Page 36 of Sweet Caroline
MILES
My attention is split a hundred different ways the instant we enter the ballroom. The decorations. Shouting photographers. The warmth of Caroline’s arm tucked under mine. Her soft vanilla scent. That clown Fletcher throwing me an unmistakable stink-eye. Pete Brennan’s booming laughter as he schmoozes and back-slaps and shakes hands like a dickhead. He’s shorter than he looks on TV.
A young woman in a server’s uniform materializes at my side, holding out a circular tray full of fizzing glass flutes. “Champagne, sir?”
The question lingers between us for a long moment, my mouth watering as I watch the tiny bubbles scurry up to the surface.
“No, thank you,” I somehow force out. But, the way I stare at that tray as the server retreats and winds through the crowd, it’s amazing my eyeballs don’t crawl out of my skull to follow it.
Fuck. Get your shit together.
I swallow the spit pooling in my mouth and focus my attention on Caroline—the whole reason I’m here. She’s telling somestory—something about unexpected donations, I think—to an older couple who are rapt with attention.
She looks like she was made for this place. Between her gold dress and blonde curls, she even matches the glittering decorations. Beaming bright, she greets all sorts of people, introducing me to each one. I shake their hands and immediately forget their names, too overwhelmed by everything my brain is tripping over.
There’s being a fish out of water, and then there’s me—a dumbass in a borrowed tux at a fucking gala, of all places.
In hindsight, it was beyond naïve to think I could pull off playing the role of boyfriend to a woman way out of my league several times over—never mind being at a fancy-ass fundraiser with her family and friends, her scowling ex, and the press who are snapping candid photos at every turn… Jude was right; I’d severely underestimated the booze factor. I’d planned to just steer clear of the bar area, but the ready-made drinks dangled within my reach have me obsessing about taking one. Just one. I could take one. Just one to take the edge off this stress.
No. Fuck.
I squeeze my eyes shut, clenching my fists at my sides, and try to steady myself.
“Miles, are you alright?” Caroline’s voice is tinged with concern.
I should win an Oscar for the way I play it off like I got something in my eye, because all that rubbing and blinking is really the performance of a lifetime. Excusing myself to go to the bathroom, I squeeze Caroline’s hand before turning away. I dodge an assortment of tuxes and ball gowns as I cut a path toward the men’s room, gluing my gaze to the floor to avoid all the drinks in my eyeline. My breathing is labored by the time I push into the spacious restroom, and I prop myself over one of the half-dozen sinks, staring at my reflection.
Jesus. Get a grip.
I wash and dry my hands to stall for time—and to avoid seeming like a creep if anyone else comes in—then pull out my phone. I’m about to call my sponsor but, when a couple other guys come in to take a leak, I think better of it and text him instead.
Me
Probably shouldn’t have come to this thing tonight.
Too many drinks being shoved my way.
Barry
Sorry to hear. Can you leave?
Me
I don’t know. I didn’t drive here.
Barry
I could pick you up if you can hang tight for a little bit. Maybe 20 minutes?
Thank fuck Barry lives in Seattle. I never did switch sponsors when I moved back to Lennox. But no, I can’t ask him to rescue me. Hadn’t I told Jude just this morning that I didn’t need rescuing?
Me
Nah, I don’t wanna interrupt your night. Thanks though.
I’ll get my shit together.
Barry
