I checked my gear three or four times. Savannah, I thought, was surely on the way home, and I occupied myself with clearing out the dishwasher. A few minutes later, I brushed my teeth for the second time, then peeked out the window again. Still no Savannah. I turned on the radio, listened to a few songs, and changed
the station six or seven times before turning it off. I walked to the patio again. Nothing. By then, it was coming up on two o'clock.
I wondered where she was, felt the remnants of anger starting to rise again, but forced them away. I told myself that she probably had a legitimate explanation and repeated it again when it didn't take hold. I opened my bag and pulled out the latest from Stephen King. I filled a glass with ice water, made myself comfortable on the couch, but when I realized I was reading the same sentence over and over, I put the book aside.
Another fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. By the time I heard Savannah's car pulling into the lot, my jaw was tight and I was grinding my teeth. At a quarter past three, she pushed open the door. She was all smiles, as if nothing were wrong.
“Hey, John,” she called out. She went to the table and started unloading her backpack. “Sorry I was late, but after my class, a student came up to tell me that she loved my class, and because of me, she wanted to major in special education. Can you believe that? She wanted advice on what to do, what classes to take, what teachers were the best... and the way she listened to my answers ...” Savannah shook her head. "It was ... so rewarding. The way this girl was hanging on everything I was saying ... well, it just makes me feel like I was really making a difference to someone. You hear professors talk about experiences like that, but I never imagined that it would happen to me."
I forced a smile, and she took it as a cue to go on.
"Anyway, she asked if I had some time to really discuss it, and even though I told her I only had a few minutes, one thing led to another and we ended up going to lunch. She's really somethingonly seventeen, but she graduated a year early from high school.
She passed a bunch of AP exams, so she's already a sophomore, and she's going to summer school so she can get even further ahead. You have to admire her."
She wanted an echo of her enthusiasm, but I couldn't muster it. “She sounds great,” I said instead.
At my answer, Savannah seemed to really look at me for the first time, and I made no effort to hide my feelings.
“What's wrong?” she asked. “Nothing,” I lied.
She set her backpack aside with a disgusted sigh. “You don't want to talk about it? Fine. But you should know that it's getting a little tiring.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
She whirled toward me. “This! The way you're acting,” she said. “You're not that hard to read, John. You're angry, but you don't want to tell me why.”
I hesitated, feeling defensive. When I finally spoke, I forced myself to keep my voice steady. “Okay,” I said, "I thought you'd be home hours a g o ...."
She threw up her hands. “That's what this is about? I explained that. Believe it or not, I have responsibilities now. And if I'm not mistaken, I apologized for being late as soon as I walked in the door.”
“I know, b u t ...”
“But what? My apology wasn't good enough?” “I didn't say that.”
“Then what is it?”
When I couldn't find the words, she put her hands on her hips. “You want to know what I think? You're still mad about last night. But let me guess—you don't want to talk about that either, right?” I closed my eyes. “Last night, you—”
“Me?” she broke in, and began shaking her head. “Oh nodon't blame me for this! I didn't do anything wrong. I wasn't the one who started this! Last night could have been fun—would have been fun—but you had to sit around acting as if you wanted to shoot someone.”
She was exaggerating. Or then again, maybe she wasn't. Either way, I kept quiet.
She went on. “Do you know that I had to make excuses for you today? And how that made me feel? Here I was, singing your praises all year long, telling my friends what a nice guy you were, how mature you were, how proud I am of the job you're doing. And they ended up seeing a side of you that even I've never seen before. You were just... rude.”
“Did you ever think that I might have been acting that way because I didn't want to be there?”
That stopped her, but only for an instant. She crossed her arms. “Maybe the way you acted last night was the reason I was late today.”
Her statement caught me off guard. I hadn't considered that, but that wasn't the point.
“I'm sorry about last night—”
“You should be!” she cried, cutting me off again. “Those are my friends!”
“I know they're your friends!” I snapped, pushing myself up from the couch. “We've been with them all week!”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. Maybe I wanted to be alone with you. Did you ever think of that?”
“You want to be alone with me?” she demanded. “Well, let me tell you, you're sure not acting like it. We were alone this morning. We were alone when I walked in the door just now. We were alone when I tried to be nice and put this all behind us, but all you wanted to do is fight.”
“I don't want to fight!” I said, doing my best not to shout but knowing I'd failed. I turned away, trying to keep my anger in check, but when I spoke again, I could hear the ominous undercurrent in my voice. "I just want things to be like they were. Like last summer."
“What about last summer?”
I hated this. I didn't want to tell her that I no longer felt important. What I wanted was akin to asking someone to love you, and that never worked. Instead, I tried to dance around the subject.
“Last summer, it just felt like we had more time together.” “No, we didn't,” she countered. “I worked on houses all day long. Remember?”
She was right, of course. At least partially. I tried again. “I'm not saying it makes much sense, but it seems like we had more time to talk last year.”
"And that's what's bothering you? That I'm busy? That I have a life? What do you want me to do? Ditch my classes all week? Call in sick when I have to teach? Skip my homework?"
“No...”
“Then what do you want?” “I don't know.”
“But you're willing to humiliate me in front of my friends?” “I didn't humiliate you,” I protested.
“No? Then why did Tricia pull me aside today? Why did she feel the need to tell me that we had nothing in common and that I could do a lot better?”
That stung, but I'm not sure she realized how it came across.
Anger sometimes makes that impossible, as I was well aware. “I just wanted to be alone with you last night. That's all I'm trying to say.”
My words had no effect on her.
“Then why didn't you tell me that?” she demanded instead. “Say something like 'Would it be okay if we do something else? I'm not really in the mood to hang out with people.' That's all you would have had to say. I'm not a mind reader, John.”
