When I arrived at the house on Monday evening, I couldn’t find Savannah. I had someone check her room, and I poked my head into every bathroom. She wasn’t on the deck out back or on the beach with the others.
I went down to the beach and asked around, receiving mainly shrugs of indifference. A couple of people hadn’t even realized she was gone, but finally one of the girls—Sandy or Cindy, I wasn’t sure—pointed down the beach and said they’d seen her head that way about an hour earlier.
It took a long time to find her. I walked the beach in both directions, finally focusing on the pier near the house. On a hunch, I climbed the stairs, hearing the waves crashing below me. When I caught sight of Savannah, I thought she’d come out to the pier to look for porpoises or watch the surfers. She was sitting with her knees pulled up, leaning against a post, and it was only when I got close that I realized she was crying.
I’d never known quite what to do when I saw a girl cry. In all honesty, I never knew what to do when anyone cried. My father never cried, or if he did, it was never in my presence. And the last time I’d cried had been in the third grade, when I’d fallen from the tree house and sprained my wrist. In my unit, I’d seen a couple of the guys cry, and I’d usually pat them on the back and then wander away, leaving the whys and what can I dos to someone with more experience.
Before I could decide what to do, Savannah saw me. She hurriedly swiped at her red and swollen eyes, and I heard her draw a couple of steadying breaths. Her bag, the one I’d rescued from the ocean, was sandwiched between her legs.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“No,” she answered, and my heart clenched.
“Do you want to be alone?”
She considered it. “I don’t know,” she said at last.
Not knowing what else to do, I stood where I was.
Savannah sighed. “I’ll be okay.”
I slipped my hands in my pockets as I nodded. “Would you rather be alone?” I asked again.
“Do I really have to tell you?”
I hesitated. “Yeah.”
She gave a melancholy laugh. “You can stay,” she said. “In fact, it might be nice if you came and sat by me.”
I took a seat and then, after a brief period of indecision, slipped my arm around her. For a while, we sat together without saying anything. Savannah inhaled slowly, and her breathing became steadier. She wiped at the tears that continued to slide down her cheeks.
“I bought you something,” she said after a while. “I hope you’re okay with it.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I mumbled.
She sniffled. “Do you know what I was thinking about when I came out here?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I was thinking about us,” she said. “The way we met and how we talked that first night, how you flashed your tattoos and gave Randy the evil eye. And your goofy expression when we went surfing the first time, after I rode the wave to shore. . . .”
When she trailed off, I squeezed her waist. “I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere.”
She tried to rally with a shaky grin but didn’t quite succeed. “I remember everything about those first few days,” she said. “And the same goes for the whole week. Spending time with your dad, going out for ice cream, even staring at that dumb boat.”
“We won’t go back,” I promised, but she raised her hands to stop me.
“You’re not letting me finish,” she said. “And you’re missing my point. My point is that I loved each and every moment of it, and I didn’t expect that. I didn’t come here for that, just like I didn’t come here to fall in love with you. Or, in a different way, with your father.”
Chastened, I said nothing.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I think your dad is fantastic. I think he’s done a wonderful job raising you, and I know you don’t, and . . .”
When she seemed to run out of words, I shook my head, perplexed. “And that’s why you were crying? Because of the way I feel about my dad?”
“No,” she said. “Weren’t you listening?”
She paused, as if trying to organize her chaotic thoughts. “I didn’t want to fall in love with anyone,” she said. “I wasn’t ready for that. I’ve been through that once, and afterwards I was a mess. I know it’s different, but you’ll be leaving in just a few days and all this will be over . . . and I’ll be a mess again.”
“It doesn’t have to be over,” I protested.
“But it will be,” she said. “I know we can write and talk on the phone now and then, and we could see each other when you come home on leave. But it won’t be the same. I won’t be able to see your silly expressions. We won’t be able to lie on the beach together and stare at the stars. We won’t be able to sit across from each other and talk and share secrets. And I won’t feel your arm around me, like I do now.”