In an attempt to keep him from seeing me drip with wetness, I reached in my pocket to grab my handkerchief. But I find nothing. No handkerchief. No tissue. Not even a small piece of paper I could use as a makes.h.i.+ft hankie. I sigh, exasperated. "Seriously," I thought to myself. "Where is my bandana when I need it?" Left with no other option to get rid of the moisture invading my face, I lower my head so I could use my s.h.i.+rt to wipe of the sweat instead. Yes, dear reader. I know. It's gross. It's completely unladylike for me to do that. It is disgusting. But then again, my only other option is to wipe my face with my hands, which would be even more disgusting given that my hands have been through a lot lately.

"Hey," Red says, handing me something. "Here–use this."

I look at him, then down at the thing he held out to me. It took me a good five seconds to process what it was, given that it was pretty dark. It was his black and white checkered handkerchief – at least, that's what it looked like. The part of the beach where we are now isn't exactly well-lit, so everything were in muted shades of black, white and gray. Anyway, I didn't want to sound ungrateful, not to mention poker about what I really need, so I gently take it from his hands, saying, "Geez, thanks." In response to my surprisingly non-argumentative reply, he smiles at me. And as though he'd read my mind, he looks away. Not in the world was I going to clean up with his eyes on me. So when his gaze was focused on the waves running towards the sh.o.r.e, I bring his hankie to my face. But before using it to wipe the grime off my visage, I hold it to my nose and smell it ever so dearly. I love the smell. It was a mixture of scents I couldn't quite understand or put into words, but it made my heart beat like the tell-tale heart.

"I'm ready when you are," he says all of a sudden, prompting me to get on with my sweat-wiping agenda.

"What?" I asked while clumsily wiping the sweat off my face.

"I said," he replied. "I'm ready when you are."

For a moment, my heart raced ever so slightly. I wasn't sure by what he meant, and I have no idea what to respond to this statement of his. I just look at him – stare at him, even – for what felt like an awkward eternity with his hankie in my hand, which now reeked of sweat.

"For your story," he continued, breaking what would have been complete silence had it not been for the waves cras.h.i.+ng against the rocks. "You know, about your initial non-interest in the Red Sox game and about your interest to come here at Newport instead. You promised."

"Oh," I reply in a whisper. "I didn't think you were actually serious about that."

"Well, I am," he says. "I'm seriously interested about everything."

"It's a long story," I tell him. "That's a warning, so you can still change your mind. Besides, it's too much to handle for an acquaintance."

"It's a long night," he replies, smiling. "And besides, we're the only ones here – your story is safe. Cross my heart, it'll just be between you and me. No one else. And if it makes you feel any better, I don't judge."

"But why?" I ask him.

"Why I don't judge?" he clarifies, looking at me as though I just asked him to solve a mathematical question, though I bet he could answer easily.

"No, weirdo," I reply with a smile. "Why do you really want to know my story? Is this part of your job as a pre-college proctor or are you just really nosy about the lives of other people?"

"Because I want to know you better, that's why," he replies. "I like you, Liz – in case you couldn't tell."

There was silence for a moment until I gathered all the courage I had to tell him everything – from my parents' complicated marriage, my hopes to get away from all the mess, and everything in between.

"But you don't have to," he says, looking back into the ocean. "If you don't want to, we can just stare the sea for the next hour."

"Fine," I reply.

"Like I said," he replies. "No pressure."

"It all started with my dad," I said, s.h.i.+fting my gaze into the endless ma.s.s of water ahead of us. "Just a little less than a year ago, he told me about all these really great universities here in the US and how I could study here for college. I thought he just really wanted what was best for me – I mean, all the great universities are here, and you know that. Everyone knows that. That must have been why it was so easy for me and my mom to get excited by the prospects of my studying abroad. But then after some digging and some unfortunate circ.u.mstances, I realized that it was his way of keeping me out of the real problem."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was how involuntary tears started rolling from my eyes, how Red, surprised, asked me what the problem was, and how I gloriously failed to hold back the waterworks despite my most desperate attempt. In between sobs, I apologized and told him not to worry – this happens all the time, I said. When in fact, it's never happened before. I've never broken into a helpless fit, not alone nor with a friend. I started tearing up because it was the first time that someone asked me what I truly thought without any hidden agenda or something like that. I cried because I couldn't believe that I was telling my sad, pathetic life story to a boy I just met. I felt my heart twist into a knot, making it harder for me to breathe and get the tears out of my system. I sounded like a lapdog making alien sounds of rough breathing and sobbing.

