n June 2001, I was given my leave and left for home

immediately, flying from Frankfurt to New York, then on to Raleigh. It was a Friday evening, and Savannah had promised to pick

me up at the airport before bringing me to Lenoir to meet her parents. She'd dropped that little surprise on me the day before

the flight. Now, I had nothing against meeting her parents, mind you. I was sure they were wonderful people and all that, but if I

had my way, I would rather have had Savannah all to myself at least for the first few days. It's kind of hard to make up for lost time with the parents around. Even if we didn't get physical—and knowing Savannah, I was pretty sure we wouldn't, though I kept my fingers crossed—how would her parents treat me if I kept their daughter out until the wee hours, even if all we did was lie under the stars? Granted, she was an adult, but parents were funny when it came to their own kids, and I was under no illusions that they'd be understanding about the whole thing. She would always be their little girl, if you know what I mean.

But Savannah had had a point when she explained it to me. I

had two weekends free, and if I planned to see my dad on the second weekend, I had to see hers the first weekend. Besides, she sounded so excited about the whole thing that all I could say was that I was looking forward to meeting them. Still, I wondered if

I'd even be able to hold her hand, and I speculated about whether I could talk her into taking a little detour on the way to Lenoir.

As soon as the plane landed, my anticipation grew and I could feel my ticker booming. But I didn't know how to act. Should I

jog toward her as soon as I spotted her or stroll casually, cool and

in control? I still wasn't sure, but before I could dwell on it, I was

in the cattle chute, moving up the aisle. I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder as I emerged from the ramp that accessed the terminal. I didn't see her at first—too many folks milling around. When

I scanned the area a second time, I saw her off to the left and realized instantly that all my worries had been pointless, for she spotted

me and came running at full tilt. I barely had time to drop my

duffel bag before she jumped into my arms, and the kiss that followed was like its own magic kingdom, complete with its special

language and geography, fabulous myths and wonders for the ages. And when she pulled back and whispered, “I missed you so much,” I felt as if I'd been put back together after spending a year cut in half.

I don't know how long we stood together, but when we finally began moving toward the baggage claim, I slipped my hand into hers knowing that I loved her not only more than the last time I'd seen her, but more than I would ever love anyone.

On the drive we talked easily, but we did make a small detour. After pulling into a rest stop, we made out like teenagers. It was great—let's leave it at that—and a couple of hours later, we arrived

at her house. Her parents were waiting on the porch of a neat, twostory Victorian. Surprising me, her mother hugged me as soon as I

got close, then offered me a beer. I declined, mostly because I knew I'd be the only one drinking, but I appreciated the effort. Savannah's mom, Jill, was a lot like Savannah: friendly, open, and a lot

sharper than she first came across. Her dad was exactly the same, and I actually had a good time visiting with them. It didn't hurt

that Savannah held my hand the whole time and seemed completely at ease doing so. Toward the end of the evening, she and I

went for a long moonlit walk. By the time we got back to the house, it felt almost as if we'd never been apart at all.

It went without saying that I slept in the guest room. I hadn't expected otherwise, and the room was a lot better than most places I'd stayed, with classic furniture and a comfortable mattress. The air was stuffy, though, and I opened the window, hoping the mountain air would bring welcome cool. It had been a long day—I was still

on German time—and I fell asleep immediately, only to wake up

an hour later when I heard my door squeak open. Savannah, wearing comfy cotton pajamas and socks, closed the door behind her and started toward the bed, tiptoeing across the floor.

She held a finger to her lips to keep me quiet. “My parents would kill me if they knew I was doing this,” she whispered. She crawled into bed beside me and adjusted the covers, pulling them up to her neck as if she were camping in the arctic. I put my arms around her, loving the feel of her body against mine.

We kissed and giggled for most of the night, then she sneaked back to her room. I fell asleep again, probably before she reached her room, and awakened to the sight of sunlight streaming in the window. The smell of breakfast came wafting into the room, and

I tossed on a T-shirt and jeans and went down to the kitchen. Savannah was at the table, talking with her mom while her dad

read the paper, and I felt the weight of their presence when I entered.

