Dear John Read online

  That night, we drove back to Chapel Hill, and Savannah showed me her apartment. It was sparse in the furniture department, but it was relatively new, and it had both a gas fireplace and small balcony that offered a view of the campus. Despite the warm weather, she got the fire going, and we snacked on cheese and crackers, which, aside from cereal, was about all she had to offer. It felt indescribably romantic to me, though I'd come to realize that being alone with Savannah always struck me as romantic. We talked until nearly midnight, but Savannah was quieter than usual. In time, she wandered to the bedroom. When she didn't return, I went to find her. She was sitting on the bed, and I stopped in the doorway.

  She squeezed her hands together and drew a long breath. "So . . . ," she began.

  "So . . . ," I responded when she remained silent.

  She drew another long breath. "It's getting late. And I've got an early class tomorrow."

  I nodded. "You should probably get some sleep."

  "Yeah," she said. She nodded as if she hadn't considered it and turned toward the window. Through the blinds, I could see shafts of light streaming in from the parking lot. She was cute when she was nervous.

  "So . . . ," she said again, as if speaking to the wall.

  I held up my hands. "Why don't I sleep on the couch, okay?"

  "You wouldn't mind?"

  "Not at all," I said. Actually, it wasn't what I preferred, but I understood.

  Still staring toward the window, she made no move to get up. "I'm just not ready," she said, her voice soft. "I mean, I thought I was, and part of me really wants to. I've been thinking about it for the last few weeks, and I made up my mind and it just seemed right, you know? I love you and you love me, and this is what people do when they're in love. It was easy to tell myself when you weren't here, but now . . ." She trailed off.

  "It's okay," I said.

  At last she turned toward me. "Were you scared? Your first time?"

  I wondered how best to answer that. "I think it's different for men and women," I said.

  "Yeah. I suppose so." She pretended to adjust the blankets. "Are you mad?"

  "Not at all."

  "But you're disappointed."

  "Well . . . ," I admitted, and she laughed.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "There's no reason to apologize."

  She thought about it. "Then why does it feel like I have to apologize?"

  "Well, I am a lonely soldier," I pointed out, and she laughed again. I could still hear the nervousness in it.

  "The couch isn't very comfortable," she fretted. "And it's small. You won't be able to stretch out. And I don't have any extra blankets. I should have grabbed a couple from home, but I forgot."

  "That is a problem."

  "Yeah," she said. I waited.

  "I suppose you could sleep with me," she ventured.

  I waited while she continued her own internal debate. Finally she shrugged. "You want to give it a try? Just sleeping, I mean?"

  "Whatever you say."

  For the first time, her shoulders relaxed. "Okay, then. We've got that settled. Just give me a minute to change."

  She rose from the bed, crossed the room, and opened a drawer. The pajamas she chose were similar to the ones she'd worn at her parents', and I left her to go back to the living room, where I slipped on some of my workout shorts and a T-shirt. By the time I returned, she was already under the covers. I went to the other side and crawled in beside her. She shuffled the covers before turning out the light, then lay on her back, staring toward the ceiling. I lay on my side, facing her.

  "Good night," she whispered.

  "Good night."

  I knew I wouldn't sleep. Not for a while, anyway. I was too . . . worked up for that. But I didn't want to toss and turn, in case she could.

  "Hey," she finally whispered again.

  "Yes?"

  She rolled over to face me. "I just want you to know this is my first time that I've ever slept with a man. All night, I mean. That's a step closer, right?"

  "Yeah," I said. "It's a step closer."

  She brushed my arm. "And now if anyone asks, you'll be able to tell them that we've slept together."

  "True," I said.

  "But you won't tell anyone, will you? I mean, I don't want to get a reputation, you know."

  I stifled a laugh. "I'll keep it our little secret."

  The next few days fell into an easy, relaxing pattern. Savannah had classes in the morning and usually finished up a little after lunch. Theoretically, I suppose it gave me the opportunity to sleep in--something that all army recruits dream about when they talk about going on leave--but years of rising before dawn was a habit impossible to break. Instead, I woke before she did and would start a pot of coffee before trotting down to the corner to pick up the newspaper. Occasionally, I grabbed a couple of bagels or croissants; other times, we simply had cereal at the house, and it was easy to view our little routine as a preview of the first years of our future life together, effortless bliss that was almost too good to be true.

  Or, at least, I tried to convince myself of that. When we stayed with her parents, Savannah was exactly the girl I remembered. Same thing on our first night alone. But after that . . . I began to notice differences. I guess I hadn't fully realized that she was living a life that seemed complete and fulfilling, even without me. The calendar she kept on the refrigerator door listed something to do almost every day: concerts, lectures, half a dozen parties for various friends. Tim, I noted, was penciled in for the occasional lunch as well. She was taking four classes and teaching another as a graduate assistant, and on Thursday afternoons, she worked with a professor on a case study, one she was sure would be published. Her life was exactly the way she'd described it in her letters, and when she returned to the apartment, she'd tell me about her day while she made herself something to eat in the kitchen. She loved the work she was doing, and the pride in her tone was evident. She would talk animatedly while I listened, and I asked just enough questions to keep the flow of conversation going.

