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—”
“It's okay,” she said, raising her hand to cut me off. "But it's hard. I've tried to forget about it, and it's something that I've never even told my parents. Or anyone, for that matter. It's such a cliche, you know? Small-town girl goes off to college and meets a handsome senior, who's also president of his fraternity. He's popular and rich and charming, and the little freshman is awed that he could be interested in someone like her. He treats her like she's special, and she knows that other freshman girls are jealous, so she begins to feel special, too. She agrees to go to the winter formal at one of these fancy out-of-town hotels with him and some other couples, even though she's been warned that the guy isn't as kind or sensitive as he appears to be, and that in reality, he's the kind of boy who carves notches in his bed frame for every girl he's had."
She closed her eyes, as if summoning the energy to continue.
"She goes against the better judgment of her friends, and even though she doesn't drink and he happily brings her a soda, she starts getting woozy anyway, and he offers to take her back to the hotel room so she can lie down. And the next thing she knows, they're on the bed kissing, and she likes it at first, but the room is really spinning, and it doesn't occur to her until later that maybe someonemaybe him—put something in her drink and that carving another notch with her name on it had been his goal all along."
Her words began to come faster, tumbling over one another.
"And then he starts groping at her br**sts and her dress gets torn and then her panties get torn, too, but he's on top of her and he's so heavy and she can't get him off, and she feels really helpless and wants him to stop since she's never done this before, but by then she's so dizzy she can barely talk and can't call for help, and he probably would have had his way with her except that another couple who was staying in the room happened to show up, and she staggers out of the room crying and holding her dress. Somehow she finds her way to the lobby bathroom and keeps crying there, and other girls she'd traveled to the formal with come in and see the smeared mascara and torn dress and instead of being supportive, they laugh at her, acting like she should have known what was coming and got what she deserved. Finally she ends up calling a friend who hopped in his car and drove out there to pick her up, and he was smart enough not to ask any questions the whole way back."
By the time she finished, I was rigid with anger. I'm no saint with women, but I've never once in my life considered forcing a woman to do something she rather wouldn't.
“I'm sorry,” was all I could muster.
“You don't have to be sorry. You didn't do it.”
“I know. But I don't know what else to say. Unless ... ” I trailed off, and after a moment she turned to me. I could see the tears running down her cheeks, and the fact that she'd been crying so silently
made me ache. “Unless what?”
“Unless you want me to ... I don't know. Beat the crap out of him?”
She gave me a sad little laugh. “You have no idea how many times I've wanted to do just that.”
“I will,” I said. “Just give me a name, but I promise to leave you out of it. I'll do the rest.”
She squeezed my hand. “I know you would.” “I'm serious,” I said.
She gave a wan smile, looking simultaneously world-weary and painfully young. “That's why I won't tell you. But believe me, I'm touched. That's sweet of you.”
I liked the way she said it, and we sat together, hands clasped tightly. The rain had finally stopped, and in its place I could hear the sounds of the radio next door again. I didn't know the song, but I recognized it as something from the early jazz era. One of the guys in my unit was a fanatic about jazz.
“But anyway,” she went on, "that's what I meant when I said it wasn't always easy my freshman year. And it was the reason I wanted to quit school. My parents, bless their hearts, thought that I was homesick, so they made me stay. B u t ... as bad as it was, I learned something about myself. That I could go through something like that and survive. I mean, I know it could have been worse—a lot worse—but for me, it was all I could have handled at the time. And I learned from it."
When she finished, I found myself remembering something she'd said. “Was Tim the one who brought you back from the hotel that night?”
She looked up, startled.
“Who else would you call?” I said by way of explanation.
She nodded. “Yeah, I guess you're right. And he was great. To this day, he hasn't asked about the specifics, and I haven't told him. But since then he's been a little protective, and I can't say that I mind.”
In the silence, I thought about the courage she had shown, not only that night, but afterward. Had she not told me, I would never have suspected anything bad had ever happened to her. I marveled that despite what happened, she had managed to hold on to her optimistic view of the world.
“I promise to be a perfect gentleman,” I said. She turned to me. “What are you talking about?”
“Tonight. Tomorrow night. Whenever. I'm not like that guy.”
She traced a finger along my jaw, and I felt my skin tingle beneath her touch. “I know,” she said, sounding amused. "Why do you think I'm here with you now?"
Her voice was so tender, and again, I suppressed the urge to kiss her. It wasn't what she needed, not now, even though it was difficult to think of anything else.
“Do you know what Susan said after that first night? Once you left and I went back to the group?”
I waited.
“She said you looked scary. Like you were the last person on earth she would have ever wanted to be alone with.”
I grinned. “I've been told worse,” I assured her.
"No, you're missing my point. My point is that I remember thinking that she didn't know what she was talking about, because when you first handed me my bag on the beach, I saw honesty and confidence and even something tender, but nothing frightening at all. I know it sounds crazy, but it felt like I already knew you." I turned away without responding. Below the streetlamp, mist was rising from die ground, a remnant of the heat of the day. Crickets had begun to sound, singing to one another. I swallowed, trying to soothe the sudden dryness in my throat. I looked at Savannah, then up to the ceiling, then to my feet, and finally back to Savannah again. She squeezed my hand, and I drew a shaky breath, marveling at the fact that while on an ordinary leave in an ordinary place, I'd somehow fallen in love with an extraordinary girl named Savannah Lynn Curtis.
She saw my expression but misinterpreted it. “I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” she whispered. “I do that sometimes. Act too forward, I mean. I just blurt out what I'm thinking without taking into account how it might come across to others.”
“You didn't make me uncomfortable,” I said, turning her face to me. “I've just never had anyone say anything like that to me before.”
