"Stop it," he said sharply. "You don't have to - "
"To what?" Outwardly stony, she was dismayed inside. In all her imaginings of how the scene might play, she had never seen it quite like this.
"To be so mad," he said lamely. "I'm not going to run out on you."
"No," she said more softly. At this point she could have plucked one of his hands off the wheel, held it, and healed the breach entirely. But she couldn't make herself do it. He had no business wanting to be comforted, no matter how tacit or unconscious his wanting was. She suddenly realized that one way or another, the laughs and the good times were over for a while. That made her want to cry again and she staved the tears off grimly. She was Frannie Goldsmith, Peter Goldsmith's daughter, and she wasn't going to sit in the parking lot of the Ogunquit Dairy Queen crying her damn stupid eyes out.
"What do you want to do?" Jess asked, getting out his cigarettes.
"What do you want to do?"
He struck a light and for just a moment as cigarette smoke raftered up she clearly saw a man and a boy fighting for control of the same face.
"Oh hell," he said.
"The choices as I see them," she said. "We can get married and keep the baby. We can get married and give the baby up. Or we don't get married and I keep the baby. Or - "
"Frannie - "
"Or we don't get married and I don't keep the baby. Or I could get an abortion. Does that cover everything? Have I left anything out?"
"Frannie, can't we just talk - "
"We are talking!" she flashed at him. "You had your chance and you said 'Oh hell.' Your exact words. I have just outlined all of the possible choices. Of course I've had a little more time to work up an agenda."
"You want a cigarette?"
"No. They're bad for the baby."
"Frannie, goddammit!"
"Why are you shouting?" she asked softly.
"Because you seem determined to aggravate me as much as you can," Jess said hotly. He controlled himself. "I'm sorry. I just can't think of this as my fault."
"You can't?" She looked at him with a cocked eyebrow. "And behold, a virgin shall conceive."
"Do you have to be so goddam flip? You had the pill, you said. I took you at your word. Was I so wrong?"
"No. You weren't so wrong. But that doesn't change the fact."
"I guess not," he said gloomily, and pitched his cigarette out half-smoked.
"So what do we do?"
"You keep asking me, Jesse. I just outlined the choices as I see them. I thought you might have some ideas. There's suicide, but I'm not considering it at this point. So pick the other choice you like and we'll talk about it."
"Let's get married," he said in a sudden strong voice. He had the air of a man who has decided that the best way to solve the Gordian knot problem would be to hack right down through the middle of it. Full speed ahead and get the whiners below decks.
"No," she said. "I don't want to marry you."
It was as if his face was held together by a number of unseen bolts and each of them had suddenly been loosened a turn and a half. Everything sagged at once. The image was so cruelly comical that she had to rub her wounded tongue against the rough top of her mouth to keep from getting the giggles again. She didn't want to laugh at Jess.
"Why not?" he asked. "Fran - "
"I have to think of my reasons why not. I'm not going to let you draw me into a discussion of my reasons why not, because right now I don't know."
"You don't love me," he said sulkily.
"In most cases, love and marriage are mutually exclusive states. Pick another choice."
He was silent for a long time. He fiddled with a fresh cigarette but didn't light it. At last he said: "I can't pick another choice, Frannie, because you don't want to discuss this. You want to score points off me."
That touched her a little bit. She nodded. "Maybe you're right. I've had a few scored off me in the last couple of weeks. Now you, Jess, you're Joe College all the way. If a mugger came at you with a knife, you'd want to convene a seminar on the spot."
"Oh for God's sake."
"Pick another choice."
"No. You've got your reasons all figured out. Maybe I need a little time to think, too."
"Okay. Would you take us back to the parking lot? I'll drop you off and do some errands."
He gazed at her, startled. "Frannie, I rode my bike all the way down from Portland. I've got a room at a motel outside of town. I thought we were going to spend the weekend together."
"In your motel room. No, Jess. The situation has changed. You just get back on your ten-speed and bike back to Portland and you get in touch when you've thought about it a little more. No great hurry."
"Stop riding me, Frannie."
"No, Jess, you were the one who rode me," she jeered in sudden, furious anger, and that was when he slapped her lightly backhand on the cheek.
He stared at her, stunned.
"I'm sorry, Fran."