Dear John(9)

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!”