June 29, 1926

I am truly a bad person. There's just no getting around it at this point.

Remember Burt Dines, that nice boy that I turned down a date with in favor of writing in this stupid thing? Well, I learned something about him today.

Burt Dines is an excellent kisser… he looks the part: tall and broad-shouldered with typically Aryan blue eyes and blonde hair, which is lucky for both of us, because I could never bring myself to shamelessly use someone I didn't actually find attractive. (Where o where has my moral compass gone?)

He asked me out to the lake again yesterday afternoon, and his timing in doing so could not have been more impeccable. Not only did the call interrupt a painfully silent lunch with Indy and Abner (both of whom understood within 30 seconds what the call was about), it provided a way of hitting two birds with one goddamn pebble when I got both a pleasantly distracting reason to leave the house and a good look at the strained and utterly livid expression on Indy's face. The two of us hadn't spoken since the night before – my father noticed this, of course, but he wasn't stupid enough to say anything – and I was determined not to ruin my silent streak.

In the long-standing tradition of making men jealous of other men for no particular or apparent reason (even though everybody knows there's a reason that nobody really knows, or something like that), I made a show of getting ready, using the full length mirror in the foyer to look at various skirts and dresses as opposed to the one in my room (eventually deciding on a dark blue and white knee-length sheath and white pumps), making what I maintain was an expert picnic lunch in the kitchen where Indy still sat like a gargoyle, and essentially acting more like a girl than I could ever remember. It was fun, in a weird way… so much for never spending time getting ready. This was justified!

Burt showed up at about five o'clock, dressed in a Princeton sweater and khakis. His smile was warm and he looked genuinely happy to see me, and I could remember why I'd liked him for so long, but there was no point in denying that he had nothing on my Indiana.

"Marion," he said sweetly when I opened the door, grinning like the All-American he was. "You look beautiful."

I sighed, having forgotten what it was like for a guy to actually say how he felt. "Thanks Burt, you look…"

"A little old for you, don't you think?" came a familiar voice from behind me, and I turned to see a disgruntled Indy standing in the middle of the hall, one of his eyebrows lifted. ("Coming from you, Jones? That's rich," I wanted to retort, but I think the incredulous look on my face said it all.) His voice was teasing on the surface, but there was venomous subtext that I did not want to be in the middle of. Burt didn't seem to quite catch on, thank God. "Henry Jones," said Indy, moving forward to shake Burt's hand civilly, though his arm looked definitely tensed. "I'm staying here as a…"

"He's a old student of my father's," I cut in rapidly, shooting a glare at the boy behind me and stepping onto the front porch with my date. "Come on, Burt, let's go before we lose too much light, ok?" My voice got suddenly sweet, and Burt, although wary of the seemingly angry, dashing, hobo-esque archaeology student in the hallway, smiled politely and agreed. We left Indy, ever the gentleman but obviously frustrated, fuming in the doorway with is half-cocked smile and mechanical wave good bye.

About a block and a half down the road, Burt suddenly turned to me and asked point-blank, "Does he like you?"

I stopped in my tracks. Princeton educated, I thought—this guy obviously wasn't stupid. "Not sure," I replied honestly, turning to face him after recovering from the slight shock of being asked so bluntly about Indy. Apprehension filled Burt's face, and I knew that his next question would be much harder to answer, so I took action, cutting him off by adding, "I hope not. Talk about being too old for me? The guy's 27." I knew the rate at which all this was coming out might seem suspicious to some, but Burt seemed to be satisfied, at least for the time being. There was a moment of silence before I hooked my arm through his and reminded him, "We're on a date, remember? Let's talk about something else."

He smiled in response and seemed to have no trouble moving on to the topic of Princeton life. Princeton, I wondered. The word tickled some memory in the back of my head. Wasn't that where Indy's dad was a professor? Yeah, medieval studies, I realized, smiling and nodding at whatever Burt happened to be saying. Poor guy. So cute, so smart, only to be used by a 17-year-old as an attractive distraction from the real world. I am a terrible person.

By the time we made it to the lake, I knew all about freshman hazing at Princeton—some of it amusing, some of it not so much. I knew about the late night snowball fights, the naked strike that had apparently caused something of a ruckus in the West dorms last February, and the striking beauty (not to mention usefulness) of the campus library. It was a nice day out – surprisingly calm – so setting up a quilt about twenty feet from the shoreline of Lake Michigan didn't come with the hazards it normally does. I took out the turkey sandwiches I'd made earlier and handed one to Burt, who accepted heartily and dug in. Though not extremely hungry, I made an effort to at least make it look like I had a healthy appetite (don't get me wrong, normally I do) and no sense of remorse about what I was doing here instead of making amends with Indy for the past night's unpleasant turn of events.

