Nicholas Sparks - Dear John

“Did you see that?” I asked.

“Hold on,” she said instead. “I’ll be right back.” She trotted over to red shorts. He saw her approaching and froze, as did the guy next to him. Savannah, I realized, had pretty much the same effect on every guy, not just me. I could see her talking and smiling, turning that earnest gaze on the guy, who nodded as she spoke, looking like a chastised adolescent. She returned to my side and sat again. I didn’t ask, knowing it wasn’t my business, but I knew I was telegraphing my curiosity.

“Normally, I wouldn’t have said anything, but I asked him to keep his language in check because of all the families out here,” she explained. “There are lots of little kids around. He said he would.”

I should have guessed. “Did you suggest he use ‘Holy cow’ or ‘Geez’ instead?”

She squinted at me mischievously. “You liked those expressions, didn’t you.”

“I’m thinking of passing them on to my squad. They’ll add to our intimidation factor when we’re busting down doors and launching RPGs.”

She giggled. “Definitely scarier than swearing, even if I don’t know what an RPG is.”

“Rocket-propelled grenade.” Despite myself, I liked her more with every passing minute. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I don’t have any plans. Well, except for the meeting. Why? Did you want to bring me to meet your father?”

“No. Well, not tonight, anyway. Later. Tonight, I wanted to show you around Wilmington.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I’ll have you back whenever you want. I know you’ve got to work tomorrow, but there’s this great place that I want to show you.”

“What kind of place?”

“A local place. Specializes in seafood. But it’s more of an experience.”

She wrapped her arms around her knees. “I usually don’t date strangers,” she finally said, “and we only met yesterday. You think I can trust you?”

“I wouldn’t,” I said.

She laughed. “Well, in that case, I suppose I can make an exception.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m a sucker for honest guys with crew cuts. What time?”

I was home by five, and though I didn’t feel sunburned—that Southern European skin again—the burn was obvious when I showered. The water stung as it ricocheted off my chest and shoulders, and my face made me feel as if I were running a low fever. Afterward, I shaved for the first time since I’d been home and dressed in a clean pair of shorts and one of the few relatively nice button-down shirts I owned, light blue. Lucy had bought it for me and swore the color was perfect for me. I rolled up the sleeves and left the shirt untucked, then rummaged through my closet for an ancient pair of sandals.

Through the crack in the door, I could see my dad at his desk, and it struck me that for the second night in a row I’d made other plans for dinner. Nor had I spent any time with him this weekend. He wouldn’t complain, I knew, but I still felt a pang of guilt. After we stopped talking about coins, breakfast and dinner were the only things we shared, and I was now depriving him even of that. Maybe I hadn’t changed as much as I thought I had. I was staying in his home and eating his food, and I was just about to ask him whether I could borrow his car. In other words, pretty much leading my own life and using him in the process. I wondered what Savannah would say to that, but I think I already knew the answer. Savannah sometimes sounded a lot like the little voice that had taken up residence in my head but never bothered paying rent, and right now it whispered that if I felt guilty, maybe I was doing something wrong. I resolved that I would spend more time with him. It was a cop-out and I admitted it, but I didn’t know what else to do.

When I opened the door, Dad looked startled to see me.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, taking my usual seat.

“Hi, John.” As soon as he spoke, he glanced at his desk and ran a hand over his thinning hair. When I added nothing, he realized that he should ask me a question. “How was your day?” he finally inquired.

I shifted in my seat. “It was great, actually. I spent most of the day with Savannah, the girl I told you about last night.”

“Oh.” His eyes drifted to the side, refusing to meet mine. “You didn’t tell me about her.”

“I didn’t?”

“No, but that’s okay. It was late.” For the first time, he seemed to realize I was dressed up, or at least as dressed up as he’d ever seen me, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask about it.

I tugged at my shirt, letting him off the hook. “Yeah, I know, trying to impress her, right? I’m taking her out to dinner tonight,” I said. “Is it okay if I borrow the car?”

“Oh… okay,” he said.

“I mean, did you need it tonight? I might be able to call a friend or something.”

“No,” he said. He reached into his pocket for the keys. Nine dads out of ten would have tossed them; mine held them out.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Just tired,” he said.

I stood and took the keys. “Dad?”

He glanced up again.

“I’m sorry about not having dinner with you these last couple of nights.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I understand.”

The sun was beginning its slow descent, and as I pulled out, the sky was a swirl of fruity colors that contrasted dramatically with the evening skies I’d come to know in Germany. Traffic was horrendous, as it usually was on Sunday nights, and it took almost thirty exhaust-fumed minutes to get back to the beach and pull in the drive.

I pushed open the door to the house without knocking. Two guys seated on the couch watching baseball heard me come in.

“Hey,” they said, sounding uninterested and unsurprised.

“Have you seen Savannah?”

“Who?” one of them asked, obviously paying me little attention.

“Never mind. I’ll find her.” I crossed the living room to the back deck, saw the same guy as the night before grilling again and a few others, but no sign of Savannah. Nor could I see her on the beach. I was just about to go back in when I felt someone tapping my shoulder.

“Who are you looking for?” she asked.

I turned around. “Some girl,” I said. “She tends to lose things at piers, but she’s a quick learner when it comes to surfing.”

