Sweet Caroline(14)

Elle slides down in her seat. “Y’all, I’m serious. The other day I was at the gym and this gorgeous guy with long black curly hair and great arms walked slowly past me. He looked. I looked.” Elle demonstrates her look. “He smiled. I smiled. Then, out of nowhere, this geekozoid in Velcro sneakers and a T-shirt that says ‘Too many women, so little time’ is right in front of me, asking if I want to go to Luther’s for a beer.”

Lowering my head, I laugh into my drink. Jess’s twitter deepens.

“I think to myself,” Elle continues, “Oh, my stars, I know people at Luther’s.”

Tracey appears with Diet Coke refills and the fried pickles.

“What did you tell him?” Jess manages between snickers.

“I told him I don’t drink. Which is true, so I don’t feel guilty.” Elle snatches a pickle and munches down. “I’m telling you, times are getting desperate.”

As we talk the perils of dating for a lowcountry single woman, the rest of our food arrives. I’m polishing off the last bite of burger when the lights dim. Tonight’s singer, Branan Morgan, steps into the spotlight burning down on the very small, front-corner stage.

“How’s everyone tonight?” He’s greeted with a mix of cheers and whistles. “Glad you all could make it out.” He slips on his guitar. “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Branan Morgan and—”

As he speaks, Luther’s atmosphere changes. I see people start to whisper and point, and the hair on my arms prickles. Without seeing, my intuition tells me who’s entered the room. There’s only one person who could electrify a local crowd like that. What’s he doing here?

Loud and excited voices roll back from the front. Elle stands on her chair to see what’s going on. With wide eyes, she looks down at me and Jess. “It’s Mitch.”





7

In tenth grade, Mitch walked into homeroom—much like he is doing now—and zapped the air. My eyes followed him as he walked down the rows, looking for a seat. Every girl prayed he’d pick the one next to her. But with proton pulses blipping around him, he stopped by me and asked, “Is this seat taken?”

I eeked or something, shook my head no and he sat, knocking the wind right out of me.

And he’s doing it again. I draw a deep breath and exhale slowly, savoring the air.

Branan, seeing the commotion swirling around his audience, spies Mitch among the faces. “Mitch O’Neal . . . Come slumming, man?” He laughs and gestures to the country star with a sweep of his arm. “Come on, sing for the home folks.”

Mitch hesitates. “I just came in for a burger. Do we have to sing for our food now?”

The room exhales with laughter.

Elle cups her hands around her mouth. “Sing, Mitch.”

Mitch shields his eyes from the lights and gazes in our direction. “That’s got to be Elle Garvey.”

“You got it, baby.”

Mitch smiles easily as he’s urged to strap on Branan’s guitar. “Elle Garvey . . . head cheerleader . . . used to get me laughing in Spanish class when she answered Mrs. Gonzales in Pig Latin.”

“Ouyay ememberedray.”

“How could I forget?” Mitch tunes the guitar.

J. D.’s closer now than before, his leg gently resting against mine. “Good to see Mitch, isn’t it?” I say.

“Yeah, it’s been a while.” He grabs my hand and doesn’t let go.

The moment Mitch begins to play, everything stops. The TVs, the voices, the movement.

“I love the lowcountry,” he says over the light picking of the guitar. “As soon as I hit the Beaufort County line, I rolled down my window and breathed deep. It’s good to be”—his eyes stop on me—“home.”

J. D. clutches my hand tighter.

A shout comes from the front entrance. “I’m in the house.” Wild Wally barrels into the room.

Our little crowd in the back hoots. “Wild Wallyyyyy.”

Wally spies Mitch. “Oh, man, look what Nashville sent back.” Jumping onto the stage, he wraps the country crooner in a thick-armed hug—guitar and all.

“Wild Wally,” Mitch claps him on the back. “For those of you who don’t know, he’s the best offensive lineman Beaufort High and S.C. State ever turned out.”

“Yeah!” Wally pumps his tan, muscular arms over his head. He owns a massive landscaping and lawn-care service. His face is perpetually sunburned.

“Good to see you, man.” Mitch faces the mike again. “I forgot what I was saying.”

“Good to be back in Beaufort,” someone shouts.

“Right.” Mitch’s tone is warm and introspective. “In the spring, the band and I toured Europe. How many of you have ever been to Paris?”

A few hands go up, followed by a light smattering of applause.

“City of Lights. Beautiful. But my favorite place on earth is right here.”

Listening, I prop my chin in my free hand. Having seen Mitch only briefly in the last year, I watch him, wondering. Something’s . . . different.

“We had a scary encounter in Paris. Sometimes fear is the only thing that makes us wake up and realize we’ve drifted way over life’s yellow line.”