She’s quiet for a minute. He can’t look at her. Afraid of what she’s thinking, so when she speaks, it’s a relief, not just because of the words, but because of the end of silence.
“Jessup.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for telling me that. It’s important.”
“Okay.”
“I like you, Jessup.”
“I like you, too.”
“No,” Deanne says. She bites her lip again, but it’s different than the way she bit it while they were making love. “I mean, I really like you.”
He realizes she’s the one crying now. A dampness around her eyes that reflects the light from the dashboard and the stereo. He reaches up and thumbs off a tear.
“Deanne . . .”
“Are you going to make me say it first?”
But neither of them says it, so he pulls her close and kisses her for a few minutes and then they make love again—Jessup is vaguely aware that this is only something he can do again so soon because he’s seventeen—and afterward Deanne asks him to drive her home. They don’t talk much, just a few words about seeing each other at work, plans to go out after with Deanne’s friends, but there’s nothing uncomfortable. She holds his hand with both of hers, and when he drops her off in front of the church on Pearl Street, they spend several more minutes kissing. When she opens the door, it’s all he can do not to grab her and stop her and tell her he loves her.