hurts, right smack in the old ego.
I was out with Eric on Saturday night following Beaufort’s third consecutive state
championship in football, about a week after rehearsals had started. We were hanging out
at the waterfront outside of Cecil’s Diner, eating hushpuppies and watching people
cruising in their cars, when I saw Jamie walking down the street. She was still a hundred
yards away, turning her head from side to side, wearing that old brown sweater again and
carrying her Bible in one hand. It must have been nine o’clock or so, which was late for
her to be out, and it was even stranger to see her in this part of town. I turned my back to
her and pulled the collar up on my jacket, but even Margaret—who had banana pudding
where her brain should have been—was smart enough to figure out who she was looking
for.
“Landon, your girlfriend is here.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I said. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Your fiancée, then.”
I guess she’d talked to Sally, too.
“I’m not engaged,” I said. “Now knock it off.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see if she’d spotted me, and I guess she had. She was
walking toward us. I pretended not to notice.
“Here she comes,” Margaret said, and giggled.
“I know,” I