I opened my mouth to answer but said nothing. Instead, I turned away and walked to the other side of the room. I stared out the patio door, not angered so much by what she'd said, just... sad. It struck me that I had somehow lost her, and I didn't know whether it was because I'd been making too much of nothing or because I understood all too well what was really happening between us.
I didn't want to talk about it anymore. I was never good at talking, and I realized that what I really wanted was for her to cross the room and put her arms around me, to say that she understood what was really bothering me and that I had nothing to worry about.
But none of those things happened. Instead I spoke to the window, feeling strangely alone. “You're right,” I said. “I should have told you. And I'm sorry about that. And I'm sorry about the way I acted last night, and I'm sorry about being upset that you were late. It's just that I really wanted to see you as much as I could this trip.”
“You say that like you don't think I want the same thing.”
I turned around. “To be honest,” I said, “I'm not sure you do.” With that, I headed for the door.
I was gone until nightfall.
I didn't know where to go or even why I left, other than that I needed to be alone. I started for campus beneath a sweltering sun and found myself moving from one shade tree to the next. I didn't check to see if she was following; I knew that she wouldn't be.
In time, I stopped and bought an ice water at the student center, but even though it was relatively empty and the cool air refreshing, I didn't stay. I felt the need to sweat, as if to purify myself from the anger and sadness and disappointment I couldn't shake.
One tiling was certain: Savannah had walked in the door ready for an argument. Her answers had come too quickly, and I realized that they seemed less spontaneous than rehearsed, as if her own anger had been simmering most of the day. She'd known exactly how I would be acting, and though I might have deserved her anger based on the way I'd acted last night, the fact that she hadn't appeared to care about her own culpability or my feelings gnawed at me for most of the afternoon.
Shadows lengthened as the sun began to go down, but I still wasn't ready to go back. Instead, I bought a couple of slices of pizza and a beer from one of those tiny storefront places that depended on students to survive. I finished eating, walked some more, and finally began the trek back to her apartment. By then it was nearly nine, and the emotional roller coaster I'd been on left me feeling drained. Approaching the street, I noticed Savannah's car was still in the same spot. I could see a lamp blazing from inside the bedroom. The rest of the apartment was black.
I wondered whether the door would be locked, but the knob turned freely when I tried. The bedroom door was halfway closed, light spilled down the hallway, and I debated whether to approach or stay in the living room. I didn't want to face her anger, but I took a deep breath and made my way down the short hallway. I poked my head in. She was sitting on the bed in an oversize shirt, one that reached to midthigh. She looked up from a magazine, and I offered a tentative smile.
“Hey,” I said. “Hey.”
I crossed the room and sat on the edge of bed.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “For everything. You were right. I was a jerk last night, and I shouldn't have embarrassed you in front of your friends. And I shouldn't have been so angry that you were late. It won't happen again.”
She surprised me by patting the mattress. “Come here,” she whispered.
I moved up the bed, leaned against the bed frame, and slipped my arm around her. She leaned against me, and I could feel the steady rise and fall of her chest.
“I don't want to argue anymore,” she said. “I don't either.”
When I stroked her arm, she sighed. “Where'd you go?” “Nowhere, really,” I said. “Just walked the campus. Had some pizza. Did a lot of thinking.”
“About me?”
“About you. About me. About us.”
She nodded. “Me too,” she said. “Are you still mad?” “No,” I said. “I was, but I'm too tired to be mad anymore.”
“Me too,” she repeated. She lifted her head to face me. “I want to tell you something about what I was thinking while you were gone,” she said. “Can I do that?”
“Ofcourse,”Isaid.
"I realized that I'm the one who should have been apologizing. About spending so much time with my friends, I mean. I think that's why I got so mad earlier. I knew what you were trying to say, but I didn't want to hear it because I knew you were right. Partly, anyway. But your reasoning was wrong."
I looked at her uncertainly. She went on.
“You think that I made you spend so much time with my friends because you weren't as important to me as you used to be, right?” She didn't wait for an answer. “But that's not the reason. It's really the opposite. I was doing that because you're so important to me. Not so much because I wanted you to get to know my friends, or so they could get to know you, but because of me.”
She halted uncertainly.
“I don't know what you're trying to say.”
“Do you remember when I told you that I draw strength from being with you?”
When I nodded, she skated her fingers along my chest. "I wasn't kidding about that. Last summer meant so much to me. More than you can ever imagine, and when you left, I was a wreck. Ask Tim.
I barely worked on the houses. I know I sent you letters that made you think all was well and good, but it wasn't. I cried every night, and every day I'd sit at the house and keep imagining and hoping and wishing that you'd come strolling up the beach. Every time I saw someone with a crew cut, I'd feel my heart start beating faster, even though I knew it wasn't you. But that was the thing. I wanted it to be you. Every time. I know that what you do is important, and
I understand that you're posted overseas, but I don't think I understood how hard it was going to be once you weren't around. It seemed like it was almost killing me, and it took a long time to even begin to feel normal again. And on this trip, as much as I wanted to see you, as much as I love you, there's this part of me that's terrified that I'm going to go to pieces again when our time is up. I'm being pulled in two directions, and my response was to do anything I could so I wouldn't have to go through what I did last year again. So I tried to keep us busy, you know? To keep my heart from being broken again."
I felt my throat tighten but said nothing. In time; she went on. “Today, I realized that I was hurting you in the process. That wasn't fair to you, but at the same time, I'm trying to be fair to me, too. In a week, you'll be gone again, and I'm the one who's going to have to figure out how to function afterwards. Some people can do that. You can do that. But for me ...”