About twenty minutes into my second silent lunch of the day (although this one was admittedly much more pleasant and relaxed), the air between the two of us began to change—I felt it getting a little thicker, more tangible and a little electric, though most of that was coming from him. Glancing up at Burt after a sip of lemonade, I realized that his eyes had been focused intently on my for a least a minute… maybe two. He had this look in them, a look that recently I've found myself all too familiar with, and I knew what was going to happen next. Suddenly (but not before glancing briefly around to make sure no one was in seeing range), he leaned in and kissed me. Hard. On the mouth. While there wasn't a lot of passion or sparks or anything like that, I'm not going to lie and say that it wasn't nice to be well-kissed after a few weeks of ulcerous inner conflict.

Before I knew it, I was leaning in to him, my hands at his shoulders while he pushed the empty picnic basket out from in between us and pulled me to him. For a minute, I pretended it was Indy, but then I realized how terribly unfair that was and reminded myself that it was Burt I was being so sweetly kissed by. Keep in mind, that since the beginning of this train of thought, the kiss was still going.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, smiling as he ran his hands up and down my back soothingly, one hand moving to my waist and the other to tug on the curls at the ends of my hair.

Pulling back momentarily, I asked, "Did you know this was going to happen?" He shrugged, nodding slightly. Cocky bastard, I thought, though that would've been a serious moment killer if it'd actually slipped out vocally. He pulled me back to him again, kissing me a little harder this time and leaning back on the blanket. Moral compass, I told myself. Moral compass! Revenge with benefits, unfortunately, seemed like a much better idea at the time.

Needless to say, the kissing continued for a good long time. I'm not totally comfortable writing down the details, even if… to Hell with it. What I'm trying to say is: put some ice on it, we only kissed. After a three-hour combination of wave-running, kissing, idle conversation, and deciding exactly how I was going to break the news to Burt and Indy (that we couldn't keep seeing each other and that we had to start, respectively), we finally decided that a sufficient lack of light meant it was time to head home. Not 23 minutes and obvious avoidance of hand-holding on my part later, we were back at the front doorstep where we'd begun this surprising, remorse-ridden, and (hopefully) meaningless date.

"I… I…" at a sudden loss for words, I resorted to, "I had a great time. Thank you."

Burt smiled slightly in response and raised a hand to brush my cheek. A flash of curtain caught the corner of my eye and I knew Indy was watching from inside the house, possibly to make sure we didn't have a repeat of my street encounter the night previous. I had a feeling it was less alarmist and more personal than that.

"We should do this again some time," he murmured. Damn. I'd been afraid he was going to say that. Grimacing, I figured I should tell him the truth, or at least the message that telling the real truth would've conveyed.

"Listen, Burt, I… today was fun. You're a good guy, and I like you, but…" Wracking my brain for a common, easily defendable excuse, I finally came up with, "but you're going back to Princeton at the end of the summer. I'll still be in high school over here, and the thing is… I'm just afraid to get too involved or attached, you know?"

I braced myself for his cold good-bye, an angry outburst, or something like that, but instead he just shook his head and grinned, saying, "It's just summer, Marion. I'll call you, I promise." With that, he leaned down to kiss my nose (my nose? Seriously?) and left without another word.

Somehow, I'm not entirely sure the message got across.

By the time I'd collected myself enough to turn around and clarify the point, he'd already disappeared down the block. I felt a weight growing in the pit of my stomach and became acutely aware of how utterly stupid I was being, how I wished it was possible to take back all of my actions from the day, right back to picking up the goddamn phone. It was like the little pieces of guilt that'd been building up inside of me all day suddenly coalesced and became one giant lump of regret. How could I be so STUPID? Seriously… there was no way anything good could come of this, people would get hurt, humiliated, annoyed, all this really bad stuff that I didn't want to happen was almost certainly going to! I still can't make coherent sense of the thoughts going through my head at that point, I just remember that it didn't feel good at all. It was nauseating, almost.

