“You’re right!” She pretended to be shocked. He’d used a child’s word for her nightgown. There was something boyish about Jay—even when he was being manly and responsible. This quality had made her love him, but she saw that it had also been this naive pluck of his that had convinced him it was okay to approach her father without warning when the same tactic had been a failure with her mother. Jay was convinced that he was impossible to reject as long as he was well intentioned and had a sunny manner. In a way, it was lovely, and in a way, it was stupid.
Casey turned to go.
“And it’s late,” he said, not wanting her to leave.
“No one will be on the roof,” she replied, her voice gentle, thoughtful. “The robe will be fine. It’s Saturday night. No one will be upstairs. And besides, I don’t feel like putting on clothes.” They were talking about what she was wearing. What did it matter?
“I don’t feel loved,” Jay said. He stared at her hard.
“What?” She made a face. “What are you talking about? Of course I love you.”
“Then stay here,” he said, and she knew he wanted to make love. But she didn’t want to. She didn’t feel sexy or even agreeable. The idea of his hands on her body made her feel awkward.
“It won’t be but a few minutes, Jay. I really need a cigarette.”
“Baby, I can give you something to smoke.” He wiggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx and laughed nervously. The innuendo had been a risk.
To be polite, she laughed along. But the suggestion had felt repulsive, though she wasn’t a girl who disliked fellatio. Sometimes it could be very erotic to her.
“Darling,” she said, “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”
Jay laughed at this. Everything was going to be okay. “Fine, then. You know where I’ll be. You addict.”
The roof was empty. Casey sat on a bench, damp with the evening dew. She quickly smoked a cigarette, then lit another. Then one after that. Her long white T-shirt nightgown and terry robe were decent, if a bit frumpy. Most nights Casey wore pretty things to bed, but tonight she’d put on her least appealing gown. The cigarettes perked her up. In the morning, she’d phone Ella to apologize. After her fourth cigarette, she lit another. She heard the door. Jay stood there, wearing his Lawrenceville sweatshirt over his T-shirt and boxers.
“You were worried about me wearing jammies?”
“What’s going on, Casey?” His voice was stern.
She was confused by his tone.
“Why didn’t you come downstairs? I was waiting.”
She raised her lit cigarette as the obvious explanation.
“How many?”
“Four? Five? Dunno.”
“Come to bed.”
Casey couldn’t look at him. There was no picture, was there?
“Casey, I’m tired. Come on.” He moved closer to her.
“I can’t marry you.”
“What?” Jay said. “What?”
Her mouth was open. Casey had surprised herself. She blew smoke out of her nostrils. “I don’t think we should get married.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Are you telling me that you don’t want to marry me?”
She crossed her legs, her Dr. Scholl’s dangling from her sole. The chipped polish on her toenails made her feel shabby.
“Say it, Casey. I need for you to say it.”
Her lips felt cold.
“Say it, goddammit. Tell me you don’t want to marry me.” His voice quavered.
She couldn’t look at him.
“I can’t see the picture, Jay. I’ve been looking for a picture in my head. Every morning I get these pictures, and I can’t see a picture of us—” She started crying, because then she knew. For sure. The picture had never come because it wasn’t supposed to happen. Like she wasn’t supposed to go to law school, either. And she had never told Jay about the pictures because she realized he would never have believed her. It was nuts.
“What are you talking about? I love you. You and I are incredible together. I love you more than anything, Casey Han. You crazy girl, I can’t imagine living without you. You know how sorry I am about that time—”
“I don’t actually care about that. That’s not why—” She didn’t want to talk about those girls again. And she did believe him. He wouldn’t do that again. What was more troubling was how much of a pleaser he was, how unrealistic he was in his beliefs, and how he had never really understood what it was like to be her. It wasn’t that a white person couldn’t comprehend what it was like to be in her skin, but Jay, in his unyielding American optimism, refused to see that she came from a culture where good intentions and clear talk wouldn’t cover all wounds. It didn’t work that way with her parents, anyway. They were brokenhearted Koreans—that wasn’t Jay’s fault, but how was he supposed to understand their kind of anguish? Their sadness seemed ancient to her. But, thinking about what she’d just said, she felt terrified at the prospect of not being with him anymore. She would miss him so much. It had been hell to be without him. But it also seemed wrong to hold on to him just because she was afraid of the pain of loss. It made her feel weaker than she was to even think like this. Casey had compromised on sex, her goals, her morality, but somewhere she had set a boundary that she didn’t want to compromise on love. But was she being extreme? Was no love better than a love without enough understanding? Earlier that evening when Jay had marched toward her father, she’d felt she didn’t know him anymore, even though she could have predicted that he would do such a fruitless thing.