“Try it. I’m sure you’re quite capable of the same.”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Close your eyes,” I say, running my hand down the side of his cheek. “What do you smell?”
He takes a moment to collect his thoughts before speaking. “I smell vanilla, coffee beans, a variety of botanicals, and the sea mist. I didn’t know the sea mist had a smell, but it’s salty, I suppose.”
“And what do you taste?” I ask through a whisper.
He’s quicker to answer this time. “I taste the flavors of coffee and syrup from the pancakes.” With slow blinks, Everett’s eyes soften, admiring me as if he’s trying to memorize my features but leans in and claims my lips. His tongue meets mine, and my heart races with desire as he cups his hands around my cheeks. “You,” he mutters against my mouth. “I taste you.”
It’s hard to consider any other sensation when feeling like this, and I’ll happily forget about the sounds and colors of the world if I can remember this—the touch of his lips, his tongue, the sweet taste of sugar. The moment lasts for what seems like minutes, but he pulls away quicker than I wanted and darts his gaze out toward the ocean. “Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Shh,” he hushes me, holding his finger up to his mouth. “Do you hear that?”
I close my eyes to focus on whatever sound he’s hearing, but I can’t discern much other than a low rumble of wind in the distance. “It’s just the breeze because we’re up high.”
“No,” he says, staring with intensity toward the horizon. “No, no, that sound is not from the wind.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to laugh away the nerves from his apparent apprehension.
Everett stands up from the blanket and holds his hand over his eyes to shield the abundance of light leaking over the horizon, but we can’t see much since a cluster of clouds are hovering over the water. He lowers his hand in a slow movement. “Lizzie, get into the car.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Get in the car right now. Go.”
I lean down to stack the plates back into the picnic basket. “I’ll just clean this up,” I say.
“No, leave it there. Let’s go.”
“Everett, we can’t just leave this—”
He takes my wrist within his hand and pulls me away from where we were sitting. “I’m sorry. Just, please listen.”
“I don’t understand.”
He opens my car door and helps me inside faster than I would typically move. Everett is in his seat within seconds, burning rubber as we back out of the parking spot. My mind is racing with questions he won’t answer, and I’m still unsure of what he heard.
“I don’t understand either, but I need to find out,” he says.
19
December 1941
The roads areblurry as we take sharp turns down every side street. Everett’s eyes fixate on the sky more than the road in front of us. My heart is racing so hard. I feel like I’ve been running through the thick morning fog. My knuckles ache against my grip of the door handle, and I’m staring toward the horizon, waiting for answers—ones I’m fearful to know. In the time Everett and I have known each other, I have never seen his complexion so pale, his eyes this wide and unblinking, nor his breaths so erratic. We were a few miles away from reaching the entrance of the base, but we made it from the lookout point to the gate within seven minutes.
The moment Everett finds a location to pull over, a blaring alarm encircles us, stealing our breath as we look toward the sky for more answers. As the siren continues, we receive our answer:
AIR RAID ON PEARL HARBOR.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
Dad, James, and Lewis—I don’t know where they are.
An air raid—it’s part of military training. The civilians are often sitting in the dark, waiting for information. There’s protocol. There’s meaning, but I know none of what to expect, what is to come, how bad this might be.
Everett tugs my hand, pulling me across the front seat of his car until we’re both standing firmly on the dirt-ledge overlooking the water for more visibility.
