Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

Mark might as well have run screaming from the restaurant.

He welcomed the stiff wind blowing off the Atlantic. Maybe it would cool things off a little.

This was crazy. How could he fall in love in…what? Twenty-four hours? Thirty-six, if he started counting when he'd first laid eyes on her. Who did that?

It didn't even make sense, especially not for Mark, who'd sworn since he was eleven years old he would never, ever fall in love. He'd broken that rule once and paid the price. He had no intention of doing it again. No intention of getting married and saddling himself with some woman who'd turn into an angry, bitter shrew.

He had quite enough shrew already in his mother.

And yet, here he was, tumbling through some rabbit hole like Alice-in-flipping-Wonderland. Except Alice had probably been suffering a psychotic break.

Was falling in love all that different, really? He was losing his head, losing his heart, losing his ever-loving mind.

This was the terrorists' fault. He blamed them and the attacks two months before. Now that America was at war, his feelings were heightened. Not just his, either, he didn't think. The good seemed amazing, the bad horrendous, the future uncertain. Why not fall in love?

He could think of a few reasons. Well, he would think of them, if it weren't already too late.

That was the problem, of course.

It was too late.

Whatever.

It was one thing for Mark to fall for Amanda. To bring himself pain. Stupid, definitely. It certainly wouldn't help him climb on that plane in a week. But having Amanda on his mind while he was fighting—he could think of worse images to focus on. Now that he'd spent so much time with her, he'd be able to pull out his memories like photographs whenever he was lonely. He'd remember her smile, her voice, her laugh. This weekend could carry him through the war.

But she wasn't supposed to know how he felt. Somehow, she'd picked up on it. Somehow, she felt it too.

She was a student with better things to worry about than some Marine halfway around the world.

He had to stop this before it got out of control.

He had to tell her the truth. And he needed help to do it because the last thing he wanted was to hurt her.

Mark had gone to church as a kid, but he hadn't had a lot of time for God in the last few years. Sure, he'd done a good thing rescuing Amanda the other night. And going into the service—that had to count for something. But would those good things make up for all the bad? Would they make up for all the ways he'd disappointed his mother? For his shortcoming and sins? For breaking Amanda's sweet heart?

He gazed up at the clear blue sky. "Help me out here, God. Tell me how to do this."

Not that he'd expected a voice or anything, but he'd hoped for some insights or something. He got nothing, though, and a few minutes later, he gave up and made his way back inside.

She watched him, wariness in her gaze, as he made his way to their table and slid in across from her.

"Sorry about that."

"It's fine." But in those two words, he knew she'd lifted her defenses again.

Probably just as well. "Are you finished?"

"Uh-huh. You?"

He dropped more than enough money on the table without waiting for the check. "Let's go."

He placed his hand on the small of her back and felt warmth through her thin sweater as he led her through the dining room and into the cool November day. Outside, she stopped and slipped on her wool coat.

"Do you mind if we go for a walk?" he asked.

"Fine."

They made their way across the street and onto the sidewalk that ran the length of the beach. He walked at a slow pace, adjusting to her shorter legs. Empty benches lined the lane every twenty or thirty feet. They were alone, and it was time to tell her the truth. How could she possibly understand loss, understand the kinds of sacrifices he was about to make? How could she understand what being with him would cost her? She couldn't, and he didn't want her to. This was the only way.

"This has been fun," he said. "We should head back soon."

"If you say so."

"I'm sure you have better things to do than hang out with me."

She didn't respond. She wasn't going to make this easy.

"I love the beach," he said. "It's always made me feel connected, somehow."

"To?"

He shrugged. "God, I guess. Do you believe in God?"

"I try not to think about God."

"That's a strange thing to say."

She looked down, picked at some lint on her black coat.

"Any particular reason?"

She sighed. "When I was fifteen, I was in a pretty terrible car accident."

"Oh." He hadn't expected that. "Want to tell me about it?"

She took a few steps before she spoke, her focus on the ground. "I was with my best friend and her family, sitting in the backseat between her and her brother. A truck lost control and hit us."

Her words were automatic, as if she'd told the story a million times, or maybe she was trying to keep her emotions in check. His body tensed as he waited for the rest. "What happened?"

"The truck driver died. My friend and her family died. I was the only survivor."

Oh, man. And here he'd thought her too young to understand loss. He faced her. "I'm sorry. I can't imagine."

She crossed her arms and looked beyond him, out to sea. "It changed everything, you know? I didn't understand why I didn't die too. I thought maybe God had spared me for a reason, but then…"

Her voice trailed. He desperately wished he could read her mind. "Please tell me."

She shook her head. "I guess it affected me. I started to think my plan to be a chef was stupid, like I had to do something more worthwhile with my life. Be a nurse or something. But I can't stand the sight of blood, and I have few skills outside the kitchen." She tried to smile as if it didn't matter, but tears dripped down her face.

He brushed them away with his fingertip, then stroked her hair. "Go on."

She looked at the ground. "I was messed up. I went to see a shrink. Did some really stupid things. I wanted to understand, to make it mean something. But…but it didn't. It doesn't. I can't be… I don't know what I'm supposed to be. I gave up trying to figure it out. Gave up on God. If there is a God, He let my best friend die. He let all those people die. He let my childhood die."