"Hey," he says, reaching out and pulling me into what would be a very comforting hug. "If it's too much to handle, you don't have to tell me. I'm sorry."

I'm now in his arms, sobbing harder than I just did. He was shus.h.i.+ng me to silence and peace, but I just couldn't let go of the negative thoughts invading my head. In my mind, images of my dad and his mistress, my mom crying, and the attorneys handling their annulment case filled my mind. In my mind, my parents were never going to get back with each other, not now or in the future. I just know it.

"But hey," he continues, holding me ever so tightly. "You can let it all out if it makes you feel any better. And I'm here for you. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here to listen, okay?"

And so, while rapt in his warm embrace, I told him everything – the good and the bad, the highs and the lows of my existence. I told him about my father's infidelity. I told him about my plans to push through my plans of studying in the US, granted I make it in time for the SATs, the subject tests, and the TOEFL. I told him about my dreams of starring in a Broadway show or a Hollywood film, or even just a small commercial – anything. "It's always been my petty childhood dream," I say. To which, he responded, "My childhood dream was to ride a convertible. Hearing yours, I now feel ashamed of my younger self."

We laughed. We laughed a whole lot more after the sad parts of my story, especially when I told him about my love for the theater, acting, and the arts even when this love seemed a bit one-sided since theater, acting, or the arts never showed that much interest in my mediocre talent.

"I write a poem almost every day," I tell him. "Amidst the demands of school and the problems at home, writing has become my safe haven. It's become my solace and my reset b.u.t.ton. When I write, I let my thoughts flow like water in the river. At first, I'd just write a poem and then that poem becomes a song and the song becomes a subject of a whole screen play I have in my head. It's crazy, I know. But that's how it is for me. I guess you can call me a crank now if you want."

"Don't worry," he replied, soothingly running his hand through my hair. "We're all crazy, crank. You're not alone, crank."

I laugh at his remark, especially on his emphasis on the word "crank".

This must be what it feels like. I thought to myself. This must be what it's like to have a boyfriend or even just a close male friend. You'd have someone to hug you – someone bigger and meatier who could give the most comfortable embrace. (Side note: most girls prefer to be skinny and are therefore not the best people to give the most comfortable hugs.) I wish I had one growing up. I wish I had one back home. Maybe, if I had a really, really close male friend, I'd have grown up a bit more vulnerable. And that might have been a good thing. Maybe.

To lighten things up, I tell him about my impression of America, how I'm truly, deeply grateful for Shake Shack and Taco Bell (I love them both, by the way), and how much I've been enjoying my cla.s.ses at Harvard even when I won't get credit for taking any of them.

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"What do you think about it in general?" he asks me, which sends me in a whirlwind of emotions. After all, I've been, at different levels, in love with what I've been seeing and doing for these last two weeks. I told him about how my heart lights up every time I step into Annenberg for a meal or how my heart skips a beat every time I enter Widener to study. I told him how I exchanged emails with the cook of Annenberg after praising their team for such an amazing job in not only feeding us, but also making us enjoy our meals and how I was mistaken as an actual undergrad at Harvard, which propelled me to tour a group of young kids.

"It's just a wonderful community to be a part of – even if it means two weeks for me," I tell him. "Sure, it's a grand place with all its fine architecture and buildings, but really, I love the people more than anything. Especially on the first day when everyone was gathered at the Sanders Memorial Hall – that was amazing.

"I'm sure you're used to being friends with a Junior Olympic athlete or a Gold medalist in a Math Olympiad, but for me, it's different," I tell him. "It's pretty cool to be a part of this community, you know. It's something I wish I could have back home or at least in college next year."

"What about your other interests aside from school and extracurricular activities?" he asks me. "Anything you fancy? Tell me about your favorite book or film. Your favorite dessert, maybe?"

"OH MY GOSH I LOVE CHEESECAKES," I almost scream. "AND CARROT CAKES AND CHOCOLATE MUDPIES AND VANILLA ICE-CREAM!"

"OKAY," he says with a chuckle. "The energy you have for food is contagious."

I say a few more things about my favorite books and films – To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee and The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath and Dead Poets' Society and Confessions of a Shopaholic, respectively. He said he'd never read To Kill a Mockingbird and promised to read it as soon he can; he loves the Bell Jar, which made me like him even more.

"It should be a s widely known as The Great Gatsby," he said.

