Shit, shit,shit. I meant it. I love him, and it’s possible I have since we met here, at this beach, since that first time my heart reached for his. I’ve known with certainty since our night in the turret, but I can’t tell him—not when he’s regarding me with an air of utter terror.
“Either way,” he says, “I need to know how serious you were—are. How seriousweare.”
“Mati…” Because, no, we can’t be serious, despite how I feel.
He breathes a sigh that sounds suspiciously like relief. “It’s okay. It was an expression, one I didn’t follow, and that’sgood. Because even though I’m growing to love you with strength that scares me, it’s better if you do not fall so hard.”
I stare into his bottomless eyes. He stares back, unwavering. I need to say something; I need to respond with comparable compassion. I swallow. “Uh, how is that better?”
His mouth turns up in an endeared smile. God, he is far superior with words, and he knows it. “It is better,” he says patiently, “because when I leave, you won’t be so hurt.”
I feel weird, like I’ve plummeted into frigid water. My senses are slow, uncooperative, and my reactions are sluggish. My lungs feel heavy, underoxygenated, and the result is a rush of vertigo so powerful, I have to grab the edge of the table to remain upright.
I’ll be inconsolable when he goes. How does he not realize?
I forage for words—the right words—to make him understand. “Mati, when you leave, I willcrumble.”
His head drops. “I hoped—”
“What? That I’d kiss you goodbye and go about my day? Do you not see the way I look at you, or feel the way I touch you? Do you not realize that I’m always trying to get as close to you as possible? That I’m constantly adjusting my Mati dial so I can stay tuned in to you through incessant static?”
He’s still looking at the ground when he mumbles, “It just—you feeling the way I feel… it seems too good to be real.”
“Well, itisreal. I love you for saying what you said, and I love you.”
I lean forward and catch his mouth with mine. I’ll kiss the stunned look off his face. I’ll drill everything I just said through his thick skull. I’ll make him understand how profoundly he’s affected me, and how deeply I care.
When I pull away, he gives me a meek smile, his eyes swimming with trepidation.
“Hey,” I whisper, tugging his hat from his head so I can run my fingers through his hair. “No doubts, okay? Earlier, you talked about how good we are. Nothing’s changed, right?”
He blows out a leaden breath. It takes a second, but he shakes his head. “No. Nothing has changed.” He lifts his hat from where it sits on my lap and fits it over my head, ponytail and all. I’m certain it looks ridiculous but, finally, his mouth turns up in a smile.
“We’re okay?” I ask.
“I’m not sure we’ll ever be okay. Right now, I am two things.Khoshqháala.”
He waits, and I repeat:“Khoshqháala.”
“Andghamdzhan.”
“What do they mean?”
His expression is woeful, but his eyes burn flame-hot, the way they do, I’ve come to realize, when he’s thinking about kissing me. He tips his head, pressing his mouth to mine.
“Happy,” he whispers against my lips. He kisses me again, lingering. “And so, so sad.”
elise
At home, Mom and I maintain a careful cease-fire. We speak to each other when necessary, and with unnatural politeness. She returns my phone, finally, which is the same as reclaiming a limb. Over the weekend, I get another chance to babysit Janie, and Audrey treats me almost normally. I indulge in a milkshake date with Ryan, which, thankfully, is a more cheery meeting than our last conversation in the yard.
Mostly, life feels okay, except for the fact that Mati and I are forced to keep our relationship secret. He still meets me at the beach in the mornings, but we’re vigilant now, checking the stretch of sand that used to feel like ours for anyone who might pose a threat. I glance over my shoulder before taking his outstretched hand, and he surveys the picnic area before kissing me goodbye. At night, we sneak off to the dark solitude of the park. When I can’t get away, I spend hours on the phone with him. It’s a comfort to fall asleep to the timbre of his voice, the melody of his brooding words.
A week before he’s due to return to Afghanistan, we spend amorning at the beach, trudging through the sand, watching my dog scuttle around up ahead without a care in the world. I’m envious. I feel wretched (seven days until he’s gone forever—seven days, seven days, seven days) and I can tell Mati’s mind is working overtime. He pauses to launch Bambi’s tennis ball, then watches it soar through the air with a faraway expression.
I touch his arm. “Are you okay?”
He shrugs and starts walking again.
