Nicholas Sparks - The Best of Me

“If you didn’t like the boyfriend, you mean?”

“Even if I thought he was perfect for her.” She turned to face him. “What were we thinking?”

“We weren’t,” he said. “We were in love.”

She stared at him, her eyes capturing bits and pieces of the moonlight. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit or even write. After you were sent up to Caledonia, I mean.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. But I thought about it… about us. All the time.” She reached out to touch the oak tree, trying to draw strength from it before continuing. “It’s just that every time I sat down to write, I felt paralyzed. Where should I begin? Should I tell you about my classes or what my roommates were like? Or ask what your days were like? Every time I started to write something, I’d read over it and it didn’t seem right. So I’d tear it up and promise that I’d start over again the next day. But one day just kept turning into the next. And then, too much time had passed and—”

“I’m not angry,” he said. “And I wasn’t angry then, either.”

“Because you’d already forgotten me?”

“No,” he answered. “Because back then I could barely face myself. And knowing that you’d moved on meant everything to me. I wanted you to have the kind of life that I’d never have been able to give you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” he said.

“Then that’s where you’re wrong. Everyone has things in their past they wish they could change, Dawson. Even me. It’s not as though my life has been perfect, either.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Years ago, she’d been able to tell Dawson everything, and though she wasn’t ready yet, she sensed that it was only a matter of time before it happened again. The recognition scared her, even as she admitted that Dawson had awakened something inside her that she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

“Would you be angry if I told you I’m not ready to talk about it yet?”

“Not at all.”

She offered the ghost of a smile. “Then let’s just enjoy this for a few more minutes, okay? Like we used to? It’s so peaceful out here.”

The moon had continued its slow ascent, lending an ethereal cast to the surroundings; farther from its glow, stars flickered faintly, like tiny prisms. As they stood beside each other, Dawson wondered how often she’d thought of him over the years. Less often than he’d thought of her, he was certain of that, but he had the sense that they were both lonely, albeit in different ways. He was a solitary figure in a vast landscape while she was a face in a nameless crowd. But hadn’t it always been so, even when they were teenagers? It had been what brought them together, and they had somehow found happiness with each other.

In the darkness, he heard Amanda sigh. “I should probably go,” she said.

“I know.”

She was relieved by his response, but also a bit disappointed. Turning from the creek, they made their way back toward the house in silence, both of them wrapped in their own thoughts. Inside, Dawson turned out the lights while she locked up, before they slowly strolled toward their cars. Dawson reached over, opening her door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the attorney’s office,” he said.

“Eleven o’clock.”

In the moonlight, her hair was a silver cascade, and he resisted the impulse to run his fingers through it. “I had a great time tonight. Thanks for dinner.”

As she stood in front of him, she had the sudden, wild thought that he might try to kiss her, and for the first time since college she felt almost breathless under someone’s gaze. But she turned away before he could even attempt it.

“It was good to see you, Dawson.”

She slid behind the wheel, breathing a sigh of relief as Dawson closed the door for her. She started the engine and put the car in reverse.

Dawson waved while she backed up and turned around, and he watched as she headed down the gravel drive. The red taillights of her car bounced slightly until the car rounded a curve and vanished from sight.

Slowly, he walked back to the garage. He flipped the switch, and as the single overhead bulb came on, he took a seat on a pile of tires. It was quiet now, nothing moving except for a single moth that fluttered toward the light. As it batted against the bulb, Dawson reflected on the fact that Amanda had moved on. Whatever sorrows or troubles she was hiding — and he knew that they were there — she’d still managed to construct the kind of life that she’d always wanted. She had a husband and children and a house in the city, and her memories now were about all those things, which was exactly the way it should be.

As he sat alone in Tuck’s garage, he knew he’d been lying to himself in thinking that he’d moved on as well. He hadn’t. He always assumed she’d left him behind, but it was confirmed now. Somewhere deep inside, he felt something shift and break loose. He’d said good-bye a long time ago, and since then he’d wanted to believe that he had done the right thing. Here and now, though, in the quiet yellow light of an abandoned garage, he wasn’t so sure. He’d loved Amanda once and he’d never stopped loving her, and spending time with her tonight hadn’t changed that simple truth. But as he reached for his keys, he was conscious of something else as well, something he hadn’t quite expected.

He rose and turned out the light, then headed for his car, feeling strangely depleted. It was one thing, after all, to know his feelings for Amanda hadn’t changed; it was another thing entirely to face the future with the certainty that they never would.

The curtains in the bed-and-breakfast were thin, and sunlight woke Dawson only a few minutes after dawn. He rolled over, hoping to go back to sleep, but he found it impossible. Instead, he stood and spent the next few minutes stretching. In the mornings, everything ached, especially his back and shoulders. He wondered how many more years he could continue working on the rig; there was a lot of accumulated wear and tear in his body, and every passing year seemed to compound his injuries.

Reaching into his duffel bag, he grabbed his running gear, dressed, and quietly descended the stairs. The bed-and-breakfast was about what he’d expected: four bedrooms upstairs, with a kitchen, dining room, and seating area downstairs. The owners, unsurprisingly, favored a sailing theme; miniature wooden sailboats adorned the end tables, and paintings of schooners hung on the walls. Above the fireplace was an ancient boat wheel, and tacked to the door was a map of the river, marking the channels.

The owners weren’t yet awake. When he’d checked in the night before, they’d informed him that they’d left the delivery of flowers in his room, and that breakfast was at eight. That gave him plenty of time before his meeting to do what he needed to do.

Outside, the morning was already bright. A thin layer of haze on the river hovered like a low-level cloud, but the sky above was a brilliant blue and clear in every direction. The air was already warm, foretelling hotter weather to come. He rolled his shoulders a few times and was jogging before he hit the road. It took a few minutes before his body began to feel limber and he settled into an easy pace.

The road was quiet as he entered Oriental’s small downtown. He passed two antiques stores, a hardware store, and a few real estate offices; on the opposite side of the street, Irvin’s Diner was already open for business, with a handful of cars parked out front. Over his shoulder, the fog on the river had begun to lift, and breathing deeply, he caught the living scent of salt and pine. Near the marina, he passed a bustling coffee shop, and a few minutes later, with the stiffness almost completely gone, he was able to pick up his pace. At the marina, gulls circled and sounded their calls as people carried coolers to their sailboats, and he jogged past a rustic bait shop.