"I know!" I practically yelp. "Sylvia Path is a genius! The Bell Jar is downright bada.s.s and a great masterpiece!"

We ended up laughing at our little arguments for The Bell Jar, and low-key lamenting the death of Robin Williams, the star of Dead Poets Society. Red hasn't seen Dead Poets' Society, but has seen another great film in which Williams starred in, which made him a fan, ultimately.

I tied up my narrative with a pretty ribbon when I told him about a typical day in my dream life: I'd wake up at 5AM in my penthouse somewhere in Manhattan, take a run at Central Park, go home and prepare for work directing a musical at Broadway, and spend the night drinking wine and listening to cla.s.sical music. It felt good telling him everything.

"Wow," he says after I said 'the end' as though I was telling a fairytale story.

"I know," I reply. "Wow, indeed."

He chuckled, I smiled, and while rapt in each other's friendly embrace, I knew we were happy. Every molecule in my body screamed happy. I am happy. I felt at home in his cuddle and in his presence; I was no longer conscious. I didn't mind fixing my hair even when I knew it looked like bird's nest, thanks to the strong wind. I don't mind telling him about my worst fears, which is going insane. I could tell him anything and everything, and I'm no longer scared about his reaction. He was my ally, and I, his.

"Well, what about you?" I ask, hoping to prolong our conversation. "What do you think?" I didn't want it to end.

"The thing that surprised me the most would have to be about your dream job," he says. "I never would have guessed that your biggest dream is to be a star or an actress – I thought you'd rather be an owner of three-star Michelin restaurant or a chef."

"Why?" I asked, genuinely curious. I wanted to look at him but then I'd have to pull away. So instead, I stay in his arms, smiling, waiting for his smart reply.

"You love to eat."

"Very funny," I say sarcastically, but I end up laughing anyway.

"So," he says, loosening his squeeze. "Where does your non-interest in the Red Sox come in and the reason why you signed up for it anyway?"

That took me by surprise. I realized I did not tell him about one of the most important – if not the most important – thing about me: the culture and beliefs of my family.

"I come from a very traditional Asian family, Red," I tell him. "Even if I have a million reasons to back me up just so I could do something I really truly want – Broadway, for an instance – my parents' final decision is what's going to be followed, not mine. And it's not just them. My grandparents, my aunts, and uncles – they all have a say in it. Eventually, everyone talks about my life and give their inputs on how I should live it. It would have been easier if I had siblings. But since I'm an only child with zero cousins, I have all eyes on me. It's good, sometimes, but not entirely always."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he tells me. "How do cope with that?"

"Well, most of the time, I get angry. I'd lock myself up in my room, take out my pen and paper, and write everything I feel. Sometimes, the pressure I put on the pen is so strong I'd accidentally rip the paper with my heavy strokes. But then, when I think about it, my anger isn't really for my parents. I'm not mad at my elderly relatives, either – don't get me wrong.

"I actually find myself angry at myself, knowing that I should do something about it. Maybe I could have convinced my dad to let me join a film festival or start my own YouTube channel. But no. If it's not for school or for my college application, I can't exactly argue my way to what I really want – not even if my life depended on it. Not even if it makes me the happiest person alive."

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry you haven't had the chance to do the things you really love."

"Don't be," I reply. "It's got nothing to do with you. Besides, my parents saved me from possible heartbreaks had I lost those film festivals or had gotten negative comments on my channel. Not to mention heartbreaks from guys."

"But, Liz," he says. "That's what makes life exciting, don't you think?"

I remain silent, but deep inside, I was shouting, "Yes!" Tonight is, after all, a product of unplanned activities – thanks to my parents' being far away and inability to patrol me.

"To be dauntless, to be reckless, and to leap before you look – that's what makes life a little more interesting, as what my philosophy professor once told me."

"I figured," I reply with a smile.

"Aren't you a mind reader?" he jokes. "But I guess, your inability to argue and stand your ground is, in a way, a good thing. Let's just say like everything, it has its pros and cons."

"And what would the good side be?" I ask him.

"Had you been extremely headstrong and not open to what others think," he says. "You wouldn't be here with me, sitting at the beach of Newport, talking about things that actually matter more than cheering for a Red Sox game."

"Makes sense," I say, pulling away from the hug.

"But we still have to get going," he replies. "We don't want you to miss the highlight of your American trip, now do we?"

"Right," I say. "Either way, thank you, by the way. Thanks for this."

And just as soon as we both got up, I reached out and kissed him on the cheek.