They started sleeping together during her senior year, after Dylan began hinting around that they should get married when he was done with the Army hitch, which he kept telling her would put him through law school (what his folks wanted) or med school (how he was leaning).
She was awarded her bachelor’s degree two days before Dylan left for Army basic training, promising to write her every chance he got. During boot camp, his letters arrived with military punctuality, every Saturday. Whenever he had leave, he came back to see her, initially happy that she was staying busy with grad school.
His resentment came later, when he was shipped to Germany and opportunities to see her disappeared. Their long-distance arguments during occasional phone calls weighed on her and she began to rethink their plans. When his letters and emails dwindled and seemed to focus only on the mundane, she stopped writing him and reluctantly concluded that she had been wrong to think he was her one true love.
Her mother reminded her that first loves were often the most painful when they ended, reassuring her that she would find another young man more to her liking, and encouraged her to begin dating again. But the other grad students and the occasional junior instructor she spent time with did not compare to Dylan. She spent most of her second year in grad school concentrating on her coursework and thesis.
Weeks after the letter in which she bade him good-bye and good luck, Dylan arrived on her doorstep. It was the week after Thanksgiving and she had opted to stay on campus to complete her master’s thesis. She was surprised and unsure how to react to that familiar grin. He dropped his duffel bag near the door and reached for her.
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he murmured.
When she did not immediately kiss him back, he looked at her, his blue eyes asking the question she had chosen not to answer.
“It’s been such a long time, Dylan. I—I wasn’t expecting you,” she stammered.
“You’re seeing someone,” he finally declared, his eyes darkening.
She glanced over her shoulder in the direction of her computer. “No. The only ‘someone’ I’m seeing these days is Robert Frost. My thesis topic.”
“Don’t give me that.” Dylan backed her up against the wall and prepared to kiss her again, leaning into her.
“I’m not going out with anyone. And, you’re hurting me. Please let me go.” She looked into his eyes, which she likened to those of a hungry wolf.
But he didn’t let her go. “Did you forget I said I was coming back? Or didn’t you get my last email?” He cupped her face between his palms and kissed her gently, and then with greater insistence.
She kissed him back, surprising herself at how quickly she responded to his caresses, her work on her thesis no longer a priority. The next morning, she gathered up their clothes, scattered throughout her tiny apartment. She could not remember much, after they started making love. When she pressed him about his plans, he said only that he was coming back as soon as he was done with his four-year hitch. They would get married then. They spent the next two days together. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he left.
Three weeks past the New Year, an officer asked for her at the door of the apartment house where she lived. Dylan’s helicopter—the one with three men from Minnesota, his buddies—had gone down over Lake Constance in Germany on maneuvers. All crewmen, including Dylan, were lost. They had met, he had left, he had returned—renewing his promise to her—and then he was gone. Forever.
Shortly after Valentine’s Day, there was no denying she was pregnant. The irony of the timing of her discovery did not escape her. After her master’s degree was awarded, she moved into a small apartment several blocks from home. Cecelia was born in August—with Dylan’s blue eyes and curly blond hair. Her mother suspected the truth, but Amanda refused to talk to her about Dylan. It was too painful. She earned money giving private tutoring lessons and doing occasional free-lance editing. She waited until Cecelia was five before securing a student loan in order to return to the university, determined to get her PhD. She dated infrequently. Whenever someone asked about her plans or implied that she needed to take a break from her studies, she trotted out her stock reply. “I’m getting my degree to make a life for my child.”
Two years into her doctoral studies, her first commercial magazine articles were published—a challenge she took on at the recommendation of her faculty advisor. Then there was the day she walked across the stage to be hooded, after waiting impatiently in the underground garage before parading into the auditorium with the rest of the doctoral candidates. She laughed with the others, especially the women who, like herself, wore only shorts and t-shirts under their heavy black gowns in the unseasonable heat of early June. They compared notes about who had a job, who was still waiting for an acceptance letter, and who had yet to complete applications or take a post-doc position. She patted the letter in her pocket from Buckley College. It had arrived that morning: a letter offering her the teaching post she had been hoping for, the beginning of a new chapter in her life.