and sweet, smelling faintly of the orange juice from the pool party.

“Its gonna work out this time” he whispered, and in the utter privacy of the pantry, with the world shut out, Michael finally, finally bridged the gap. 

His lips found yours—it wasn’t a clack of teeth, nor a mash, but a real, soft, searching kiss. It was a little clumsy still, over-eager, his nose nudging yours again, but it was right. It was warm and sincere, and when he tentatively moved his lips against yours, it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

He pulled back an inch, a soft, wondering sound escaping him. “Oh,” he breathed. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like. I got butterflies”

Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand moving to your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin as if memorizing its texture in the dark. You pushed him back to tease him a little;

“Practice makes perfect though, right?” you breathlessly laughed.

“Sure it does.” Michael agreed, his lips finding yours again in the dark of the pantry.

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