In the year I’d known him, Charlie had never said such a thing. Neither had my mother, though I knew she would walk through fire for me. My father had said it three times: the night I made those two foul shots, after an organ recital when I was fifteen, and the day I graduated from high school. I’d said “I love you too, Daddy” right back.
Not that night. “You seem like a good guy, Chris. Maybe a great guy. But you barely know me.”
“Well, you haven’t exactly thrown the doors open. Introducing me to your mom, things like that.”
“Well, I—” He was right. I’d kept him entirely separate. But the secrecy was all about Charlie, about protecting him. And maybe protecting myself, if people knew what I was doing. “I haven’t met your family either,” I said, going on offense.
“There hasn’t been time,” he said. “Besides, I feel like I’ve known you all my life.”
“When’s my birthday? Who’s my best friend? How many kids do I want to have?”
“None of that matters,” Chris said. “I mean, it’s important, it’s all important. But no answer you could give to those questions would change how I feel. Besides, I know your personality, I know your character. That’s what I love.”
He had doubled down. The guy was taking all of his chips, piling them in my lap.
“Brenda,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Don’t you love me a little bit too?”
“Maybe,” I said, suddenly feeling like an honest human being again. I didn’t have to make any declaration I did not feel. “I might.”
Chris jumped to his feet. “Look at this place,” he crowed, his arms wide. “Look at this beach, look at that moon. What is all this, if it’s not love?”
I did not reply. And when he stormed away, I did not follow. I sat with my head down, picking at his father’s blanket.
Today I try to remember what I was thinking about while Chris was gone. I search my memory. But it’s a blank. Except for one little observation: his arm worked pretty well without that sling. And one little calculation: Rainbow Beach was not huge. It would take only a few minutes for him to reach the far end, and turn around.
I had never been with a boy so pretty. Nor one so accomplished. I might never have the opportunity again. Maybe there was something wrong with me.
Soon I saw the occasional glow of a cigarette, drawing nearer. Gradually it became Chris, moving at his usual brisk pace. I stood as he approached.
He was speaking before he reached me. “I get it now, Brenda. I understand.” He flicked the butt away. “See, I feel the pressure because of shipping out in two days, but you have all the time in the world to choose a guy. What’s the hurry, right?”
He arrived at the blanket. “I’m not afraid of the war, you know. But if I can’t have you—”
I interrupted him by planting a kiss on his lips, full-on, and I could tell it took him by surprise because he nearly fell over. Which made us clutch each other more, as I became aware of the warmth of his body from the march up and down the beach, and the thrum of his heart in his chest.
But there was a surprise for me. This man who’d made me a puddle by feeding me steak? Turned out to be a lousy kisser. Stiff, wooden, he pressed his lips against mine with no passion. Again I couldn’t help wondering: If Chris loved me, why didn’t I feel it?
We parted, two steps backward, suddenly shy. “Let me take you home,” he said.
“Please.”
On the way to the car we held hands again. Also when he drove, and he stopped judiciously short of my house.
“Can we have dinner tomorrow, please?” Chris asked. “I have a million things to do, and my dad wants to spend the afternoon together. But the evening . . .”
“Of course,” I said. “I didn’t say I have no feelings for you, Chris. I’m not one hundred percent sure, that’s all.”
His hands wrung the steering wheel. “Maybe I can help. Maybe I can think of something perfect for tomorrow night.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” And that was the truth. I kissed his cheek and hopped out, waiting till he drove off before I started down the sidewalk toward home.
My mother was up, reading in the living room. Her new favorite novel was about a girl growing up in Brooklyn, which I imagined made my mother think of her childhood in Chicago, though I hadn’t read a word of it.
“Hi,” I said. “How’s the book?”
“Great,” she answered. “How was dinner with Greta?”
“Pretty good,” I lied, easy as slipping out of my shoes. “I heard a lot about Brian.”
She nodded. “If you’re still hungry, there’s chicken soup on the stove.”
“Actually, I am.” I started for the kitchen, then paused in the doorway. “Why’d you make that? You hate chicken soup.”
“I didn’t make it,” she said.
“Who did, then?”
Finally my mother lowered her book. “Greta. To help you recover from your stomach problems.”
My mouth went dry. “I can explain.”
“You’ll need to, if you want to keep her as a friend. But I do hope you’re feeling better.” She lifted the book again; it was like a wall.
I came back to the living room. “Mother, you can’t just—”
“Don’t you say one word to me in your peevish voice,” she said. “I don’t have the patience for it.”
“I said I can explain.”
She closed the book on one finger. “And you’ll expect me to believe you. May I tell you something, Brenda?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I have a feeling you will, whether I want you to or not.”
Making no reply, she opened the book again.
“Well, I’m not going to beg you for a lecture,” I said. “Say what’s on your mind.” I stepped closer. “Please.”
She placed the book on a side table. “You are a grown-up now, Brenda. You do not answer to me. All you answer to is your own conscience. I don’t need to know what you’ve been doing, and I don’t want to know. Any time you have to sneak around, it’s not right. Do whatever you have to do to live in the light of day, my girl.”
I dropped my hands, bare as if I’d just stepped out of the shower. “I am trying,” I said. “I am really trying.”
“If it made you lie to Greta, try harder.”
“I will,” I said. And I believed it. One dinner to get through, and then I would. Chris deserved a good last night before returning to the war. But I would leave sorting out the rest till the battles were ended.
“Good night.” My mother picked the book back up and put her nose in it. I admire her for that today, admire her restraint when she must have been livid, respect her discretion when she must have been burning with curiosity. “Oh, and there’s a letter from Charlie. I put it on your bed.”
I couldn’t open it that night, any more than I could have eaten a bowl of Greta’s soup. I did not deserve anything good. Chris loved me, I did not know what I felt, and I had lied to everyone.
In the long arc of my life, that night was the lowest. The time I’d shown the least regard for what really mattered. Everything about my predicament revealed how little I understood what was important.