I’ll think about you every day. Part of me is scared that there will come a time when you don’t feel the same way, that you’ll somehow forget about what we shared, so this is what I want to do. Wherever you are and no matter what’s going on in your life, when it’s the first night of the full moon—like it was the first time we met—I want you to find it in the nighttime sky. I want you to think about me and the week we shared, because wherever I am and no matter what’s going on in my life, that’s exactly what I’ll be doing. If we can’t be together, at least we can share that, and maybe between the two of us, we can make this last forever.
I love you, John Tyree, and I’m going to hold you to the promise you once made to me. If you come back, I’ll marry you. If you break your promise, you’ll break my heart.
Love,
Savannah
Beyond the window and through the tears in my eyes, I could see a layer of clouds spread beneath me. I had no idea where we were. All I knew was that I wanted to turn around and go back home, to be in the place I was meant to be.
PART II
Twelve
Hours later, on that first lonely night back in Germany, I read the letter again, reliving our time together. It was easy; those memories had already begun to haunt me and sometimes seemed more real than my life as a soldier. I could feel Savannah’s hand in mine and watched as she shook the ocean water from her hair. I laughed aloud as I recalled my surprise when she rode her first wave to shore. My time with Savannah changed me, and the men in my squad remarked on the difference. Over the next couple of weeks, my friend Tony teased me endlessly, smug in the belief that he’d finally been proven right about the importance of female companionship. It was my own fault for telling him about Savannah. Tony, however, wanted to know more than I was willing to share. While I was reading, he sat in the seat across from me, grinning like an idiot.
“Tell me again about your wild vacation romance,” he said.
I forced myself to keep my eyes on the page, doing my best to ignore him.
“Savannah, right? Sa-va-nnah. Damn, I love that name. Sounds so . . . dainty, but I’ll bet she was a tiger in the sack, right?”
“Shut up, Tony.”
“Don’t give me that. Haven’t I been the one watching out for you all this time? Telling you that you gotta get out? You finally listened, and now it’s payback time. I want the details.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“But you drank tequila, right? I told you it works every time.”
I said nothing. Tony threw up his hands. “Come on—you can tell me that much, can’t you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Because you’re in love? Yeah, that’s what you said, but I’m beginning to think you’re making the whole thing up.”
“That’s right. I made it up. Are we done?”
He shook his head and rose from his seat. “You are one lovesick puppy.”
I said nothing, but as he walked away, I knew he was right. I was head over heels crazy about Savannah. I would have done anything to be with her, and I requested a transfer to the States. My hard-bitten commanding officer appeared to give it serious consideration. When he asked why, I told him about my dad instead of Savannah. He listened for a while, then leaned back in his seat and said, “The odds aren’t good unless your dad’s health is an issue.” Walking out of his office, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere for at least the next sixteen months. I didn’t bother to hide my disappointment, and the next time the moon was full, I left the barracks and wandered out to one of the grassy areas we used for soccer games. I lay on my back and stared at the moon, remembering it all and hating the fact that I was so far away.
From the very beginning, the calls and letters between us were regular. We e-mailed as well, but I soon learned that Savannah preferred to write, and she wanted me to do the same. “I know it’s not as immediate as e-mail, but that’s what I like about it,” she wrote me. “I like the surprise of finding a letter in the mailbox and the anxious anticipation I feel when I’m getting ready to open it. I like the fact that I can take it with me to read at my leisure, and that I can lean against a tree and feel the breeze on my face when I see your words on paper. I like to imagine the way you looked when you wrote it: what you were wearing, your surroundings, the way you held your pen. I know it’s a cliché and it’s probably off the mark, but I keep thinking of you sitting in a tent at a makeshift table, with an oil lamp burning beside you while the wind blows outside. It’s so much more romantic than reading something on the same machine that you use to download music or research a paper.”