The Best of Me

"There's a bottle of steak sauce in the fridge, if you want some," she said.

Dawson found the sauce while Amanda poured the pasta into one bowl and the beans into another. They arrived at the table at the same time, and as they surveyed the intimate dinner setting, she noticed the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he stood beside her. Breaking the moment, Dawson reached for the bottle of wine on the counter, and she shook her head before sliding into her seat.

Amanda took a sip of wine, the flavor lingering at the back of her throat. After they served themselves, Dawson hesitated, staring at his plate.

"Is it okay?" She frowned.

The sound of her voice brought him back to her. "I was just trying to remember the last time I had a meal like this."

"Steak?" she asked, slicing into the meat and spearing a first bite.

"Everything." He shrugged. "On the rig, I eat in the cafeteria with a bunch of guys, and at home it's just me, and I usually end up doing something simple."

"What about when you go out? There are lots of great places to eat in New Orleans."

"I hardly ever get to the city."

"Even on a date?" she quizzed between bites.

"I don't really date," he said.

"Ever?"

He began to cut his steak. "No."

"Why not?"

He could feel her studying him as she took a sip, waiting. Dawson shifted in his seat.

"It's better that way," he answered.

Her fork paused in midair. "It's not because of me, is it?"

He kept his voice steady. "I'm not sure what you want me to say," he said.

"Surely you're not suggesting...," she began.

When Dawson said nothing, she tried again. "Are you seriously trying to tell me that you--that you haven't dated anyone since we broke up?"

Again Dawson remained silent, and she put her fork down. She could hear a trace of belligerence creeping into her tone. "You're saying that I'm the cause of this... this life you've chosen to lead?"

"Again, I'm not sure what you want me to say."

Her eyes narrowed. "Then I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say, either."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you're making it sound like I'm the reason you're alone. That it's... that it's somehow my fault. Do you know how that makes me feel?"

"I didn't say it to hurt you. I just meant--"

"I know exactly what you meant," Amanda snapped. "And you know what? I loved you back then as much as you loved me, but for whatever reason, it wasn't meant to be and it ended. But I didn't end. And you didn't end, either." She put her palms on the table. "Do you really think I want to leave here thinking that you're going to spend the rest of your life alone? Because of me?"

He stared at her. "I never asked for your pity."

"Then why would you say something like that?"

"I didn't say much of anything," he said. "I didn't even answer the question. You read into it what you wanted to."

"So I was wrong?"

Instead of answering, he reached for his knife. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that if you don't want to know the answer to a question, don't ask?"

Despite the fact that he'd deflected her question back at her--he'd always been able to do that--she couldn't help herself. "Well, even so, it's not my fault. If you want to ruin your life, go ahead. Who am I to stop you?"

Surprising her, Dawson laughed. "It's good to know you haven't changed a bit."

"Trust me. I've changed."

"Not much. You're still willing to tell me exactly how you think, no matter what it is. Even if you're of the opinion that I'm ruining my life."

"You obviously need someone to tell you."

"Then how about I try to ease your mind, okay? I haven't changed, either. I'm alone now because I've always been alone. Before you knew me, I did everything I could to keep my crazy family at a distance. When I came here, Tuck sometimes went days without talking to me, and after you left, I went up to Caledonia Correctional. When I got out, no one in the town wanted me around, so I left. I eventually ended up working for months of the year on a rig out in the ocean, not exactly a place conducive to relationships--I see that firsthand. Yes, there are some couples who can survive that kind of regular separation, but there's a fair share of broken hearts, too. It just seems easier this way, and besides, I'm used to it."

She evaluated his answer. "Do you want to know whether I think you're telling the entire truth?"

"Not really."

Despite herself, she laughed. "Can I ask you another question, then? You don't have to answer if you'd rather not talk about it."

"You can ask whatever you'd like," he said, taking a bite of steak.

"What happened on the night of the accident? I heard bits and pieces from my mom, but I never got the whole story and I didn't know what to believe."

Dawson chewed in silence before answering. "There's not much to tell," he finally said. "Tuck had ordered a set of tires for an Impala he was restoring, but for whatever reason, they ended up being delivered to a shop over in New Bern. He asked if I'd go pick them up, and I did. It had rained a little, and by the time I was getting back to town it was already dark."

He paused, trying yet again to make sense of the impossible. "There was an oncoming car and the guy was speeding. Or woman. I never did find out. Anyway, whoever it was crossed over the centerline just as I was closing in, and I jerked the wheel to make room. Next thing I knew, he was flying past me and the truck was halfway off the road. I saw Dr. Bonner, but..." The images were still clear, the images were always clear, an unchanging nightmare. "It was like the whole thing was happening in slow motion. I slammed on the brakes and kept turning the wheel, but the roads and grass were slick, and then..."

He trailed off. In the silence, Amanda touched his arm. "It was an accident," she whispered.

Dawson said nothing, but when he shuffled his feet, Amanda asked the obvious. "Why did you go to jail? If you weren't drinking or speeding?"

When he shrugged, she realized she already knew the answer. It was as clear as the spelling of his last name.

"I'm sorry," she said, the words sounding inadequate.