I almost stopped there, aware that if I kept the words inside, the moment would pass and I would escape without putting my feelings on the line.
“You have no idea how much the last few days have meant to me,” I began. “Meeting you has been the best thing that's ever happened to me.” I hesitated, knowing that if I stopped now, I'd never be able to say it to anyone. “I love you,” I whispered.
I had always imagined the words would be hard to say, but they weren't. In all my life, I'd never been as sure of anything, and as much as I hoped to one day hear Savannah say these words to me, what mattered most was knowing that love was mine to give, without strings or expectations.
Outside, die air was beginning to cool, and I could see pools of water shimmering in the moonlight. The clouds had begun to break up, and between them, an occasional star blinked, as if to remind me of what I'd just admitted.
“Did you ever imagine something like this?” she wondered aloud. “You and me, I mean?”
“No,” I said.
“It scares me a little.”
My stomach flipped, and all at once, I was sure she didn't feel the same way.
“You don't have to say it back to me,” I began. “That's not why I said it—”
“I know,” she interrupted. “You don't understand. I wasn't scared because you told me. I got scared because I wanted to say it, too: I love you, John.”
Even now, I'm still not sure how it happened. One instant we were talking, and in the next she leaned toward me. For a second, I wondered whether kissing her would break the spell we both were under, but it was too late to stop. And when her lips met mine, I knew that I could live to be a hundred and visit every country in the world, but nothing would ever compare to that single moment when I first kissed the girl of my dreams and knew that my love would last forever.
Nine
We ended up staying out late. After we left the house, I took Savannah back to the beach, and we walked the long stretch of sand until she began to yawn. I walked her to the door, and we kissed again as moths darted in the porch light. Although it seemed I'd been thinking about Savannah a lot the day before, it didn't compare with how obsessed I was the following day, though the feeling was different. I found myself smiling for no good reason, something even my father noticed when he got home from work. He didn't comment on it—I hadn't expected him to, of course—but he didn't seem surprised when I patted his back upon learning that he planned on making lasagna. I talked endlessly about Savannah, and after a couple of hours, he wandered back to his den. Even though he'd said little, I think he was happy for me and even more pleased that I'd been willing to share. I was sure of it when I got home later that night and found a platter of fresh-baked peanut-butter cookies on the counter, along with a note that informed me that plenty of milk could be found in the refrigerator.
I took Savannah out for ice cream, then drove her to the touristy part of downtown Wilmington. We strolled through the shops, where I discovered she had an interest in antiques. Later I took her to see the battleship, but we didn't stay long. She'd been right; it was boring. Afterward, I took her home, where we sat around the bonfire with her housemates.
The next two nights, Savannah came over to my house. My dad cooked both evenings. On the first evening, Savannah asked my dad nothing about coins, and conversation was a struggle. My dad mainly listened, and though Savannah kept up a pleasant front and tried to include him, force of habit led the two of us to talk to each other while my dad focused on his plate. When she left, Savannah's brow was creased, and though I didn't want to believe that her initial impression of him had changed, I knew that it had. Surprisingly, she asked to return the following evening, where once again she and my father found themselves in the den, discussing coins. As I watched them, I wondered what Savannah was making of a situation that I'd long since grown used to. At the same time, I prayed that she would be more understanding than I had once been. By the time we left, I realized that I'd had nothing to worry about. Instead, as we drove back to the beach, she spoke about my dad in glowing terms, particularly praising the job he'd done raising me. While I wasn't sure what to make of it, I breathed a sigh of relief that she seemed to have accepted my dad for who he was.
By the weekend, my appearance at the beach house was becoming a regular occurrence. Most of the people in the house had learned my name, though they still showed little interest in me, exhausted as they were by the day's hard work. Most of them were clustered around the television by seven or eight, instead of drinking and flirting on the beach. Everyone looked sunburned, and all wore Band-Aids on their fingers to cover their blisters.
On Saturday night, people in the house had found additional reservoirs of energy, and I showed up just as a group of guys were unloading case after case of beer from the back of a van. I helped carry them up and realized that since the first night I'd seen Savannah, I hadn't had so much as a sip of alcohol. Like the weekend before, the grill was going and we ate near the bonfire; afterward we went for a walk on the beach. I'd brought a blanket and a picnic basket filled with late night snacks, and while lying on our backs, we watched a show of falling stars, staring in amazement as the flashes of white raced across the sky. It was one of those perfect evenings with just enough breeze to keep us from being either hot or cold, and we talked and kissed for hours before falling asleep in each other's arms.
When the sun began its rise from the sea on Sunday morning,
I sat up beside Savannah. Her face was lit with the glow of dawn, and her hair fanned out over the blanket. She had one arm across her chest and another above her head, and all I could think was that I would like to spend every morning for the rest of my life waking up beside her.
We went to church again, and Tim was his regular chipper self, despite the fact that we'd barely spoken a word to him all week. He asked me again whether I'd like to help on the house. I told him that I'd be leaving the following Friday, and therefore I didn't know how much help I could be.
“I think you're wearing him down,” Savannah said, smiling at Tim.
He raised his hands. “At least you can't say I didn't try.”
It was perhaps the most idyllic week I'd ever spent. My feelings for Savannah had only grown stronger, but as the days wore on, I began to feel a gnawing anxiety at how soon all of this would be ending. Whenever those feelings arose, I tried to force them away, but by Sunday night, I could barely sleep. Instead, I tossed and turned, and thought of Savannah, and tried to imagine how I could be happy knowing she was across the ocean and surrounded by men, one of whom might come to feel exactly the way I did about her.