Shaking my head slowly to try and clear it before I braved the house where I knew Indy had been impatiently waiting to yell at me, kiss me, interrogate me in a manner worthy of the FBI, something that would only make things worse on one level or another, I took off my shoes (so that they wouldn't click on the wooden porch) and padded up to the door. The lights were off in the foyer, which made me a little curious—I paused just inside the door, holding the handle for support as a slight nausea gripped me still, a feeling I hoped would magically disappear in my sleep. Closing the door softly, I winced at the *click* of the lock falling into place. Still no movement from either Indy or my father. Maybe… maybe I'd get to bed in one piece.

I'd made it halfway up our thankfully carpeted staircase before a lamp flickered on at the bottom level, about six steps below me. I turned apprehensively and came face-to-face (kind of) with exactly what I'd feared would be here to meet me. The look on Indy's face was hauntingly blank, and I did my best to close off my own feelings (and their manifestation on my face) until this confrontation ended. Silence hung in the air for about five seconds as we tried to stare each other down, but I soon gave in.

"Henry," I tried to sound at least a little surprised, but of course failed miserably, instead merely sounding resigned. "I don't know what to say."

His features remained completely still as he ascended the staircase cautiously—I could tell this wasn't easy. When he reached my level, he placed the lamp down carefully, a couple steps above us. I moved back towards the rail slightly, trying to make room as I gauged exactly what he was doing. However stony he looked, though, I could tell there was definitely a lot going on underneath that he wasn't expressing or verbalizing. He just kept staring, and I felt totally powerless to alter the situation.

"Please say something," I pleaded quietly, that knot in my stomach tightening even further.

The next step in this interaction was obvious—he was going to kiss me, probably, and for the first time since we'd met I realized that was the last thing I wanted. Predictably enough, he took a few steps towards me, virtually pinning me to the banister. My breathing slowed and became more deliberate, since at that point I had to remind myself how to do it properly. Breathing, keeping my eyes open, and thinking straight were hard enough with the proximity between us, and then I realized that Indy'd been drinking a little. He leaned in further, moving a hand to my waist, where I admit it fit perfectly, and I was at a loss for what to do. The easiest thing was to go with it, but the right thing was to get out and to get out now.

"We can't do this," I murmured, and Indy gave me a slightly confused look. "He k… We kissed, Indy. Me and Burt. A lot," I blurted out, my hands gripping the railing behind me so hard that my knuckles had gone pale. I shut my eyes determinedly, not sure what to anticipate but knowing that I never deserved to speak to him again.

"You… what?" Suddenly, Indiana had no trouble verbalizing his thoughts as he snapped out of whatever alcohol- or lust-induced reverie he'd slipped into. "Say that again?"

"We kis…"

"I didn't actually want you to say it again!" he interrupted harshly, stepping back towards the wall. I had to be the calm one here; that was crucial.

"That's just it," I realized, and the differences between me and Indy suddenly became so apparent that they outweighed two weeks' worth of blue grey shocks and *zap* connections, I don't know how to describe them. "You say one thing, and you mean another. Do one thing, and the next thing you do is a giant contradiction! I can't keep reading the subtext, Indy, I…"

"That! You called that subtext? Me trying to kiss you is not subtext, Marion!"

"Quiet! You'll wake up Abner," I interjected, glaring at him, and the volume automatically lowered about four levels. Determined not to let this turn into another argument, I continued before he could, "I made a really big mistake today, Indy. A few really big mistakes, and I'm truly sorry. I honestly don't know what to say to you."

His face softened, and his posture slackened as he crumpled onto one of the stairs at my feet. I followed suit, but cautiously.

"I'm sorry, too," he muttered, and I smiled gratefully. "Is there… is there any way to fix this?"

Reluctantly (for fear of tackiness), I continued the metaphor. "Nothing's broken, I don't think." He chuckled, knowing how I felt about saying tacky stuff like that. "Friends?" I asked hesitantly, lifting an eyebrow and holding my hand out. I knew words couldn't overcome the tension, but it was worth a try at least. Indy seemed to agree, and he held his hand out as well, shaking mine gently as we both did our obvious best to ignore how simply good touching felt.

"Friends," Indy concluded.

And then we went to bed. Separately. On different floors of the house.

Just to clarify.

Tonight has probably been one of the least fulfilling, least satisfying of my life. It just isn't fair to make someone as undeserving (okay, maybe after my actions today I deserve some… what's it called? Karma?) as me deal with as arguably tough a situation as this. But that's life, I guess. And it'll keep going. Hopefully our conversation (the "friends" part) will make things a little easier from now on.

I'll check back in soon.

Love gone awry,

Marion