  Nothing unusual in that, I admitted. I knew enough to realize that it would have been a bigger problem if she'd said nothing about her day at all. But with every new story, I'd get this sinking feeling, one that made me think that as much as we'd kept in touch, as much as we cared about each other, she'd somehow zigged while I had zagged. Since I'd last seen her, she'd completed her degree, tossed her cap into the air at commencement, found work as a graduate assistant, and moved into, and furnished, her own apartment. Her life had entered a new phase, and while I suppose it was possible to say the same thing about me, the simple fact was that nothing much had changed on my end, unless you counted the fact that I now knew how to assemble and disassemble eight types of weapons instead of six and I'd increased my bench press by another thirty pounds. And, of course, I'd done my part in giving the Russians something to think about if they were debating whether or not to invade Germany with dozens of mechanized divisions.

  Don't get me wrong. I was still head over heels for Savannah, and there were times when I still sensed the strength of her feelings for me. Lots of times, in fact. For the most part, it was a wonderful week. While she was gone, I'd walk the campus or jog around the sky blue track near the field house, taking advantage of some much needed downtime. Within a day I'd found a gym that would allow me to work out for the time I was there, and because I was in the service, they didn't even charge me. I'd usually be finished working out and showering by the time Savannah got back to the apartment, and we'd spend the rest of the afternoon together. On Tuesday night, we joined a group of her classmates for dinner in downtown Chapel Hill. It was more fun than I'd thought it would be, especially considering I was hanging out with a bunch of summer school eggheads and most of the conversation centered on the psychology of adolescents. On Wednesday afternoon, Savannah gave me a tour of her classes and introduced me to her professors. Later that afternoon, we met up with a couple of people I'd been introduced to the n
ight before. That evening, we picked up some Chinese food and sat at the table in her apartment. She was wearing one of those strappy tank tops that accentuated her tan, and all I could think was that she was the sexiest woman I'd ever seen.

  By Thursday, I wanted to spend some one-on-one time with her and decided to surprise her with a special night out. While she was in class and working on the case study, I went to the mall and dropped a small fortune on a new suit and tie and another small fortune on shoes. I wanted to see her dressed up, and I made dinner reservations at this restaurant the shoe salesman had told me was the best in town. Five stars, exotic menu, nattily dressed waiters, the whole shebang. Granted, I didn't tell Savannah about it beforehand--it was supposed to be a surprise, after all--but as soon as she walked in the door, I found out she'd already made plans to spend another evening with the same friends we'd seen during the last couple of days. She sounded so excited about it that I never bothered to tell her what I'd planned.

  Still, I wasn't just disappointed, I was angry. To my way of thinking, I was more than happy to spend an evening with her friends, even an additional afternoon. But almost every day? After a year apart, when we had so little time left together? It bothered me that she didn't seem to share the same desire. For the past few months, I'd been imagining that we'd spend as much time together as we could, making up for our year apart. But I was coming to the conclusion that I might have been mistaken. Which meant . . . what? That I wasn't as important to her as she was to me? I didn't know, but given my mood, I probably should have stayed at the apartment and let her go by herself. Instead I sat off to the side, refused to take part in the conversation, and pretty much stared down everyone who looked my way. I've become good at intimidation over the years, and I was in rare form that night. Savannah could tell I was angry, but every time she asked if something was bothering me, I was at my passive-aggressive best in denying that anything was wrong at all.

  "Just tired," I said instead.

  She tried to make things better, I'll give her that. She reached for my hand now and then, flashed a quick smile my way when she thought I'd see it, and plied me with soda and chips. After a while, though, she got tired of my attitude and pretty much gave up. Not that I blame her. I'd made my point, and somehow the fact that she started getting angry with me left me feeling flush with tit-for-tat satisfaction. We barely talked on the way home, and when we got into bed, we slept on opposite sides of the mattress. In the morning I was over it, ready to move on. Unfortunately, she wasn't. While I was out getting the paper, she left the apartment without touching breakfast, and I ended up drinking my coffee alone.

  I knew I'd gone too far, and I planned to make it up to her as soon as she got home. I wanted to come clean about my concerns, tell her about the dinner I'd planned, and apologize for my behavior. I assumed she'd understand. We'd put it all behind us over a romantic dinner out. It was just what I thought we needed, since we would be leaving for Wilmington the next day to spend the weekend with my dad.

  Believe it or not, I wanted to see him, and I figured he was looking forward to my visit, too, in his own way. Unlike Savannah, Dad got a pass when it came to expectations. It might not have been fair, but Savannah had a different role to play in my life then.

  I shook my head. Savannah. Always Savannah. Everything on this trip, everything about my life, I realized, always led back to her.

