Dear John by Nicholas Sparks

that only a day had passed since we’d met, I already knew I was in new territory.
    We stepped onto the sagging porch, and Savannah pointed to the rowboat. “Maybe that’s why he opened a restaurant. Because his boat sank.”
    “Could be. Or maybe someone just left it there and he never bothered to remove it. You ready?”
    “As I’ll ever be,” she said, and I pushed open the door.
    I don’t know what she expected, but she wore a satisfied expression as she stepped inside. There was a long bar off on one side, windows that overlooked the river, and, in the main seating area, wooden picnic benches. A couple of waitresses with big hair—they hadn’t seemed to change any more than the decor—were moving among the tables, carrying platters of food. The air held the greasy smell of fried food and cigarette smoke, but somehow it seemed just right. Most of the tables were filled, but I motioned toward one near the jukebox. It was playing a country-western song, though I couldn’t have told you who the singer was. I’m more of a classic-rock fan.
    We wove our way among the tables. Most of the customers looked as if they worked hard for a living: construction workers, landscapers, truckers, and the like. I hadn’t seen so many NASCAR baseball hats since . . . well, I’d never seen that many. A few guys in my squad were fans, but I never got the appeal of watching a bunch of guys drive in circles all day or figured out why they didn’t post the articles in the automotive section of the paper instead of the sports section. We sat across from each other, and I watched Savannah take in the room.
    “I like places like this,” she said. “Was this your regular hangout when you lived here?”
    “No, this was more of a special-occasion place. Usually I hung out at a place called Leroy’s. It’s a bar near Wrightsville Beach.”
    She reached for a laminated menu sandwiched between a metal napkin holder and bottles of ketchup and Texas Pete hot sauce.
    “This is way better,” she said. She opened the menu. “Now, what’s this place famous for?”
    “Shrimp,” I said.
    “Gee, really?” she asked.
    “Seriously. Every kind of shrimp you can imagine. You know that scene in
Forrest Gump
when Bubba was telling Forrest all the ways to prepare shrimp? Grilled, sautéed, barbecued, Cajun shrimp, lemon shrimp, shrimp Creole, shrimp cocktail . . . That’s this place.”
    “What do you like?”
    “I like ’em chilled with cocktail sauce on the side. Or fried.”
    She closed the menu. “You pick,” she said, sliding her menu toward me. “I trust you.”
    I slipped the menu back into its place against the napkin holder.
    “So?”
    “Chilled. In a bucket. It’s the consummate experience.”
    She leaned across the table. “So how many women have you brought here? For the consummate experience, I mean.”
    “Including you? Let me think.” I drummed my fingers on the table. “One.”
    “I’m honored.”
    “This was more of a place for me and my friends when we wanted to eat instead of drink. There was no better food after a day spent surfing.”
    “As I’ll soon find out.”
    The waitress showed up and I ordered the shrimp. When she asked what we wanted to drink, I lifted my hands.
    “Sweet tea, please,” Savannah said.
    “Make it two,” I added.
    After the waitress left, we settled into easy conversation, uninterrupted even when our drinks arrived. We talked about life in the army again; for whatever reason, Savannah seemed fascinated by it. She also asked about growing up here. I told her more than I thought I would about my high school years and probably too much about the three years before enlistment.
    She listened intently, asking questions now and then, and I realized it had been a long time since I’d been on a date like this; a few years, maybe more. Not since Lucy, anyway. I hadn’t seen any reason for it, but as I sat across from Savannah, I had to rethink my decision. I liked being alone with