I took a place at the table, and Savannah's mom poured me

a cup of coffee before setting a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me. Savannah, who was sitting across from me already showered and dressed, was chipper and impossibly fresh-looking in the soft morning light.

“Did you sleep okay?” she asked, her eyes shining with mischief. I nodded. “Actually, I had the most wonderful dream,” I said. “Oh?” her mom asked. “What was it about?”

I felt Savannah kick me under the table. She shook her head

almost imperceptibly. I have to admit that I enjoyed the sight of Savannah squirming, but enough was enough. I feigned concentration. “I can't remember now,” I said.

“I hate when that happens,” her mother said. “Is breakfast okay?”

“It smells great,” I said. “Thank you.” I glanced at Savannah. “What's on the agenda today?”

She leaned across the table. “I was thinking we might go horseback riding. Do you think you'd be up for that?”

When I hesitated, she laughed. “You'll be fine,” she added. “I promise.”

“Easy for you to say.”

She rode Midas; for me, she suggested a quarter horse named Pepper, which her dad usually rode. We spent most of the day walking

up trails, galloping through open fields, and exploring this part of her world. She'd prepared a picnic lunch, and we ate at a spot that overlooked Lenoir. She pointed out the schools she'd attended and homes of the people she knew. It dawned on me then that not only did she love it here, she never wanted to live anywhere else.

We spent six or seven hours in the saddle, and I did my best to keep up with Savannah, though that was close to impossible. I didn't end up with my face planted in the dirt, but there were a

few dicey moments here and there when Pepper acted up and it took everything I could do to hold on. It wasn't until Savannah

and I were getting ready for dinner that I realized what I'd gotten myself into, however. Little by little, I began to realize that my walking resembled waddling. The inside muscles of my legs felt as if Tony had pounded them for hours.

On Saturday night, Savannah and I went to dinner at a cozy little Italian place. Afterward, she suggested we go dancing, but

by then I could barely move. As I limped toward the car, she adopted a concerned expression and reached out to stop me.

Leaning over, she grasped my leg. “Does it hurt when I squeeze right here?”

1 jumped and screamed. For some reason, she found this amusing.

“Why'd you do that? That hurt!”

She smiled. “Just checking.”

“Checking what? I already told you—I'm sore.”

“I just wanted to see if little old me could make a big, tough army guy like you scream.”

I rubbed my leg. “Yeah, well, let's not test that anymore, okay?” “Okay,” she said. “And I'm sorry.”

“You don't sound sorry.”

“Well, I am,” she said. “But it is kind of funny, don't you think? I mean, I rode just as long as you, and I'm fine.”

“You ride all the time.”

“I haven't ridden in over a month.” “Yeah, well.”

“Come on. Admit it. It was kind of funny, wasn't it?” “Not at all.”

On Sunday, we attended church with her family. I was too sore to do much else the rest of the day, so I plopped myself on the couch and watched a baseball game with her dad. Savannah's mom brought in sandwiches, and I spent the afternoon wincing every time I tried to get comfortable while the game went into extra innings. Her dad was easy to talk to, and the conversation drifted from army life to teaching to some of the kids he coached and his hopes for their future. I liked him. From my seat, I could hear Savannah and her mom chatting in the kitchen, and every now and then, Savannah would come into the living room with a basket of laundry to fold while her mother started another load in the washing machine. Though technically a college graduate and an adult, she still brought her dirty clothes home to Mom.

That night, we drove back to Chapel Hill, and Savannah showed

me her apartment. It was sparse in the furniture department, but it was relatively new, and it had both a gas fireplace and small balcony that offered a view of the campus. Despite the warm weather, she got the fire going, and we snacked on cheese and crackers, which, aside from cereal, was about all she had to offer. It felt indescribably romantic to me, though I'd come to realize that being alone

with Savannah always struck me as romantic. We talked until nearly midnight, but Savannah was quieter than usual. In time, she wandered to the bedroom. When she didn't return, I went to find her. She was sitting on the bed, and I stopped in the doorway.

