Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Amanda led the way to the parking lot where they'd left Mark's car. "Where should we go?"

"I should just take you home."

She stopped on the sidewalk and stared at him.

He crossed his arms, not smiling. A battle raged behind his eyes. He didn't want to take her home.

She'd never been so certain about anything in her life. And that was good, because she couldn't bear to think about being separated from him until it was absolutely necessary. "We're not going to worry about what you think you should do, okay?"

She could invite him to her apartment, but she feared he really would drop her off and leave. "There's a mall in Warwick. Do you like shopping?"

"I hate it."

"Me too. Let's go."

It was a typical mall. One story, bookended by department stores with specialty shops scattered in between, decked out for Christmas, despite the fact that Thanksgiving was still a couple of weeks away. They walked from one end to the other while Amanda peppered Mark with questions. They'd covered the basics, but she wanted to know everything.

"In the car on the way to lunch, when I told you about the peanut butter cookies, you had a funny look on your face. Did your mother not bake? Or was it something else?"

Mark chuckled, but the sound held no joy. "It's not good that you can read me so easily."

"Oh, I don't know." She stopped and looked up at him. "Can you read me?"

He studied her for so long that her cheeks burned. Finally, he smiled. "Like a children's book."

"Maybe that's the way it's supposed to be."

His lips tipped up, almost a smile, and she knew he felt it, too, this thing between them.

He started walking again. Neither one of them had so much as glanced into the stores. "I'm an only child. Unfortunately, my parents don't like each other very much. We had few happy family moments."

She squeezed his hand. "That must've been hard."

Mark steered her toward the food court and the scent of greasy hamburgers and gooey cinnamon rolls, but so soon after lunch, nothing about it smelled appetizing. After he bought them each a soda, they wandered toward Macy's, hand-in-hand. "Earlier, you avoided telling me where you went to school. How come?"

"I went to the Naval Academy."

"Oh."

He swirled his drink and shook the crushed ice.

She should've guessed. His crew cut, his muscles, even the way he carried himself—they all screamed military. "It's hard to get into the Naval Academy, isn't it?"

He shrugged. "There are a lot of steps."

"Did you always want to go there?"

Mark steered her toward a seating area outside the department store, where they settled side-by-side on an industrial couch.

She put her back to the arm of the chair so she could face him.

He propped an ankle on the opposite knee, then balanced his cup on his thigh, apparently not feeling the condensation that dripped onto his jeans. "I've wanted to be a Marine as long as I can remember."

"How come?"

"Dad served in Vietnam. My uncle served in Korea, and my grandfather served in Europe. His division liberated a concentration camp."

"A family legacy."

Mark shrugged. "Didn't have to be. Dad was always very clear about that—that I should follow God's plan for my life." He watched her for a reaction, but she wasn't sure what she was supposed to say.

"My parents talk like that too. Like God has some grand plan, and I'm supposed to follow it."

"You don't believe it?"

"I didn't, but…" But meeting Mark, the way it happened, the way he'd saved her? She was coming around.

He looked down almost fast enough to hide his smile, maybe reading her mind. "Anyway, none of them—Dad, my uncle, Grandpa—none of them talked about the battles they fought. Even when they didn't know I was listening—I was bad about pretending to go to bed but listening on the stairs." He lifted his shoulders in a little self-effacing shrug. "I guess I was nosy."

She imagined a smaller version of Mark, eavesdropping on the grownups, and smiled.

"Even when they were alone," he continued, "they'd trade funny stories about their time overseas, but never anything serious. Not that I realized it. But when I was in high school, my history teacher showed a video of the liberation of Dachau. At first I was searching the soldiers' faces for my grandfather. And then, I saw the prisoners, and I was…" He swallowed and stared out at the mall. "All those people. Innocent men and women. Children. Nothing but skin and bones. Most of them had no clothes. They were treated like animals, and I just…I thought there could be no more noble pursuit than to fight for people who couldn't fight for themselves."

Wow.

He kept surprising her, this man. The more she knew about him, the more she loved him. "That's amazing."

He faced her. "Not really. You know how idealistic kids can be."

"I have a feeling you're no less idealistic today. You just hide it better."

He didn't argue, just sipped his drink. "My mother wanted me to go to Princeton, her alma mater. I applied and got accepted. I didn't even tell her I was applying to the Academy at first. She was…" His lips tightened into a thin line. "Disappointed."

Amanda wondered what it would be like to have parents like that. "You'd think she'd have been proud."

He lifted a single eyebrow. "Only if you'd never met her."

Amanda would've laughed if not for his dead-serious tone. "But she married a soldier. She must've thought that was noble enough at the time."

"I was almost nine pounds when I was born…six months after the wedding."

"Nine pounds?" Yikes. And then the rest of what he'd said registered. "Oooh."

"Dad had just returned from Vietnam, Mom was in her probably five-minute rebellious stage. It was the seventies."

What a messy family. She hated that for Mark. Yet, look how well he'd turned out. Noble and brave and kind.

People walked by as if it were any normal Saturday. Teenagers flirting and giggling. Old folks in sneakers, getting their exercise.

But this man would be at war, like his father before him. What would he endure? Would it be so awful that he'd avoid talking about it, even with other veterans? Would he keep it from her?

Amanda didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to consider him leaving for Afghanistan. She didn't want to think about the enemies he'd face over there.

He dropped his foot on the floor and leaned toward her. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

With his thumb, he rubbed the space between her eyebrows. "Tell me, please."

"I don't want you to go."

He dropped his hand to his lap. "Ah."

"You want to go, though."

"I did. I do." He faced forward again. "It's what I've trained for, what I've waited my whole life to do." The way his lips turned down at the corners told a different story.

She wanted to press him, to get him to tell her what he was really thinking. Instead, she asked, "How long?"

"At least a year."

"I can handle a year."

He shrugged as if it didn't matter. "Probably two, maybe more. And anyway, I'm based at Pendleton, in San Diego. By the time I get back, you'll have forgotten all about me."

Forget about him? And here he'd claimed he could read her like a book.