Wow. He didn't know what to say. Everything that came to mind sounded stupid, so he just took her hands and squeezed.

She looked up, and her eyes widened. "I can't believe I just told you that." Her cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. "I never tell that story. Sherri doesn't even know. Carl doesn't. Not even my roommate. What's wrong with me?" She pulled a hand away and swiped at fresh tears. "I don't know anything about you. I don't know where you live or what you do or where you went to school, and here I am, baring my soul. You probably think I'm crazy."

Crazy?

No.

Wounded. And precious and hurt and vulnerable and young and…

And wow, he wanted to kiss her.

Don't do it . But he leaned forward. "I think you're beautiful." He brushed his lips against hers.

The slightest touch, and… aw, man. He shouldn't have done that.

Electricity zinged through him. Power. Or maybe it was weakness.

She gasped. But she didn't back away.

No. She leaned in.

He kissed her again, tasting her tears.

She slid her hands over his shoulders, her fingers sliding against the back of his neck.

He groaned—aloud? He had no idea as he wrapped his arms around her back and pulled her close. Closer, diving in. Tasting everything he'd always wanted. Everything he'd never known he was missing.

Too soon, but somehow also too late, he forced himself to stop.

He couldn't bring himself to let her go. Not yet. Just gazed down at her, this beautiful woman gazing up at him with wide blue eyes.

Her cheeks were still pink, but she smiled. He rested his forehead against hers, knowing the answer to her question. Knowing exactly why she'd been spared in that car accident.

For him.

No.

It took all his strength, but he stepped away from her. "I'm glad you told me. About the accident. That must've been… I can't imagine."

He sounded like an idiot.

She closed her eyes.

He took her hand and started walking again. Forcing himself to take his eyes off her so he could think straight.

All he wanted to do was kiss her again.

He'd tell her now, and it would all be over.

His gut did a weird wrenching thing, like something was ripping apart in there. And something was. His heart.

"What?" Her question was soft, almost fearful.

He looked at her, saw her studying him, and looked away. "I didn't say anything."

"It's written all over your face. You're upset. You're sorry you kissed me."

He pulled in a deep breath and pushed it out. "I shouldn't have done that."

Tears pooled in her eyes.

Nice. Make her cry. What was wrong with him? "I'm sorry. Please don't be offended. I've spent the last few years of my life trying very hard not to get involved with anyone, and now with just a week left…"

He hadn't meant to say it that way. Man, he was screwing this up.

"A week left until what?" She squeezed his hand and smiled, though it was slight. "Do you have to go back to Krypton?"

Superman again. She wouldn't think that much longer.

"I'm being deployed in a week."

She stopped. "Deployed?" The pitch of her voice rose to a near squeak. "What do you mean?"

"I'm a Marine, Amanda. I'm going to Afghanistan."

Her breath whooshed away as if she'd had the wind knocked out of her. She rested her hand over her heart. "Oh. That's…no." She wiped away fresh tears and turned toward the beach. "I should've… Of course."

When she said nothing else, he asked, "Are you okay?"

She shook her head.

He led her to a bench about ten feet away. They sat beside each other. "I'm sorry. About all of this. I should've just handed you the sack with the stupid pepper spray and key chain and taken off."

Tears trickled down her cheeks. "Why would you say that? You're sorry you kissed me. Now you're sorry we got to know each other. Are you sorry you met me, too? Sorry you followed me out of the bar the other night?"

A wave of frustration colored his tone. "If I hadn't followed you?—"

"Maybe you're sorry about that, too."

"Don't be ridiculous." He forced himself to soften his tone. "I'm not really sorry about any of it, except now that I've met you, I don't want to leave. And I certainly don't want you worrying about me, like there's some…" He let his voice trail off.

She crossed her arms. "Some what?"

"Some future for us or something. I'm going to war."

She shifted on the bench and stared into his eyes. He wouldn't look away. He couldn't let her see his wavering emotions, the pain he was feeling. She'd be better off with a clean break.

"You leave in a week?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Something like that."

"So we have a week."

"No, we don't."

"You just said?—"

"I'm just here for a visit. I'm leaving tomorrow. I need to spend some time with my parents?—"

"Why aren't you home when you're about to go to war?"

"A week with my mother is… You'd have to know her to understand."

She lifted her eyebrows.

"She hates that I'm a Marine. She'll never forgive me for getting sent to war."

"I'm sure she's just worried about you."

"Hmm." No sense trying to explain to someone like Amanda. She obviously had a healthy family.

"And it's not like you have a choice."

He shrugged. "Even if I did?—"

"You'd go?"

He nodded but said nothing.

And then, for no good reason, Amanda smiled. "Okay."

"Okay?"

She stood and walked along the sidewalk toward his car. "If this is going to be the only day we get to spend together, let's make the best of it."

He caught up with her, pretending he didn't feel a little jolt of excitement, knowing she still wanted to be with him.

Regardless of how they felt today, he'd still be leaving her. How could they make the best of it? Because leaving her—that might be the hardest thing he'd ever have to do.