She squeezed her hands together and drew a long breath. “So ...,” she began.

“So ..., ” I responded when she remained silent.

She drew another long breath. “It's getting late. And I've got an early class tomorrow.”

I nodded. “You should probably get some sleep.”

“Yeah,” she said. She nodded as if she hadn't considered it and

turned toward the window. Through the blinds, I could see shafts of light streaming in from the parking lot. She was cute when she was nervous.

“So ...,” she said again, as if speaking to the wall.

I held up my hands. “Why don't I sleep on the couch, okay?” “You wouldn't mind?”

“Not at all,” I said. Actually, it wasn't what I preferred, but I understood.

Still staring toward the window, she made no move to get up.

“I'm just not ready,” she said, her voice soft. “I mean, I thought I was, and part of me really wants to. I've been thinking about it for the last few weeks, and I made up my mind and it just seemed right, you know? I love you and you love me, and this is what people do when they're in love. It was easy to tell myself when you weren't here, but now ...” She trailed off.

“It's okay,” I said.

At last she turned toward me. “Were you scared? Your first time?”

I wondered how best to answer that. “I think it's different for men and women,” I said.

“Yeah. I suppose so.” She pretended to adjust the blankets. “Are you mad?”

“Not at all.”

“But you're disappointed.”

“Well...,” I admitted, and she laughed. “I'm sorry,” she said.

“There's no reason to apologize.”

She thought about it. “Then why does it feel like I have to apologize?”

“Well, I am a lonely soldier,” I pointed out, and she laughed again. I could still hear the nervousness in it.

“The couch isn't very comfortable,” she fretted. "And it's small.

You won't be able to stretch out. And I don't have any extra blankets. I should have grabbed a couple from home, but I forgot."

“That is a problem.” “Yeah,” she said. I waited.

“I suppose you could sleep with me,” she ventured.

I waited while she continued her own internal debate. Finally she shrugged. “You want to give it a try? Just sleeping, I mean?” “Whatever you say.”

For the first time, her shoulders relaxed. “Okay, then. We've got that settled. Just give me a minute to change.”

She rose from the bed, crossed the room, and opened a drawer. The pajamas she chose were similar to the ones she'd worn at her parents', and I left her to go back to the living room, where I slipped on some of my workout shorts and a T-shirt. By the time

I returned, she was already under the covers. I went to the other

side and crawled in beside her. She shuffled the covers before turning out the light, then lay on her back, staring toward the ceiling.

I lay on my side, facing her. “Good night,” she whispered. “Good night.”

I knew I wouldn't sleep. Not for a while, anyway. I was too ... worked up for that. But I didn't want to toss and turn, in case she could.

“Hey,” she finally whispered again. “Yes?”

She rolled over to face me. “I just want you to know this is my first time that I've ever slept with a man. All night, I mean. That's a step closer, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It's a step closer.”

She brushed my arm. “And now if anyone asks, you'll be able to tell them that we've slept together.”

“True,” I said.

“But you won't tell anyone, will you? I mean, I don't want to get a reputation, you know.”

I stifled a laugh. “I'll keep it our little secret.”

The next few days fell into an easy, relaxing pattern. Savannah had classes in the morning and usually finished up a little after lunch. Theoretically, I suppose it gave me the opportunity to sleep insomething that all army recruits dream about when they talk about going on leave—but years of rising before dawn was a habit impossible to break. Instead, I woke before she did and would start a pot

of coffee before trotting down to the corner to pick up the newspaper. Occasionally, I grabbed a couple of bagels or croissants;

other times, we simply had cereal at the house, and it was easy to view our little routine as a preview of the first years of our future

life together, effortless bliss that was almost too good to be true.

