“Yeah. In a peculiar way—I am. Glad you found it out.”
“I—I—went back—that night—to Dan’s house. Did you hear me?”
Silence. “Went—back?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Oh, Jimmie! But you didn’t knock!”
“No. The house was dark and I could hear you—either crying or laughing—I couldn’t be sure—”
“Laughing!”
“I couldn’t tell—”
“Jimmie Bailey, did you even think, for one second I was laughing? Is that what you thought? And you sneaked away again! Laughing!! Does a girl who yanks out the lights and throws herself on a divan and practically chokes to death on tears for two hours sound like she was laughing! No kidding, Jimmie! I’m disappointed in you—terribly. And a telephone booth is no place to have our first quarrel! What does a girl have to do to convince you she’s mad about you, anyhow?”
Audrey pushed the door open. Jimmie stepped out, shakily. She followed, disheveled and damp from the warmth of the booth, and the anxiety of the calls, and the intense if vicarious emotion. Several people turned to look at them. The conclave on the porch had come to an end. Among those people was Audrey’s father. He nodded to Jimmie. He deliberately cut his daughter.