“Like?”
“Things I’ve read,” I said.
“That’s all I get?”
“For now,” I said. “A girl can’t give away all her secrets too quickly.”
He nodded without smiling. “You’ll be like opening a box inside a box inside a box,” he said.
“You might get exhausted with the effort.”
Now he smiled. “Please,” he said. “Exhaust me.”
What if my girlfriends could listen in on all he and I said to each other? Would they believe it? Would they grimace and shake their heads, mumbling that we couldn’t be for real? Would they think we were being phony to impress each other? Would they get so bored with us that they’d plug in their headphones and drift off with the latest hit song?
They couldn’t appreciate us.
And they certainly couldn’t appreciate Christopher’s diary.
After the meal we had, I didn’t think I could eat any dessert, but Kane insisted we have the baked Alaska.
“They’re famous for it here.”
“I’m beginning to think they’re famous for everything here,” I said, but agreed we should have it.
It was so good I stuffed myself.
“I think you’ll have to carry me out of here,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Don’t even think of it,” I warned.
He was capable of breaking out into some outrageous act at any time. After he paid the bill, which I didn’t see but imagined to be the cost of at least a week’s worth of food for my father and me, he came around before the waiter could and pulled out my chair for me. Then he took my hand, smiled, and nodded at some of the people staring at us. He led us out to give the ticket for his car to the valet.
“This was such a wonderful night, Kane. Thank you. I feel like the senior prom will be a letdown after this.”
“Not if I can take you,” he said. “Okay,” he added after we were in his car and driving off. “I’ll confess. I was out to impress, even overwhelm, you tonight.”
“You succeeded.”
He laughed at my honesty. “I don’t think any other girl I would take here would have that reaction. Most of them would have looked and been uncomfortable in there.”
“Would take? How many have you taken?” I asked.
He shrugged. “A few.” He turned to me. “Always a disaster. Well,” he said, eager to change the subject, “looks like the rain your father feared came and went. Look at the clearing night sky, the stars.”
We were both silent for a while. I think it was one of those quiet pauses when two people ponder which road to take, which decision to make, or which suggestion to offer that would not endanger an early and fragile relationship. He already knew I wasn’t someone he could rush along, but I was also conscious of the possibility that he would think I was too conservative or, worse, just a tantalizing tease.
“Why don’t I call you late in the morning tomorrow, and if the weather isn’t bad, we try a picnic?”
“A picnic?”
“Fall is hanging in there. Did you see the weather report for tomorrow? They’re calling it a day of Indian summer. Winter is taking its time,” he said. “My father told me he’s not seen a fall like this since he was my age. He should have been a weatherman. He gives us a weather report like clockwork every morning.”
“A picnic?” I smiled. “I’d like that. Where would we go?”
“How about we go back to that lake?”