Nicholas Sparks - Dear John

I thought about paying a visit to Leroy’s but figured that nothing or no one had changed except for me. Instead, I grabbed a bottle of beer from the corner store and went to sit on the pier to enjoy the sunset. Most of the people fishing had already begun clearing out, and the few who remained were cleaning their catch and tossing the discards in the water. In time, the color of the ocean began changing from iron gray to orange, then yellow. In the breakers beyond the pier, I could see pelicans riding the backs of porpoises as they skimmed through the waves. I knew that the evening would bring the first night of the full moon—my time in the field made the realization almost instinctive. I wasn’t thinking about much of anything, just sort of letting my mind wander. Believe me, meeting a girl was the last thing on my mind.

That was when I saw her walking up the pier. Or rather, two of them walking. One was tall and blond, the other an attractive brunette, both a little younger than me. College students, most likely. Both wore shorts and halters, and the brunette was carrying one of those big knit bags that people sometimes bring to the beach when they plan to stay for hours with the kids. I could hear them talking and laughing, sounding carefree and vacation-ready as they approached.

“Hey,” I called out when they were close. Not very smooth, and I can’t say I expected anything in response.

The blonde proved me right. She took one glimpse at my surfboard and the beer in my hand and ignored me with a roll of her eyes. The brunette, however, surprised me.

“Hiya, stranger,” she answered with a smile. She motioned toward my board. “I’ll bet the waves were great today.”

Her comment caught me off guard, and I heard an unexpected kindness in her words. She and her friend continued down to the end of the pier, and I found myself watching her as she leaned over the railing. I debated whether or not I should stroll over and introduce myself, then decided against it. They weren’t my type, or more accurately, I probably wasn’t theirs. I took a long pull on my beer, trying to ignore them.

Try as I might, though, I couldn’t stop my gaze from drifting back to the brunette. I tried not to listen to what the two girls were saying, but the blonde had one of those voices impossible to ignore. She was talking endlessly about some guy named Brad and how much she loved him, and how her sorority was the best at UNC, and the party they had at the end of the year was the best ever, and that the other should join next year, and that too many of her friends were hooking up with the worst kind of frat guys, and one of them even got pregnant, but it was her own fault since she’d been warned about the guy. The brunette didn’t say much—I couldn’t tell whether she was amused or bored by the conversation—but every now and then, she would laugh. Again, I heard something friendly and understanding in her voice, something akin to coming home, which I’ll admit made no sense at all. As I set aside my bottle of beer, I noticed that she’d placed her bag on the railing.

They had been standing there for ten minutes or so before two guys started up the pier—frat guys, I guessed—wearing pink and orange Lacoste shirts over their knee-length Bermuda shorts. My first thought was that one of these two must be the Brad that the blonde had been talking about. Both carried beers, and they grew furtive as they approached, as if intending to sneak up on the girls. More than likely the two girls wanted them there, and after a quick burst of surprise, complete with a scream and a couple of friendly slaps on the arm, they’d all head back together, laughing and giggling or doing whatever it was college couples did.

It may have turned out that way, too, for the boys did just what I thought they would. As soon as they were close, they jumped at the girls with a yell; both girls shrieked and did the friendly slap thing. The guys hooted, and pink shirt spilled some of his beer. He leaned against the railing, near the bag, one leg over the other, his arms behind him.

“Hey, we’re going to be starting the bonfire in a couple of minutes,” orange shirt said, putting his arms around the blonde. He kissed her neck. “You two ready to come back?”

“You ready?” the blonde asked, looking at her friend.

“Sure,” the brunette answered.

Pink shirt pushed back from the railing, but somehow his hand must have hit the bag, because it slid, then tumbled over the edge. The splash sounded like a fish jumping.

“What was that?” he asked, turning around.

“My bag!” the brunette gasped. “You knocked it off.”

“Sorry about that,” he said, not sounding particularly sorry.

“My purse was in there!”

He frowned. “I said I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got to get it before it sinks!”

