Nicholas Sparks - Dear John

“Trying,” I grunted. I glanced around the bar as he slid the glass in front of me. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said, motioning over my shoulder.

“Good. It’s all for you. You gonna eat anything?”

“No. This is fine, thanks.”

He wiped the counter in front of me, then flipped the rag over his shoulder and moved away to take someone else’s order. A moment later, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Johnny! What’re you doing here?”

I turned and saw one of the many friends I had come to despise. That’s the way it was here. I hated everything about the place, including my friends, and I realized that I always had. I had no idea why I’d come, or even why I’d ever made this a regular hangout, other than the fact that it was here and I had no place else to go.

“Hey, Toby,” I said.

Tall and scrawny, Toby took a seat beside me, and when he turned to face me, I saw that his eyes were already glassy. He smelled as if he hadn’t showered in days, and his shirt was stained. “You still playing Rambo?” he asked, his words slurred. “You look like you’ve been working out.”

“Yeah,” I said, not wanting to go into it. “What are you doing these days?”

“Hanging out, mainly. For the last couple of weeks, anyway. I was working at Quick Stop until a couple of weeks ago, but the owner was a real ass.”

“Still living at home?”

“Of course,” he said, sounding almost proud of the fact. He tipped the bottle and took a long drink, then focused on my arms. “You look good. You been working out?” he asked again.

“A little,” I said, knowing he didn’t remember he’d already asked.

“You’re big.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. Toby took another drink.

“Hey, there’s a party tonight at Mandy’s,” he said. “You remember Mandy, right?”

Yeah, I remembered. A girl from my past who lasted less than a weekend. Toby was still going on.

“Her parents are up in New York or someplace like that, and it should be a real banger. We’re just having a little pre-party to get us in the proper mood. You want to join us?”

He motioned over his shoulder toward four guys at a corner table littered with three empty pitchers. I recognized two from my past life, but the others were strangers.

“I can’t,” I said, “I’m supposed to be meeting my dad for dinner. Thanks, though.”

“Blow him off. It’s going to be a blast. Kim’ll be there.”

Another woman from my past, another reminder that made me wince inside. I could barely stomach the person I used to be.

“I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. I stood, leaving the mostly full glass in front of me. “I promised. And he’s letting me stay with him. You know how it is.”

That made sense to him, and he nodded. “Then let’s get together this weekend. A bunch of us are heading up to Ocracoke to go surfing.”

“Maybe,” I said, knowing there wasn’t a chance.

“Your dad still have the same number?”

“Yeah,” I said.

I left, sure that he’d never call and that I’d never return to Leroy’s.

On my way home, I picked up steaks for dinner, along with a bag of salad, some dressing, and a couple of potatoes. Without a car, it wasn’t easy carrying the bag along with my surfboard all the way back home, but I didn’t really mind the walk. I’d done it for years, and my shoes were a whole lot more comfortable than the boots I’d grown used to.

Once home, I dragged the grill from the garage, along with a bag of briquettes and lighter fluid. The grill was dusty, as if it hadn’t been used for years. I set it up on the back porch and emptied out the charcoal dust before hosing off the cobwebs and letting it dry in the sun. Inside, I added some salt, pepper, and garlic powder to the steaks, wrapped the potatoes in foil and put them in the oven, then poured the salad in a bowl. Once the grill was dry, I got the briquettes going and set the table out back.

Dad walked in just as I was adding the steaks to the grill.

“Hey, Dad,” I said over my shoulder. “I thought I’d make us dinner tonight.”

“Oh,” he said. It seemed to take him an instant to grasp the fact that he wouldn’t be cooking for me. “Okay,” he finally added.

“How do you like your steak?”

“Medium,” he said. He continued to stand near the sliding glass door.

“It looks like you haven’t used the grill since I left,” I said. “But you should. There’s nothing better than a grilled steak. My mouth was watering all the way home.”

“I’m going to go change my clothes.”

“Steaks will be done in about ten minutes.”