Or, at least, I tried to convince myself of that. When we stayed

with her parents, Savannah was exactly the girl I remembered. Same thing on our first night alone. But after that ... I began to notice differences. I guess I hadn't fully realized that she was living a life that seemed complete and fulfilling, even without me. The calendar she kept on the refrigerator door listed something to do almost every day: concerts, lectures, half a dozen parties for various friends. Tim, I noted, was penciled in for the occasional lunch as

well. She was taking four classes and teaching another as a graduate assistant, and on Thursday afternoons, she worked with a professor on a case study, one she was sure would be published. Her life was exactly the way she'd described it in her letters, and when she returned to the apartment, she'd tell me about her day while she

made herself something to eat in the kitchen. She loved the work

she was doing, and the pride in her tone was evident. She would talk animatedly while I listened, and I asked just enough questions to keep the flow of conversation going.

Nothing unusual in that, I admitted. I knew enough to realize

that it would have been a bigger problem if she'd said nothing about her day at all. But with every new story, I'd get this sinking feeling,

one that made me think that as much as we'd kept in touch, as

much as we cared about each other, she'd somehow zigged while I had zagged. Since I'd last seen her, she'd completed her degree, tossed her cap into the air at commencement, found work as a graduate assistant, and moved into, and furnished, her own apartment. Her life had entered a new phase, and while I suppose it was

possible to say the same thing about me, the simple fact was that nothing much had changed on my end, unless you counted the fact that I now knew how to assemble and disassemble eight types of weapons instead of six and I'd increased my bench press by another thirty pounds. And, of course, I'd done my part in giving the Russians something to think about if they were debating whether or not

to invade Germany with dozens of mechanized divisions.

Don't get me wrong. I was still head over heels for Savannah, and there were times when I still sensed the strength of her feelings for me. Lots of times, in fact. For the most part, it was a wonderful week. While she was gone, I'd walk the campus or jog around the sky blue track near the field house, taking advantage of some much needed downtime. Within a day I'd found a gym that would allow me to work out for the time I was there, and because I was in the service, they didn't even charge me. I'd usually be finished working out and showering by the time Savannah got back to the apartment, and we'd spend the rest of die afternoon together. On Tuesday night, we joined a group of her classmates for dinner in

downtown Chapel Hill. It was more fun than I'd thought it would

be, especially considering I was hanging out with a bunch of summer school eggheads and most of the conversation centered on the psychology of adolescents. On Wednesday afternoon, Savannah gave me a tour of her classes and introduced me to her professors. Later that afternoon, we met up with a couple of people I'd been introduced to the night before. That evening, we picked up some Chinese food and sat at the table in her apartment. She was wearing one of those strappy tank tops that accentuated her tan, and all I could think was that she was the sexiest woman I'd ever seen.

By Thursday, I wanted to spend some one-on-one time with her

and decided to surprise her with a special night out. While she was in class and working on the case study, I went to the mall and dropped a small fortune on a new suit and tie and another small fortune on shoes. I wanted to see her dressed up, and I made dinner reservations at this restaurant the shoe salesman had told me

was the best in town. Five stars, exotic menu, nattily dressed waiters, the whole shebang. Granted, I didn't tell Savannah about it beforehand—it was supposed to be a surprise, after all—but as

soon as she walked in the door, I found out she'd already made plans to spend another evening with the same friends we'd seen during the last couple of days. She sounded so excited about it that I never bothered to tell her what I'd planned.

Still, I wasn't just disappointed, I was angry. To my way of thinking, I was more than happy to spend an evening with her friends,

even an additional afternoon. But almost every day? After a year apart, when we had so little time left together? It bothered me that she didn't seem to share the same desire. For the past few months, I'd been imagining that we'd spend as much time together as we

could, making up for our year apart. But I was coming to the conclusion that I might have been mistaken. Which meant... what?

That I wasn't as important to her as she was to me? I didn't know, but given my mood, I probably should have stayed at the apartment and let her go by herself. Instead I sat off to the side, refused

to take part in the conversation, and pretty much stared down everyone who looked my way. I've become good at intimidation over the years, and I was in rare form that night. Savannah could

tell I was angry, but every time she asked if something was bothering me, I was at my passive-aggressive best in denying that anything was wrong at all.

“Just tired,” I said instead.

