Page 86 of When We Were Enemies
“They haven’t told us where we’re going yet, but Tennessee is as good a place as any. Only thing I know for sure is—I’m on the list.” He takes another gulp, and I wonder how he can seem so levelheaded after finishing half of the bottle.
“Golly,” I say, my lower lip trembling. I could cry, though I’m not sure if it’s the liquor or the idea of losing Tom just as we’ve finally connected. My tongue loosened by too much to drink, I told him everything about my life at dinner—my dreams of Hollywood, the pressures I face at home; I even told him about mamma and the day Tony died. I’ve never told anyone but Father Theodore the truth about that day or why my mamma doesn’t live with us. But I trust Tom—and now he’s leaving me.
“Oh, doll, no. Don’t do that. You’ll break my heart.” He cups my face and runs his thumb over my bottom lip, around the edge at first and then presses it into the smooth, moist flesh where it meets my top lip. He stares at my mouth like a hypnotized creature. My breathing becomes rapid, and the rear window gathers a film of condensation like it’s granting us an unspoken wish for privacy.
“You’re so perfect,” he says, using his thumb to trace along my cheekbone and down my neck to my collarbone above the neckline of my dress. His caress sends shivers through my whole body and spreads a warmth through my midsection and a strange and delicious tingle between my thighs.
“Mmm,” I mutter reflexively, which is embarrassing but out of my control.
“You like that?” he asks, retracing the trail from my jaw to my collarbone, dipping lower this time, closer to the outline of my brassiere. And then again, this time his fingertips linger only centimeters from the swell of my breasts. I hold back another gasp, licking my lips and squirming in my seat. It feels good, so good, and shockingly—I want more.
But I can’t want more. Even in my intoxicated state, I know this is a sin. Besides, Tom is leaving; he just said so.
His fingers reach my breasts and graze my nipples through the fabric of my dress as he leans in to place a hot, gentle kiss on my neck. The thrill his caress sends through my body brings me back to sanity. I put both my hands on his shoulders and push him away.
“Tom, no.” I’m breathing so fast that I sound like I’ve been dancing the jitterbug at full speed. He pulls back but keeps his hand resting on my right breast like it’s meant to be there.
“No?” he asks, eyebrows raised in confusion. “Why? You clearly like it.”
I do like it. I’m ashamed of how much I enjoy the way he’s exploring my body inch by inch, and I don’t want him to stop. But I’m no idiot. Good girls, drunk or not, don’t fool around in the back seat of a car on a first date. I might not be “sweet,” but I’m also not loose.
“I can’t, Tom. I’m sorry.” I remove his hands from my body, hoping I’ll think more clearly once the magic of his touch has worn off. He hits the seat between us and groans, which makes me jump and makes my heart race in a new way.
“You’re killing me, baby.” Without making contact, he runs his hand over my face, neck, abdomen, and legs, never touching my skin but close enough that his body heat leaves a trail of goose bumps behind. “How’s a guy supposed to be around a girl like you and not fall madly in love? That’s like sitting a starving man in front of a feast and telling him not to eat.”
“Love?” I sit up, pressing my back against the side door, as far away from temptation as possible in the back seat of a Cadillac.
“Damn it, Viv. Yes.” His eyes are glossy with drink. Or could it be with emotion? “Why do you think I go so crazy sometimes?”
I shrug, thinking back on how intensely he’s pursued me, how upset he gets when I give any other man attention.
“Do you love me back?”
Love?I think about the word again.Is this what love feels like?I wonder. It’s what it looks like in the movies. Desire, jealousy, passion, love. I’ve always considered my parents’ story to be the epitome of true love—my father supporting and loving my mother through all her mental anguish and their terrible mutual losses. But what if that’s not real love? What if that’s only endurance?
Who am I kidding? None of this matters anyway.
“I can’t love you, Tom,” I say, knowing it’s the only safe choice.
“That’s a lie.” He slides across the seat and presses his thigh against mine. “I can tell you love me. You’re fighting it, but you do.”
“Do you blame me?” I ask, looking up into his face, tears gathering in my eyes. It’s easier to speak to him now, with the effect of the drinks at dinner and the flask and whatever’s in that bottle. “You’re leaving. You’ll love some other girl in the next town, but I’ll be stuck loving you forever if I let myself.”
“I knew it. I knew you love me,” he says triumphantly.
“That’s not what I said. I said ...”
“I don’t care what you said. I care what I heard, and I heard that you love me.” He takes my left hand and kisses the finger where I’ll one day, if I’m lucky, wear a wedding ring. “And you’ll keep loving me even when I’m in other towns or other countries, or even if I’m gone from this world. That means so much to a soldier, a beautiful, talented girl like you loving a guy all the way to the eternities.”
“I can’t, Tom. I can’t love you. You’ll break my heart—I know you will.” Now I hear it, too, all mixed in with my denial. I do love him, even if I wish I didn’t. And my heart will break when he leaves.
“What if I don’t break your heart? What if I don’t run off and find some other girl because you’re my girl and why would I need anyone else?”
“You want me to wait for you?” Plenty of girls wait for their soldier to come home and start a life together. But it’s a gamble that keeps most girls from saying yes without an engagement ring or a wedding.
“If you stay here waiting for me, I’ll come home to find you married to some famous actor you met in Hollywood; I know I will.” He chuckles at the fantastic prospect, but I can hear real anxiety behind it. “The only way I want you to wait for me is as my wife.”
“Your wife?” I echo, the revelation making my head spin.