  By one o'clock, I'd finished working out, cleaned up, packed most of my things, and called the restaurant to renew my reservation. I knew Savannah's schedule by then and assumed that she would be rolling in any minute. With nothing else to do, I sat on the couch and turned on the television. Game shows, soap operas, infomercials, and talk shows were interspersed with commercials from ambulance-chasing lawyers. Time dragged as I waited. I kept wandering out on the patio to scan the parking lot for her car, and I checked my gear three or four times. Savannah, I thought, was surely on the way home, and I occupied myself with clearing out the dishwasher. A few minutes later, I brushed my teeth for the second time, then peeked out the window again. Still no Savannah. I turned on the radio, listened to a few songs, and changed the station six or seven times before turning it off. I walked to the patio again. Nothing. By then, it was coming up on two o'clock. I wondered where she was, felt the remnants of anger starting to rise again, but forced them away. I told myself that she probably had a legitimate explanation and repeated it again when it didn't take hold. I opened my bag and pulled out the latest from Stephen King. I filled a glass with ice water, made myself comfortable on the couch, but when I realized I was reading the same sentence over and over, I put the book aside.

  Another fifteen minutes passed. Then thirty. By the time I heard Savannah's car pulling into the lot, my jaw was tight and I was grinding my teeth. At a quarter past three, she pushed open the door. She was all smiles, as if nothing were wrong.

  "Hey, John," she called out. She went to the table and started unloading her backpack. "Sorry I was late, but after my class, a student came up to tell me that she loved my class, and because of me, she wanted to major in special education. Can you believe that? She wanted advice on what to do, what classes to take, what teachers were the best . . . and the way she listened to my answers . . ." Savannah shook her head. "It was . . . so rewarding. The way this girl was hanging on everything I was saying . . . well, it just makes me feel like I was really making a difference to someone. You hear professors talk about experiences like that, but I never imagined that it would happen to me."

  I forced a smile, and she took it as a cue to go on.

  "Anyway, she asked if I had some time to really discuss it, and even though I told her I only had a few minutes, one thing led to another and we ended up going to lunch. She's really something--only seventeen, but she graduated a year early from high school. She passed a bunch of AP exams, so she's already a sophomore, and she's going to summer school so she can get even further ahead. You have to admire her."

  She wanted an echo of her enthusiasm, but I couldn't muster it.

  "She sounds great," I said instead.

  At my answer, Savannah seemed to really look at me for the first time, and I made no effort to hide my feelings.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "Nothing," I lied.

  She set her backpack aside with a disgusted sigh. "You don't want to talk about it? Fine. But you should know that it's getting a little tiring."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  She whirled toward me. "This! The way you're acting," she said. "You're not that hard to read, John. You're angry, but you don't want to tell me why."

  I hesitated, feeling defensive. When I finally spoke, I forced myself to keep my voice steady. "Okay," I said, "I thought you'd be home hours ago. . . ."

  She threw up her hands. "That's what this is about? I explained that. Believe it or not, I have responsibilities now. And if I'm not mistaken, I apologized for being late as soon as I walked in the door."

  "I know, but . . ."

  "But what? My apology wasn't good enough?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Then what is it?"

  When I couldn't find the words, she put her hands on her hips. "You want to know what I think? You're still mad about last night. But let me guess--you don't want to talk about that either, right?"

  I closed my eyes. "Last night, you--"

  "Me?" she broke in, and began shaking her head. "Oh no--don't blame me for this! I didn't do anything wrong. I wasn't the one who started this! Last night could have been fun--would have been fun--but you had to sit around acting as if you wanted to shoot someone."

  She was exaggerating. Or then again, maybe she wasn't. Either way, I kept quiet.

  She went on. "Do you know that I had to make excuses for you today? And how that made me feel? Here I was, singing your praises all year long, telling my friends what a nice guy you were, how mature you were, how proud I am of the job you're doing. And they ended up seeing a side of you that eve
n I've never seen before. You were just . . . rude."

  "Did you ever think that I might have been acting that way because I didn't want to be there?"

  That stopped her, but only for an instant. She crossed her arms. "Maybe the way you acted last night was the reason I was late today."

  Her statement caught me off guard. I hadn't considered that, but that wasn't the point.

  "I'm sorry about last night--"

  "You should be!" she cried, cutting me off again. "Those are my friends!"

  "I know they're your friends!" I snapped, pushing myself up from the couch. "We've been with them all week!"

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Just what I said. Maybe I wanted to be alone with you. Did you ever think of that?"

  "You want to be alone with me?" she demanded. "Well, let me tell you, you're sure not acting like it. We were alone this morning. We were alone when I walked in the door just now. We were alone when I tried to be nice and put this all behind us, but all you wanted to do is fight."

  "I don't want to fight!" I said, doing my best not to shout but knowing I'd failed. I turned away, trying to keep my anger in check, but when I spoke again, I could hear the ominous undercurrent in my voice. "I just want things to be like they were. Like last summer."

  "What about last summer?"

  I hated this. I didn't want to tell her that I no longer felt important. What I wanted was akin to asking someone to love you, and that never worked. Instead, I tried to dance around the subject.

  "Last summer, it just felt like we had more time together."