She tried to make things better, I'll give her that. She reached

for my hand now and then, flashed a quick smile my way when she thought I'd see it, and plied me with soda and chips. After a while, though, she got tired of my attitude and pretty much gave up.

Not that I blame her. I'd made my point, and somehow the fact that she started getting angry with me left me feeling flush with tit-fortat satisfaction. We barely talked on the way home, and when we

got into bed, we slept on opposite sides of the mattress. In the morning I was over it, ready to move on. Unfortunately, she wasn't.

While I was out getting the paper, she left the apartment without touching breakfast, and I ended up drinking my coffee alone.

I knew I'd gone too far, and I planned to make it up to her as soon as she got home. I wanted to come clean about my concerns, tell her about the dinner I'd planned, and apologize for my behavior. I assumed she'd understand. We'd put it all behind us over a romantic dinner out. It was just what I thought we needed, since we would

be leaving for Wilmington the next day to spend the weekend with my dad.

Believe it or not, I wanted to see him, and I figured he was looking forward to my visit, too, in his own way. Unlike Savannah, Dad got a pass when it came to expectations. It might not have been

fair, but Savannah had a different role to play in my life then. I shook my head. Savannah. Always Savannah. Everything

on this trip, everything about my life, I realized, always led back to her.

By one o'clock, I'd finished working out, cleaned up, packed most of my things, and called the restaurant to renew my reservation. I knew Savannah's schedule by then and assumed that she would be rolling in any minute. With nothing else to do, I sat on the

couch and turned on the television. Game shows, soap operas, infomercials, and talk shows were interspersed with commercials from ambulance-chasing lawyers. Time dragged as I waited. I kept wandering out on the patio to scan the parking lot for her car, and

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 ...”

She stared at her hands, and for a long time it was quiet. “I don't know what to say,” I finally admitted.

Despite herself, she laughed. “I don't want an answer,” she said, “because I don't think there is one. But I do know that I don't want to hurt you. That's all I know. I just hope I can find a way to be stronger this summer.”

“We could always work out together,” I joked halfheartedly, and

was gratified to hear the sound of her laugh.

"Yeah, that'll work. Ten chin-ups and I'll be good as new, right?

I wish it were that easy. But I'll make it. It might not be easy, but at least it's not going to be a full year this time. That's what I kept reminding myself today. That you'll be home for Christmas. A few more months and all this will be over."

I held her then, feeling the warmth of her body against my own. I could feel her fingers through the thin fabric of my shirt and felt her tug gently, exposing the skin of my stomach. The sensation was electric. I savored her touch and leaned in to kiss her.

There was a different kind of passion to her kiss, something vibrant and alive. I felt her tongue against my own, conscious of the

way her body was responding, and breathed deeply as her fingers began to drift toward the snap on my jeans. When I slid my hands lower, I realized that she was naked beneath the shirt. She undid the snap, and though I wanted nothing more than to continue, I forced myself to pull back, to stop before this went too far, to prevent something I still wasn't sure she was ready for.

I sensed my own hesitation, but before I could dwell on it, she suddenly sat up and slipped off her shirt. My breaths quickened as I stared at her, and all at once, she leaned forward and lifted my shirt. She kissed my navel and my ribs, then my chest, and I could feel her hands begin to tug at my jeans.

I stood up from the bed and pulled off my shirt, then let my

jeans fall to the floor. I kissed her neck and shoulders and felt the warmth of her breath in my ear. The sensation of her skin against mine was like fire, and we began to make love.

It was everything I had dreamed it would be, and when we were finished, I wrapped my arms around Savannah, trying to record the memory of every sensation. In the dark, I whispered to her how much I loved her.

We made love a second time, and when Savannah finally fell

asleep, I found myself staring at her. Everything about her was exquisitely peaceful, but for some reason, I couldn't escape a nagging

sense of dread. As tender and exciting as it had been, I couldn't help wondering whether there had been a trace of desperation in our actions, as if we were both clinging to the hope that this would sustain our relationship through whatever the future would bring.