"I know. But don't feel sorry for me," he said. "Feel sorry for Dr. Bonner's family. Because of me, he never came home. Because of me, his kids grew up without a father. Because of me, his wife still lives alone."

"You don't know that," she countered. "Maybe she remarried."

"She didn't," he said. Before she could ask how he knew this, he started in on his plate again. "But what about you?" Dawson asked abruptly, as if stowing their previous conversation away and slamming the lid shut, making her regret she'd brought it up. "Catch me up on what you've been doing since we last saw each other."

"I wouldn't even know where to start."

He reached for the bottle of wine and poured more for both of them. "How about you start with college?"

Amanda capitulated, filling him in on her life, initially in broad strokes. Dawson listened intently, asking questions as she talked, probing for more detail. The words began to come easily. She told him about her roommates, about her classes and the professors who had most inspired her. She admitted that the year she spent teaching was nothing like she expected, if only because she could barely grasp the idea that she was no longer a student. She talked about meeting Frank, though saying his name made her feel strangely guilty, and she didn't mention him again. She told Dawson a little about her friends and some of the places she'd traveled over the years, but mainly she talked about her kids, describing their personalities and challenges and trying not to boast too much about their accomplishments.

Occasionally, when she'd finished a thought, she'd ask Dawson about his life on the rig, or what his days at home were like, but usually he'd steer the conversation back to her. He seemed genuinely interested in her life, and she found that it felt oddly natural to ramble on, almost like they were picking up the thread of a long-interrupt

ed conversation.

Afterward, she tried to recall the last time she and Frank had talked like this, even when they were out alone. These days, Frank would drink and do most of the talking; when they discussed the kids, it was always about how they were doing in school or any problems they might be having and how best to solve them. Their conversations were efficient and purpose-driven, and he seldom asked about her day or her interests. Part of that, she knew, was endemic to any long marriage; there was little new to talk about. But somehow she felt that her connection with Dawson had always been different, and it made her wonder whether life would have taken its toll eventually on their relationship, too. She didn't want to think so, but how was she to know for sure?

They talked on into the night, the stars blurring through the kitchen window. The breeze picked up, moving through the leaves on the trees like rolling ocean waves. The wine bottle was empty and Amanda was feeling warm and relaxed. Dawson brought the dishes to the sink and they stood next to each other as Dawson washed while she dried. Every now and then, she'd catch him studying her as he passed her one of the dishes, and though in many ways a lifetime had elapsed in the years they had been apart, she had the uncanny feeling that they'd never lost contact at all.

When they finished in the kitchen, Dawson motioned toward the back door. "Do you still have a few minutes?"

Amanda glanced at her watch, and though she knew she probably should go, she found herself saying, "Okay. Just a few."

Dawson held the door open and she slipped past him, descending the creaking wooden steps. The moon had finally crested, lending the landscape a strange and exotic beauty. Silvery dew blanketed the ground cover, dampening the open toes of her shoes, and the smell of pine was heavy in the air. They walked side by side, the sound of their footfalls lost among the song of crickets and the whispering of the leaves.

Near the bank, an ancient oak spread its low-hanging limbs, the image reflecting on the water. The river had washed away part of the bank, making the limbs almost impossible to reach without getting wet, and they stopped. "That's where we used to sit," he said.

"It was our spot," she said. "Especially after I had an argument with my parents."

"Wait. You argued with your parents back then?" Dawson feigned amazement. "It wasn't about me, was it?"

She nudged him with her shoulder. "Funny guy. But anyway, we used to climb up and you'd put your arm around me and I'd cry and yell and you'd just let me rant about how unfair it all was until I finally calmed down. I was pretty dramatic back then, wasn't I?"

"Not that I noticed."

She stifled a laugh. "Do you remember how the mullets used to jump? At times, there were so many it was like they were putting on a show."

"I'm sure they'll be jumping tonight."

"I know, but it won't be the same. When we came out here, I needed to see them. It was like they always knew that I needed something special to make me feel better."

"I thought I was the one who made you feel better."

"It was definitely the mullets," she teased.

He smiled. "Did you and Tuck ever come down here?"

She shook her head. "The slope was a little too steep for him. But I did. Or I tried, anyway."

"What does that mean?"

"I guess I wanted to know if this place would still feel the same to me, but I didn't even get this far. It's not like I saw or heard anything on the way down here, but I got to thinking that anyone could be out in the woods, and my imagination just... ran away with me. I realized I was all alone, and if something happened there wouldn't be anything I could do. So I turned around and went back inside and I never came down here again."

"Until now."

"I'm not alone." She studied the eddies in the water, hoping a mullet would jump, but there was nothing. "It's hard to believe it's been as long as it has," she murmured. "We were so young."

"Not too young." His voice was quiet, yet strangely certain.

"We were kids, Dawson. It didn't seem that way at the time, but when you become a parent, your perspective changes. I mean, Lynn is seventeen, and I can't imagine her feeling the way I did back then. She doesn't even have a boyfriend. And if she was sneaking out her bedroom window in the middle of the night, I'd probably act the same way my parents did."

"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 i

n 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.

6

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.