Sweet Caroline(13)

“Good. So far,” I say between clenched teeth, giving her a warning look. Want to keep it down?

“I hear he’s a great kisser,” Jess says.

“Jess.” I check to see if Ray heard.

“Who do you think told me? Didn’t you, babe?” She looks around at him, but he’s fixed on the TV screen.

Elle slurps her Coke. “Wonder how Ray knows?”

“He’s full of useless information.” Jess flicks her hand at her husband like she’s brushing lint from her jeans. “You know what he asked me the other day? If we had any more bathroom tissue.” She twists her lips in how-do-you-like-that? fashion, waiting for Elle and me to recoil or something.

Elle looks at me. I shrug. “So, did you?”

“Ladies, did you not hear me? Bathroom. Tissue.” Jess is incredulous. “What kind of man says ‘bathroom tissue’? It’s toilet paper.”

“The same kind that says ‘laundry detergent’ and ‘feminine prod-ucts,’” Ray interjects, eyes still glued to the game.

Jess swats at him, laughing. “Didn’t your mama tell you it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

“Don’t be making fun of me, baby, ’cause if you want to compare stories . . .”

Jess shushes him. “So, Caroline, J. D., huh?” she whispers, squeezing my arm.

I scrunch up my shoulders. “Yeah, J. D.”

Speaking of . . .

“One diet.” J. D. sets my drink in front of me. “Fried pickles and a burger coming up. Having fun?” he asks in my ear.

“The best.”

He joins the boys watching the game—Ray and fellow deputy Bodean Good—while Elle angles toward me, whispering, “Dang, Caroline, first Mitch O’Neal and now J. D. Rand. Where do I get in the I-only-date-drop-dead-gorgeous-men line?”

“Too late,” I tease. “The ship has sailed.”

“See?” She sits back. “And this is why I end up on a date with Butch Moore.”

My mouth is full of drink, and I spew a little, trying to laugh, swal-low, and breathe at the same time. Fizz burns the back of my nose. “Butch Moore. You cannot be serious.”

He was the resident nerd for Beaufort High’s Class of ’97, and proudly so. When last I saw him, not much had changed. He’s still into video games and Star Trek. I wish him life, health, and happiness, but not Elle.

Jess sighs with a nod. “She did.”

“Just dinner.” Elle Z’s the air with her finger. “And I drove myself.”

My beautiful, artistic, educated, compassionate friend. Reduced to dating nerds. It’s not right. “Are you really that desperate?”

“Well, we can’t all be you, can we?”

Touchy. “I’ve dated two men. If—and it’s a big if”—I lower my voice—“you count J. D. This is only our fourth date.”

“Oh, you’re dating,” Jess says with confidence. “I see the way he looks at you.”

“What look?” I sneak a peek at him. Oh, he’s watching me. I smile. He winks. Tingles rush over me.

The truth is there aren’t many pages in my dating-history book. Before this “thing” with J. D., there was only Mitch. He was—er, is—spectacular. Last year, People magazine listed him in the top ten of “Most Beautiful Men of the Decade.” The decade!

For far too long, I clung to Mitch as my true love, completely lost in the hope of “us.”

At nineteen, he moved to Nashville with the intent of becoming a country music star, eager to shed his preacher’s kid stigma. I was also nineteen and confident that all the promises we made to each other were real, passionate, and for life. I had no idea we’d keep—he’d keep—none of them.

After several years of back and forth, caring and not caring, roller coasting between tears and nail-spitting mad, Elle drove me down to Savannah for a nice dinner and hard talk. “Come down off Mount Still-Hoping. Look around—you’re in the land of It’s-Never-Gonna-Happen. Mitch has moved on. So should you. You’re living a spinster librarian life while he dates Hollywood A-listers and the latest half-starved beauty from Madison Avenue.” She shuddered. “And I saw him take the True Love Waits pledge at youth church.”

As though to take my mind off bad memories, J. D.’s hand brushes along my shoulders and under my hair. His baritone rises and falls in conversation with the guys.

“Okay, be honest.” Elle taps her forehead. “Does it say ‘Geeks Stand a Chance’ right here?”

“What?” I lean into J. D.’s caress. Jess’s high twitter explodes around us.

“Ladies, I’m asking a serious question.” Elle squares her shoulders and gestures to her slender frame. “Anywhere on here? Does it say ‘Geeks Stand a Chance’?”

What is she talking about? Homecoming Queen, Most Popular—the guys had to book a date with her, months in advance. One of my joys in high school was standing in her shadow and watching the parade. And at the University of South Carolina, she was president of this club and chairman of that committee.

“You’re beautiful and intimidating,” I conclude. “The geeks are too clueless to realize they’re hunting in the wrong field.”