by Judy Blume
“That’s not it.”
“Then what?”
“I’m trying to explain . . . if you’ll give me a chance.”
“Go ahead . . . I’m listening . . .”
“Look,” I told him, “it’s not you. You haven’t done anything . . . it’s me . . . it’s that . . . well . . .”
He gave me a long look, then jumped off the bed so fast he startled me. “There’s another guy, isn’t there?” He pulled on his underpants.
“In a way, I guess,” I started to say, “but . . .”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“No . . . nothing like that.”
He got into his jeans. “Then why did you have to tell me?”
“I didn’t tell you . . . you guessed it . . .”
He put his shirt on inside out. “And you wanted me to, didn’t you? I mean, Jesus . . . you lay there like a vegetable and I’m dumb enough to think it has to do with your grandfather . . . you must have thought I’d never catch on . . . that I’m really stupid.”
“Come on, Michael . . . I don’t think that and you know it. I’d have told you myself in another minute. We’re supposed to be honest with each other, remember?”
“Yeah . . . I remember a lot of things . . .” He looked around for his sneakers. “. . . which is more than I can say for you.”
“I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“No? What about forever . . . or is your memory failing at an early age?” He found his shoes and sat on the chair, putting them on but not tying the laces.
“I didn’t forget . . . not about you and not about forever.”
“Then what the hell’s going on?”
“Please, Michael . . . don’t . . .”
“Don’t . . .” he shouted. “Hell, I’m not the one who’s all fucked up!”
“I just don’t want any lies between us.”
“And you think it can be the same for us . . . now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll tell you . . . it can’t!” His voice broke. He went into the bathroom, slammed the door and flushed the toilet so I couldn’t hear anything.
I didn’t know what to do. I waited a while before I called, “Michael . . . are you okay?”
“Oh, sure . . .” he answered. “Just fine . . . just great . . .”
“Look . . . it could be that you rushed me so tonight . . . and I was too tense . . . oh, you know . . .”
“Don’t give me any of that crap.”
“It’s not crap . . .”
He flushed the toilet again.
I buttoned my dress.
Finally he opened the bathroom door. His shirt was still inside out but he’d tied his sneakers. He walked over to the nightstand and put on his glasses. “I’m not about to share you,” he said, sounding very calm. “I want it the way it was before . . . so make up your mind . . .”
I swallowed hard. “I can’t make any promises . . . not now.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Are you saying it’s over, then?”
“You said it . . . just now.”
“Couldn’t we sit on it a little while and see what happens?”
“You can’t have it both ways.”
“Then it’s really over, isn’t it?” Suddenly question number four popped into my mind. Have you thought about how this relationship will end?
“I guess so,” he said.
I took off my necklace and held it out to him. My throat was too tight to talk.
“Keep it,” he told me.
“I don’t think I should.” Our fingers touched as I handed it to him.
“What am I supposed to do with a necklace that says Katherine?”
“I don’t know.”
He picked up my pocketbook and dropped the necklace into it.
Neither one of us said anything on the drive back to camp. When we got there I opened the car door and stepped out, and as I did he leaned over and said, “You might as well know . . . I screwed my way around North Carolina . . .”
I shook my head to show I didn’t believe him.
So he shouted, “I humped everything in sight!”
“Liar!” I shouted back. “You’re just saying that to hurt me.”
“You’ll never know though . . . will you?” He took off so fast the tires shrieked and left marks on the road.
26
We saw each other one more time before we left for school. Erica and I were shopping in Hahne’s and there he was, at the stationery counter.
I said, “Hi.”
And he said, “Oh . . . hi.”
I said, “How are you?”
And he said, “Okay . . . and you?”
“Okay . . . how’s Artie?”
“He’s home. I saw him yesterday.”
“I’m glad.”
Erica disappeared down another aisle and Michael and I just stood there, looking at each other.
“Well . . .” I said, “good luck at school.”
“You too.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, by the way, I got that job in Vail . . .”
“Are you going to take it?”
He shrugged. “It all depends . . .”
“Michael . . .”
“Yeah?”
I wanted to tell him that I will never be sorry for loving him. That in a way I still do—that maybe I always will. I’ll never regret one single thing we did together because what we had was very special. Maybe if we were ten years older it would have worked out differently. Maybe. I think it’s just that I’m not ready for forever.
I hope that Michael knew what I was thinking. I hope that my eyes got the message through to him, because all I could manage to say was, “See you around . . .”
“Yeah,” he answered, “see you around.”
When I got home Jamie was out back with David and my mother was pruning her birthday tree.
“It looks nice,” I said. “It’s getting fatter.”
“It needs a lot of water,” she told me. “Did you get everything at Hahne’s?”
“Almost everything.”
“Are you all right . . . you don’t look well . . .”
“I’ve had better days . . . but I’m okay. I think I’ll take a shower before dinner.”
“Go ahead . . . and Kath . . .”
“Yes?”
“Theo called.”
JUDY BLUME is the author of some of the best-known and most widely read novels ever published. Adults as well as children will recognize such Blume titles as Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret; Blubber; Just as Long as We’re Together; and the five book series about the irrepressible Fudge. Her three novels for adults—Summer Sisters, Smart Women,and Wifey—were all New York Times bestsellers. More than 80 million copies of her books have been sold, and her work has been translated into thirty-one languages. Judy has received numerous recognitions for her contribution to literature, including the Margaret A. Edwards Award for Lifetime Achievement, the Library of Congress Living Legends Award, and the 2004 National Book Foundation’s Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters—and receives thousands of letters each year from readers of all ages who share their feelings and concerns with her.
Judy and her husband George Cooper live on islands up and down the east coast, and have three grown children and one grandchild. You can visit her online at www.judyblume.com or www.facebook.com/ItsMeJudyBlume.
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