Read Online Dear John by Nicholas Sparks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nicholas Sparks
Ads: Link
arm?”
A Chinese character. I didn’t want to go into it, so I shook my head. “It’s from back in my ‘I’m lost and don’t give a damn’ stage. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Isn’t it a Chinese character?”
“Yes.”
“Then what does it mean? It’s got to mean something. Like bravery or honor or something?”
“It’s a profanity.”
“Oh,” she said with a blink.
“Like I said, it doesn’t mean anything to me now.”
“Except that maybe you shouldn’t flash it if you ever go to China.”
I laughed. “Yeah, except that,” I agreed.
She was quiet for a moment. “You were a rebel, huh?”
I nodded. “A long time ago. Well, not really that long ago. But it seems like it.”
“That’s what you meant when you said the army was something you needed at the time?”
“It’s been good for me.”
She thought about it. “Tell me—would you have jumped for my bag back then?”
“No. I probably would have laughed at what happened.”
She evaluated my answer, as if wondering whether to believe me. Finally, she drew a long breath. “I’m glad you joined, then. I really needed that bag.”
“Good.”
“What else?”
“What else what?”
“What else can you tell me about yourself?”
“I don’t know. What do you want to know?”
“Tell me something no one else knows about you.”
I considered the question. “I can tell you how many ten-dollar Indians with a rolled edge were minted in 1907.”
“How many?”
“Forty-two. They were never intended for the public. Some men at the mint made them for themselves and some friends.”
“You like coins?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a long story.”
“We’ve got time.”
I hesitated while Savannah reached for her bag. “Hold on,” she said, rummaging through it. She pulled out a tube of Coppertone. “You can tell me after you put some lotion on my back. I feel like I’m getting burned.”
“Oh, I can, huh?”
She winked. “It’s part of the deal.”
I applied the lotion to her back and shoulders and probably went a bit overboard, but I convinced myself that she was turning pink and that having a sunburn of any sort would make her work the next day miserable. After that, I spent the next few minutes telling her about my grandfather and dad, about the coin shows and good old Eliasberg. What I didn’t do was specifically answer her question, for the simple reason that I wasn’t quite sure what the answer was. When I finished she turned to me.
“And your father still collects coins?”
“All the time. At least, I think so. We don’t talk about coins anymore.”
“Why not?”
I told her that story, too. Don’t ask me why. I knew I should have been putting my best foot forward and tossing out crap to impress her, but with Savannah that wasn’t possible. For whatever reason, she made me want to tell the truth, even though I barely knew her. When I finished she was wearing a curious expression.
“Yeah, I was a jerk,” I offered, knowing there were other, probably more accurate words to describe me back then, all of which were profane enough to offend her.
“It sounds like it,” she said, “but that’s not what I was thinking. I was trying to imagine you back then, because you seem nothing like that person now.”
What could I say that wouldn’t sound bogus, even if it was true? Unsure, I opted for Dad’s approach and said nothing.
“What’s your dad like?”
I gave her a quick recap. As I spoke, she scooped sand and let it trail through her fingers, as if concentrating on my choice of words. In the end, surprising myself again, I admitted that we were almost strangers.
“You are,” she said, using that nonjudgmental, matter-of-fact tone. “You’ve been gone for a couple of years, and even you admit that you’ve changed. How could he know you?”
I sat up. The beach was packed; it was the time of day when everyone who planned to come was already here, and no one was quite ready to leave.
A Chinese character. I didn’t want to go into it, so I shook my head. “It’s from back in my ‘I’m lost and don’t give a damn’ stage. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Isn’t it a Chinese character?”
“Yes.”
“Then what does it mean? It’s got to mean something. Like bravery or honor or something?”
“It’s a profanity.”
“Oh,” she said with a blink.
“Like I said, it doesn’t mean anything to me now.”
“Except that maybe you shouldn’t flash it if you ever go to China.”
I laughed. “Yeah, except that,” I agreed.
She was quiet for a moment. “You were a rebel, huh?”
I nodded. “A long time ago. Well, not really that long ago. But it seems like it.”
“That’s what you meant when you said the army was something you needed at the time?”
“It’s been good for me.”
She thought about it. “Tell me—would you have jumped for my bag back then?”
“No. I probably would have laughed at what happened.”
She evaluated my answer, as if wondering whether to believe me. Finally, she drew a long breath. “I’m glad you joined, then. I really needed that bag.”
“Good.”
“What else?”
“What else what?”
“What else can you tell me about yourself?”
“I don’t know. What do you want to know?”
“Tell me something no one else knows about you.”
I considered the question. “I can tell you how many ten-dollar Indians with a rolled edge were minted in 1907.”
“How many?”
“Forty-two. They were never intended for the public. Some men at the mint made them for themselves and some friends.”
“You like coins?”
“I’m not sure. It’s a long story.”
“We’ve got time.”
I hesitated while Savannah reached for her bag. “Hold on,” she said, rummaging through it. She pulled out a tube of Coppertone. “You can tell me after you put some lotion on my back. I feel like I’m getting burned.”
“Oh, I can, huh?”
She winked. “It’s part of the deal.”
I applied the lotion to her back and shoulders and probably went a bit overboard, but I convinced myself that she was turning pink and that having a sunburn of any sort would make her work the next day miserable. After that, I spent the next few minutes telling her about my grandfather and dad, about the coin shows and good old Eliasberg. What I didn’t do was specifically answer her question, for the simple reason that I wasn’t quite sure what the answer was. When I finished she turned to me.
“And your father still collects coins?”
“All the time. At least, I think so. We don’t talk about coins anymore.”
“Why not?”
I told her that story, too. Don’t ask me why. I knew I should have been putting my best foot forward and tossing out crap to impress her, but with Savannah that wasn’t possible. For whatever reason, she made me want to tell the truth, even though I barely knew her. When I finished she was wearing a curious expression.
“Yeah, I was a jerk,” I offered, knowing there were other, probably more accurate words to describe me back then, all of which were profane enough to offend her.
“It sounds like it,” she said, “but that’s not what I was thinking. I was trying to imagine you back then, because you seem nothing like that person now.”
What could I say that wouldn’t sound bogus, even if it was true? Unsure, I opted for Dad’s approach and said nothing.
“What’s your dad like?”
I gave her a quick recap. As I spoke, she scooped sand and let it trail through her fingers, as if concentrating on my choice of words. In the end, surprising myself again, I admitted that we were almost strangers.
“You are,” she said, using that nonjudgmental, matter-of-fact tone. “You’ve been gone for a couple of years, and even you admit that you’ve changed. How could he know you?”
I sat up. The beach was packed; it was the time of day when everyone who planned to come was already here, and no one was quite ready to leave.
Similar Books