She put her hands on her hips, and I smiled. She was dressed in shorts and a summer halter, with a hint of color in her cheeks, and I noticed she’d applied a bit of mascara and lipstick. While I loved her natural beauty—I am a kid from the beach—she was even more striking than I remembered. I caught the whiff of some lemony fragrance as she leaned toward me.

“That’s all I am? Some girl?” she asked. She sounded both playful and serious, and for an instant, I fantasized about wrapping my arms around her right then and there.

“Oh,” I said, feigning surprise. “It’s you.”

The two guys on the couch glanced toward us, then returned to the screen.

“You ready to go?” I asked.

“I’ve just got to get my purse,” she said. She retrieved it from the kitchen counter, and we started for the door. “And where are we going, by the way?”

When I told her, she lifted an eyebrow.

“You’re taking me to eat at a place with the word shack in the name?”

“I’m just an underpaid grunt in the army. It’s all I can afford.”

She bumped against me as we walked. “See, this is why I usually don’t date strangers.”

The Shrimp Shack is in downtown Wilmington, in the historic area that borders the Cape Fear River. At one end of the historic area are your typical tourist destinations: souvenir stores, a couple of places specializing in antiques, a few upscale restaurants, coffee shops, and various real estate offices. At the other end, however, Wilmington displayed its character as a working port city: large warehouses, more than one of which stood abandoned, and a few other dated office buildings only half-occupied. I doubted that the tourists who flocked here in the summer ever ventured toward this other end. This was the direction I turned. Little by little, the crowds faded away until no one was left on the sidewalk as the area grew more dilapidated.

“Where is this place?” Savannah asked.

“Just a little farther,” I said. “Up there, at the end.”

“It’s kind of out of the way, isn’t it?”

“It’s kind of a local institution,” I said. “The owner doesn’t care if tourists come or not. He never has.”

A minute later, I slowed the car and turned into a small parking lot bordering one of the warehouses. A few dozen cars were parked in front of the Shrimp Shack, as they always were, and the place hadn’t changed. As long as I’d known it, it had looked run-down, with a broad, cluttered porch, peeling paint, and a crooked roofline that made it appear as if the place were about to fall over, despite the fact that it had been weathering hurricanes since the 1940s. The exterior was decorated with nets, hubcaps, license plates, an old anchor, oars, and a few rusty chains. A broken rowboat sat near the door.

The sky was beginning its lazy fade to black as we walked to the entrance. I wondered whether I should reach for Savannah’s hand, but in the end I did nothing. While I may have had some version of hormone-induced success with women, I had very little experience when it came to girls I cared about. Despite the fact that only a day had passed since we’d met, I already knew I was in new territory.

We stepped onto the sagging porch, and Savannah pointed to the rowboat. “Maybe that’s why he opened a restaurant. Because his boat sank.”

“Could be. Or maybe someone just left it there and he never bothered to remove it. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she said, and I pushed open the door.

I don’t know what she expected, but she wore a satisfied expression as she stepped inside. There was a long bar off on one side, windows that overlooked the river, and, in the main seating area, wooden picnic benches. A couple of waitresses with big hair—they hadn’t seemed to change any more than the decor—were moving among the tables, carrying platters of food. The air held the greasy smell of fried food and cigarette smoke, but somehow it seemed just right. Most of the tables were filled, but I motioned toward one near the jukebox. It was playing a country-western song, though I couldn’t have told you who the singer was. I’m more of a classic-rock fan.

We wove our way among the tables. Most of the customers looked as if they worked hard for a living: construction workers, landscapers, truckers, and the like. I hadn’t seen so many NASCAR baseball hats since… well, I’d never seen that many. A few guys in my squad were fans, but I never got the appeal of watching a bunch of guys drive in circles all day or figured out why they didn’t post the articles in the automotive section of the paper instead of the sports section. We sat across from each other, and I watched Savannah take in the room.

“I like places like this,” she said. “Was this your regular hangout when you lived here?”

“No, this was more of a special-occasion place. Usually I hung out at a place called Leroy’s. It’s a bar near Wrightsville Beach.”

She reached for a laminated menu sandwiched between a metal napkin holder and bottles of ketchup and Texas Pete hot sauce.

“This is way better,” she said. She opened the menu. “Now, what’s this place famous for?”

“Shrimp,” I said.

“Gee, really?” she asked.

“Seriously. Every kind of shrimp you can imagine. You know that scene in Forrest Gump when Bubba was telling Forrest all the ways to prepare shrimp? Grilled, sauteed, barbecued, Cajun shrimp, lemon shrimp, shrimp Creole, shrimp cocktail… That’s this place.”

“What do you like?”

“I like ’em chilled with cocktail sauce on the side. Or fried.”

She closed the menu. “You pick,” she said, sliding her menu toward me. “I trust you.”

I slipped the menu back into its place against the napkin holder.

“So?”

“Chilled. In a bucket. It’s the consummate experience.”

She leaned across the table. “So how many women have you brought here? For the consummate experience, I mean.”

“Including you? Let me think.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “One.”

“I’m honored.”

“This was more of a place for me and my friends when we wanted to eat instead of drink. There was no better food after a day spent surfing.”

“As I’ll soon find out.”