The frat brothers seemed frozen, and I knew neither of them had any intention of jumping in to get it. For one thing, they’d probably never find it, and then they’d have to swim all the way back to shore, something that wasn’t recommended when one had been drinking, as they obviously had been. I think the brunette read pink shirt’s expression as well, because I saw her put both hands on the upper rail and one foot on the bottom.

“Don’t be dumb. It’s gone,” pink shirt declared, putting his hand on hers to stop her. “It’s too dangerous to jump. There might be sharks down there. It’s just a purse. I’ll buy you a new one.”

“I need that purse! It’s got all my money in there!”

It wasn’t any of my business, I knew. But all I could think as I leapt to my feet and rushed toward the edge of the pier was, Oh, what the hell….

I suppose I should explain why I jumped into the waves to retrieve her bag. It wasn’t that I thought she would view me as some sort of hero, or because I wanted to impress her, or even because I cared in the slightest how much money she’d lost. It had to do with the genuineness of her smile and the warmth of her laugh. Even as I was plunging into the water, I knew how ridiculous my reaction was, but by then it was too late. I hit the water, went under, and popped to the surface. Four faces stared down at me from the railing. Pink shirt was definitely annoyed.

“Where is it?” I shouted up at them.

“Right over there!” the brunette shouted. “I think I can still see it. It’s going down….”

It took a minute to locate it in the deepening twilight, and the surge of the ocean was doing its best to drive me into the pier. I swam to the side, then held the bag above the water as best I could, despite the fact that it was already soaking. The waves made the swim back to shore less difficult than I’d feared, and every now and then I’d look up and see the four people following along with me.

I finally felt bottom and trudged out of the surf. I shook the water from my hair, started up the sand, and met them halfway up the beach. I held out the bag.

“Here you go.”

“Thank you,” the brunette said, and when her eyes met mine, I felt something click, like a key turning in a lock. Believe me, I’m no romantic, and while I’ve heard all about love at first sight, I’ve never believed in it, and I still don’t. But even so, there was something there, something recognizably real, and I couldn’t look away.

Up close, she was more beautiful than I’d first realized, but it had less to do with the way she looked than the way she was. It wasn’t just her slightly gap-toothed smile, it was the casual way she swiped at a loose strand of hair, the easy way she held herself.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said with something like wonder in her voice. “I would have gotten it.”

“I know.” I nodded. “I saw you getting ready to jump.”

She tilted her head to the side. “But you felt an uncontrollable need to help a lady in distress?”

“Something like that.”

She evaluated my answer for a moment, then turned her attention to the bag. She began removing items—her wallet, sunglasses, visor, a tube of sunscreen—and handed them all to the blonde before wringing out the bag.

“Your pictures got wet,” said the blonde, flicking through the wallet.

The brunette ignored her, continuing to wring one way and then the next. When she was finally satisfied, she took back the items and reloaded her bag.

“Thank you again,” she said. Her accent was different from that of eastern North Carolina, more of a twang, as if she’d grown up in the mountains near Boone or near the South Carolina border in the west.

“No big deal,” I mumbled, but I didn’t move.

“Hey, maybe he wants a reward,” pink shirt broke in, his voice loud.

She glanced at him, then back at me. “Do you want a reward?”

“No.” I waved a hand. “Just glad to help.”

“I always knew chivalry wasn’t dead,” she proclaimed. I tried to detect a note of teasing, but I heard nothing in her tone to indicate that she was poking fun at me.

Orange shirt gave me the once-over, noting my crew cut. “Are you in the marines?” he asked. He tightened his arms around the blonde again.

I shook my head. “I’m not one of the few or the proud. I wanted to be all that I could be, so I joined the army.”

The brunette laughed. Unlike my dad, she’d actually seen the commercials.

“I’m Savannah,” she said. “Savannah Lynn Curtis. And these are Brad, Randy, and Susan.” She held out her hand.

“I’m John Tyree,” I said, taking it. Her hand was warm, velvety soft in places but callused in others. I was suddenly conscious of how long it had been since I’d touched a woman.

“Well, I feel like I should do something for you.”