From Willa, with Love : From the Life of Willa Havisham

I steal a side glance at Jess in the moonline. I smell cologne and sweat and the sea. He looks wild and distant and dreamy, like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights.

"I'm glad you came out," he says

"Me too," I say.

"I've wanted to ask you out for at least two years now," he says.

"Really?" My heart is pounding like a drum. "Why didn't—"

"You know why," he says.

JFK. He and JFK are good friends.

"You dont' hit on your friend's girl," he says.

And so Jess is handsome and sweet and civic—minded and has integrity, too. Oh, this isn't good, Willa This isn't good at all.

"I'm sorry," Jess says. "I tried staying away, but ... ..."

"Let's walk," I say.

"K," he says.

At the bottom of the beach stairs, there is no hesitation, no indecision.

There are two choices, walk right to our friends, or walk left.

We turn left and head out along the deserted beach, barely lit by stars.

We don't talk, we just walk, that "something" screaming between us.