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He got in his truck, slammed the door and backed out without looking at her again. Her last glimpse of his face showed it tight, the color of anger hot across his cheekbones. After that, she saw only his arm, where he’d rested it on the door, the dull green of his fatigues a placard she’d been too dense to read.
How was it she hadn’t realized how he felt?
He was ashamed of her, was all she could think, standing there engulfed in the shock. Of course she’d been antiwar before Will was drafted, but it was because of him that she’d plunged with such fire into the movement, helping to organize protests on campus. She’d gotten tear-gassed in Berkeley, even arrested once although the charges were dropped, not just because she believed passionately that the war was wrong but also because she was driven to save Will, who had been compelled to go.
And now he was angry, claiming she’d endangered him and was endangering the soldiers still in Vietnam, as if she hadn’t given any thought to her beliefs or the repercussions of her actions?
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