read it yet.”
Mary snapped the paper from Kelli’s hand with an almost frantic motion. “It’s nothing bad, really,” she explained hastily. “But June’s just such a busybody, you know, and—” She stopped, her voice suddenly less tense, relief sweeping into her face. “Well, anyway, thanks for giving it back,” she said. She folded the paper, sunk it into the pocket of her skirt and stepped back into the corridor, now suddenly herself again, fully a girl from Turtle Grove, all her grace and poise regained.
“Bye,” she said, then vanished.
Once Mary had gone, I tried to make light of the whole thing. “That breakup stuff must have been about her and Todd. They must be having trouble.”
Kelli had already returned to her desk, but she looked up at me pointedly, her eyes cold and stern. “You should have given it to her right away,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked, though I already knew.
“You made her beg, Ben,” Kelli said. “Why did you do that?”
I had no answer for her. “You’re right,” I admitted. “I should have just given the paper back to her.”
Kelli watched me evenly, her face so grave it appeared almost stony. Her eyes were nearly motionless, two black pools, but I could sense her mind moving rapidly behind them, remembering, evaluating, coming to judgment.
For a moment I feared she might never speak to me again, but suddenly the severity broke, and she smiled. “It must be nice though,” she said almost airily.
“Nice?” I asked, now completely thrown off by the abrupt change in her attitude. “What must be nice?”
“To love someone like that,” Kelli answered. “The way Mary loves Todd.” She smiled quietly. “To feel desperate about losing someone.”
It seemed the right moment to make a cautious inquiry. “Have you ever felt that way about anybody?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. But I hope I do someday.”
I started to say something else, but she turned away, returning to her work, closing off any further discussion.
For the next hour we worked silently. Then suddenly she demanded, “Would you have run it?”
So much time had passed that I didn’t know what she was referring to. “Run what?”
“That note June gave you. Would you have put it in the
Wildcat
?”
I turned to face her. “I don’t know. I might have.” I shrugged. “But I hope that if I had run it, I would have been disappointed in myself later. That’s the worst thing you can do, right? To disappoint yourself.” I looked at her quietly for a moment, then added, “Or disappoint someone else. Someone you admire. That’s the worst thing, don’t you think?”
Kelli shook her head. “No, the worst thing is for someone you love to disappoint
you
,” she said with a sudden, unexpected vehemence. “That’s what’s really bad.” Her eyes narrowed, and I could see an odd tumult in them, though it was also clear that the cause of it was not something Kelli wanted to reveal. She glanced away quickly, then turned back to me, her eyes calm again. “Anyway, I’m glad we gave June’s note back to Mary,” she said.
“Me, too,” I said.
We closed the office a few minutes later, then strolled out to the parking lot. Kelli did not have a car, and so on the days we worked late, I drove her home to Collier. It was dark when we reached her house, and outside the car I could hear the whistle of a chill fall wind.
“Better wrap up,” I said, nodding toward the checked scarf that now dangled loosely from Kelli’s throat.
She looked at me oddly, as if surprised by my care. “Yes, I will,” she murmured. Then she leaned forward, reached over and took my hand. “Thanks, Ben.”
It was a small gesture of affection, nothing more, and yet I can still recall the tingling sense of her flesh on mine, the way it seemed to linger on my skin long after she’d drawn away her hand. And I know that with every day that passed from that moment on, my longing for her steadily
Mary snapped the paper from Kelli’s hand with an almost frantic motion. “It’s nothing bad, really,” she explained hastily. “But June’s just such a busybody, you know, and—” She stopped, her voice suddenly less tense, relief sweeping into her face. “Well, anyway, thanks for giving it back,” she said. She folded the paper, sunk it into the pocket of her skirt and stepped back into the corridor, now suddenly herself again, fully a girl from Turtle Grove, all her grace and poise regained.
“Bye,” she said, then vanished.
Once Mary had gone, I tried to make light of the whole thing. “That breakup stuff must have been about her and Todd. They must be having trouble.”
Kelli had already returned to her desk, but she looked up at me pointedly, her eyes cold and stern. “You should have given it to her right away,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked, though I already knew.
“You made her beg, Ben,” Kelli said. “Why did you do that?”
I had no answer for her. “You’re right,” I admitted. “I should have just given the paper back to her.”
Kelli watched me evenly, her face so grave it appeared almost stony. Her eyes were nearly motionless, two black pools, but I could sense her mind moving rapidly behind them, remembering, evaluating, coming to judgment.
For a moment I feared she might never speak to me again, but suddenly the severity broke, and she smiled. “It must be nice though,” she said almost airily.
“Nice?” I asked, now completely thrown off by the abrupt change in her attitude. “What must be nice?”
“To love someone like that,” Kelli answered. “The way Mary loves Todd.” She smiled quietly. “To feel desperate about losing someone.”
It seemed the right moment to make a cautious inquiry. “Have you ever felt that way about anybody?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. But I hope I do someday.”
I started to say something else, but she turned away, returning to her work, closing off any further discussion.
For the next hour we worked silently. Then suddenly she demanded, “Would you have run it?”
So much time had passed that I didn’t know what she was referring to. “Run what?”
“That note June gave you. Would you have put it in the
Wildcat
?”
I turned to face her. “I don’t know. I might have.” I shrugged. “But I hope that if I had run it, I would have been disappointed in myself later. That’s the worst thing you can do, right? To disappoint yourself.” I looked at her quietly for a moment, then added, “Or disappoint someone else. Someone you admire. That’s the worst thing, don’t you think?”
Kelli shook her head. “No, the worst thing is for someone you love to disappoint
you
,” she said with a sudden, unexpected vehemence. “That’s what’s really bad.” Her eyes narrowed, and I could see an odd tumult in them, though it was also clear that the cause of it was not something Kelli wanted to reveal. She glanced away quickly, then turned back to me, her eyes calm again. “Anyway, I’m glad we gave June’s note back to Mary,” she said.
“Me, too,” I said.
We closed the office a few minutes later, then strolled out to the parking lot. Kelli did not have a car, and so on the days we worked late, I drove her home to Collier. It was dark when we reached her house, and outside the car I could hear the whistle of a chill fall wind.
“Better wrap up,” I said, nodding toward the checked scarf that now dangled loosely from Kelli’s throat.
She looked at me oddly, as if surprised by my care. “Yes, I will,” she murmured. Then she leaned forward, reached over and took my hand. “Thanks, Ben.”
It was a small gesture of affection, nothing more, and yet I can still recall the tingling sense of her flesh on mine, the way it seemed to linger on my skin long after she’d drawn away her hand. And I know that with every day that passed from that moment on, my longing for her steadily
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