Dear John(37)

“Sorry,” I said, “I thought it would be more comfortable.”

“It’s okay. My legs are exhausted and my feet hurt. This is perfect.”

Yes, I thought, it was. I thought back to nights on guard duty, when I’d imagine sitting beside the girl of my dreams and feeling all was right with the world. I knew now what I’d been missing all these years. When I felt Savannah rest her head on my shoulder, I found myself wishing I hadn’t joined the army. I wished I weren’t stationed overseas, and I wished I’d chosen a different path in life, one that would have let me remain a part of her world. To be a student at Chapel Hill, to spend part of my summer building houses, to ride horses with her.

“You’re awful quiet,” I heard her say.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking about tonight.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Yeah, good things,” I said.

She shifted in her seat, and I felt her leg brush against mine. “Me too. But I was thinking about your dad,” she said. “Has he always been like he was tonight? Kind of shy and glancing away when he talks to people?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”

“Just curious,” she said.

A few feet away, the storm seemed to be reaching its climax as another sheet of rain broke from the clouds. Water poured off all sides of the house like waterfalls. Lightning flashed again, closer this time, and thunder crashed like a cannon. Had there been windows, I imagined they would have rattled in their casings.

Savannah scooted closer, and I put my arm around her. She crossed her legs at the ankles and leaned against me, and I felt as if I could hold her this way forever.

“You’re different from most of the guys I know,” she observed, her voice low and intimate in my ear. “More mature, less . . . flighty, I guess.”

I smiled, liking what she said. “And don’t forget my crew cut and tattoos.”

“Crew cut, yes. Tattoos . . . well, they sort of come with the package, but no one’s perfect.”

I nudged her and pretended to be wounded. “Well, had I known how you feel, I wouldn’t have got them.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, pulling back. “But I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said that. I was speaking more about how I’d feel about getting one. On you, they do tend to project a certain . . . image, and I suppose it fits.”

“What image is that?”

She pointed to the tattoos, one by one, starting with the Chinese character. “This one tells me that you live life by your own rules and don’t always care what people think. The infantry one shows that you’re proud of what you do. And the barbed wire . . . well, that goes with who you were when you were younger.”

“That’s quite the psychological profile. Here I thought it was just that I liked the designs.”

“I’m thinking about getting a minor in psychology.”

“I think you already have one.”

Though the wind had picked up, the rain finally began to slow.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked, switching gears suddenly.

Her question surprised me. “That came out of the blue.”

“I’ve been told that being unpredictable adds to the mysteriousness of women.”

“Oh, it does. But to answer your question, I don’t know.”

“How can you not know?”

I hesitated, trying to think of what to say. “I dated a girl a few years back, and at the time, I knew I was in love. At least, that’s what I’d told myself. But now, when I think back, I’m just . . . not sure anymore. I cared about her and I enjoyed spending time with her, but when we weren’t together, I barely thought about her. We were together, but we weren’t a couple, if that makes any sense.”

She considered my answer but said nothing. In time, I turned toward her. “How about you? Have you ever been in love?”

Her face clouded. “No,” she said.

“But you thought you were. Like me, right?” When she inhaled sharply, I went on. “In my squad, I have to use a bit of psychology, too. And my instincts tell me there was a serious boyfriend in your past.”

She smiled, but there was something sad in it. “I knew you’d figure it out,” she said in a subdued voice. “But to answer your question, yes, there was. During my freshman year in college. And yes, I did think I loved him.”

“Are you sure you didn’t love him?”

It took her a long time to answer. “No,” she murmured. “I’m not.”

I stared at her. “You don’t have to tell me—”