When he left I went back into the kitchen, took out the potatoes and the bowl of salad—along with dressing, butter, and steak sauce—and put them on the table. I heard the patio door slide open, and my dad emerged carrying two glasses of milk, looking like a cruise ship tourist. He was dressed in shorts, black socks, tennis shoes, and a flowered Hawaiian shirt. His legs were painfully white, as if he hadn’t worn shorts in years. If ever. Thinking back, I’m not sure I’d ever seen him in shorts. I did my best to pretend he looked normal.

“Just in time,” I said, returning to the grill. I loaded both plates with steaks and set one in front of him.

“Thanks,” he said.

“My pleasure.”

He added salad to his plate and poured the dressing, then unwrapped his potato. He added butter, then poured steak sauce onto the plate, making a small puddle. Normal and expected, except for the fact that he did all this in silence.

“How was your day?” I asked, as always.

“The same,” he answered. As always. He smiled again but added nothing else.

My dad, the social misfit. I wondered again why he found conversation so difficult and tried to imagine what he’d been like in his youth. How had he ever found someone to marry? I knew the last question sounded petty, but it hadn’t come from spite. I was genuinely curious. We ate for a while, the clatter of forks the only sound to keep us company.

“Savannah said she’d like to meet you,” I finally said, trying again.

He cut at his steak. “Your lady friend?”

Only my dad would phrase it that way. “Yeah,” I said. “I think you’ll like her.”

He nodded.

“She’s a student at UNC,” I explained.

He knew it was his turn, and I could sense his relief when another question came to him. “How did you meet her?”

I told him about the bag, painting the picture, trying to make the story as humorous as possible, but laughter eluded him.

“That was kind of you,” he observed.

Another conversation stopper. I cut another piece of steak. “Dad? Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Of course not.”

“How did you and Mom meet?”

It was the first time I’d asked about her in years. Because she’d never been part of my life, because I had no memories, I’d seldom felt the need to do so. Even now, I didn’t really care; I just wanted him to talk to me. He took his time adding more butter to his potato, and I knew he didn’t want to answer.

“We met at a diner,” he said finally. “She was a waitress.”

I waited. Nothing more seemed forthcoming.

“Was she pretty?”

“Yes,” he said.

“What was she like?”

He mashed the potato and added salt, sprinkling it with care. “She was like you,” he concluded.

“What do you mean?”

“Umm…” He hesitated. “She could be… stubborn.”

I wasn’t sure what to think or even what he meant. Before I could dwell on it, he rose from the table and seized his glass.

“Would you like some more milk?” he asked, and I knew he would say no more about her.

Time is relative. I know I’m not the first to realize it and far from the most famous, and my realization had nothing to do with energy or mass or the speed of light or anything else Einstein might have postulated. Rather, it had to do with the drag of hours while I waited for Savannah.

After my dad and I finished dinner, I thought about her; I thought of her again soon after I woke. I spent the day surfing, and though the waves were better than they’d been the day before, I couldn’t really concentrate and decided to call it quits by midafternoon. I debated whether or not to grab a cheeseburger at a little place by the beach—the best burgers in town, by the way—but even though I was in the mood, I just went home, hoping that I could talk Savannah into a burger later. I read a bit of the latest Stephen King novel, showered and threw on a pair of jeans and a polo, then read for another couple of hours before glancing at the clock and realizing only twenty minutes had passed. That’s what I meant by time being relative.

When my dad got home, he saw the way I was dressed and offered his keys.

“Are you going to see Savannah?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, rising from the couch. I took the keys. “I might be late getting in.”

He scratched the back of his head. “Okay,” he said.

“Breakfast tomorrow?”

“Okay.” For a reason I couldn’t understand, he sounded almost scared.

“All right,” I said. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“I’ll probably be sleeping.”

“I didn’t mean it literally.”

“Oh,” he said. “Okay.”

I headed for the door. Just as I opened it, I heard him sigh.

“I’d like to meet Savannah, too,” he said in a voice so soft, I barely heard it.

The sky was still bright and the sun was bending light across the water when I arrived at the house. As I got out, I realized I was nervous. I couldn’t remember the last time any girl had made me nervous, but I couldn’t shake the thought that somehow things might have changed between us. I didn’t know how or why I felt that way; all I knew was that I wasn’t sure what I’d do if my fears proved correct.