Michael put his arms around her and held her, and Diana felt herself rocking like a ship riding at anchor as his body kept her in place. When she finally raised her eyes, she looked for disgust in his expression, but she could see nothing but sorrow. Her throat ached and her eyes felt gritty.
“Wait here,” he said. He got up and went inside, and got her a glass of water, and watched over her as she sipped.
“So,” she said, and cleared her throat. “That’s what happened. That’s why I can’t be here in the summertime. That’s why I dropped out of college. That’s why…” Her voice trailed off. She knew she could never put words to how that night had changed her, reshaping her sense of the world and of herself, turning her from an aspiring artist and writer to a custodian and a waitress. Nor did she want to hurt him by implying that there was something dishonorable or wrong about a working-class life. She couldn’t say any of it, any more than she could get back everything she’d lost that night, that summer.
“It’s just that I feel so stupid!” she said, in a loud, ragged voice.
“You weren’t stupid. Don’t say that! It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But I did. I trusted him. Poe. I thought he…” Her voice caught and broke, and when she spoke again, all she could manage was a whisper. “I thought he liked me,” she said.
She drained the water in breathless gulps. Then she sat, with Willa at her feet, and she waited for the world to crack open and swallow her whole, the way she’d always feared it would, if she said those words out loud: I was raped.
“Did you tell anyone?” he asked. “Dr. Levy? Or the police?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t. I felt so…” She raised her hands and let them flutter back down to her sides. “Not until now. You’re the first.”
“Listen to me.” Michael put his hand on her chin. He tilted her face up so she had to look at him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing that happened is your fault. It’s their fault. Those guys. Their fault.”
Diana nodded, sniffling. “I know,” she said. “I know you’re right. I’m trying to believe it.”
“Well, for now just know that I believe it. One hundred percent.” When he opened his arms, she shuffled close and leaned against his chest, crying so hard she was sure that his shirt had to be soaked. With her eyes closed, enfolded in a warm, Michael-scented darkness, she felt as close to safe as she had since that summer. Michael held her, and rocked her, and let her cry, and when she stopped he gave her more water, then went inside and fetched two more beers and sat beside her. They drank as the sun went down over the bay, drawing bands of gold and orange and indigo across the sky.
“So here’s a question,” he finally said. “What do you want to happen next?”
Startled, she turned to look at him. “What?”
“It’s your life. You get to decide. How do you want it to be? Like, do you want to go back to college? Do you like being a waitress? Do you like living here?” He paused, then asked, his voice lower, “Do you like being with me?”
“I…” She swallowed hard.
“No pressure,” said Michael. “But I like you. Like, a lot.”
“I’m not sure…” He waited, while she sorted out what to say. “I’m not sure that I can be with anyone, is the thing.”
She felt his body shift as he sighed, and saw his shoulders slump. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I understand.”
“But…” She paused, and breathed, and then, in a rush, said, “If you can be patient with me, I think I want to try.”
His smile was like the sun coming out after days of rain; like pulling on the softest sweater on a cold day.
“Can we take it slow?” she whispered.
“As slow as you need,” said Michael Carmody. He reached for her hand. “I’m a patient kind of guy.”
17
Diana
For the weeks and months of that year, through the fall and the winter and into the spring, Michael Carmody courted her, slowly, with great diligence and care. While the weather stayed warm, they did summer-people things. Michael took her to the Wellfleet drive-in, where they sat in the back of his pickup truck and watched a double feature of Back to the Future and Jaws with a giant bucket of popcorn propped between them. They played miniature golf with Michael’s sister, Kate, and her husband, Devin, and spent afternoons visiting antiques markets and art galleries. On the first cool night he made her dinner, linguine with clam sauce, which, he claimed, was the only thing he could cook, and he took her fishing, cheering her on as she reeled in an eighteen-pound bass. In the cottage, he oiled hinges and replaced the showerhead in the bathroom and added a towel bar to the door. In the mornings on her days off, Michael would come over with coffee and scones from the Flying Fish. Together, they’d walk Willa, and Diana would get in the truck with him and help him make his rounds, keeping him company while he patched screen doors or nailed up drooping gutters or changed the chemicals in hot tubs （“can’t tell you how many pairs of underpants I’ve fished out of this one,” he told her, when they’d visited a mansion in Provincetown, high on a hill in the West End）。