17. Lo #2
“Go set the table.”
Rosie disappears, still protesting, and Bree hands me my jacket. “Ignore her. She’s been watching too many princess movies.”
“She asked if Jesse’s going to look at me like I’m the only person in the room.”
“Like I said. Princess movies.” Bree squeezes my arm. “Have fun. Don’t overthink it.”
“I always overthink it.”
“I know. Try anyway.”
Dot’s is packed for a Thursday, which is unusual. There’s a crowd and a microphone and a hand-painted sign that says KARAOKE NIGHT in letters that look suspiciously like Rosie’s handiwork.
“Did you know about this?” I ask Jesse, who’s holding the door.
“I might have heard something.”
“From who?”
“Wanda mentioned it. In passing. Very casually.”
“Wanda never does anything casually. She’s the most intense seventy-three-year-old I’ve ever met.”
“True. She mentioned it intensely and I chose not to ask follow-up questions.”
We get a booth in the back. Dot appears immediately, notepad ready.
“Well, well. The happy couple. Or the trying-to-be-happy couple. Whatever you are.”
“We’re on a date,” Jesse says. “Our first official date.”
“You’ve been married for five years.”
“We’re starting over. Clean slate.”
“Uh-huh.” Dot looks at me. “You buying this?”
“I’m evaluating it. Jury’s still out.”
“Smart girl.” She pulls out her pen. “What can I get you?”
“Peach tea,” I say. “No ice.”
“I know your order, honey. I’ve known your order since your first hay delivery brought you in here for lunch.” She looks at Jesse. “What about you, Nashville?”
“I’ll have what she’s having.”
“You want peach tea with no ice?”
“Is that a problem?”
“It’s unusual. Most men go for the coffee or the beer.”
“I’m not most men.”
“Clearly.” She tucks the notepad away. “Two peach teas, no ice, and I’ll put in the specials. You’re both having the meatloaf whether you like it or not.”
“I love the meatloaf,” I say.
“I know. That’s why I’m making you eat it.” She points at Jesse. “You’re singing tonight.”
“I’m what?”
“Karaoke. Nine o’clock. I’ve already put you on the list.”
“I didn’t agree to that.”
“You walked into my diner on karaoke night. That’s agreement enough.” She’s already walking away. “Don’t be late!”
Jesse looks at me. “Did you plan this?”
“I had nothing to do with it. But I’m delighted.”
“You’re delighted that I have to perform karaoke in front of strangers?”
“I’m delighted that you have to perform karaoke badly in front of strangers. The badly part is key.”
“Who says I’m going to perform badly?”
“Jesse, you have a platinum record. If you perform well, it’s showing off. If you perform badly, it’s charming. Choose wisely.”
He considers this. “You want me to be bad on purpose.”
“I want you to be human on purpose. The whole point of karaoke is that everyone’s terrible together. It’s communal humiliation.”
“That sounds awful.”
“That sounds fun. You’ve forgotten what fun is.”
“I know what fun is.”
“Do you? When’s the last time you did something stupid just because it felt good?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I sang you a song about your eyes on the back of a flatbed truck ten minutes after eating dirt in front of a rodeo crowd.”
“That was nine years ago.”
“I proposed to you in a hospital parking lot because I couldn’t wait another second.”
“Also a long time ago.”
“I-” He stops. Thinks. “I can’t think of anything recent.”
“Exactly. You’ve been so busy being Jesse Cooper, Country Music Star, that you forgot how to be Jesse Cooper, Guy Who Does Stupid Things For Fun.”
“That’s a long title.”
“It’s an accurate title.”
The food arrives. We eat. We talk about normal things, the baby, the farm, Rosie’s ongoing campaign to name our daughter after a dairy product. It’s easy in a way I didn’t expect, like picking up a conversation we left in the middle of, the thread still there after all this time.
At eight-thirty, the karaoke starts. Carmen, still in her apron, does a dramatic rendition of “Stand By Your Man” that brings the house down.
Wanda performs something in German that nobody understands but everyone applauds.
A guy I don’t recognize butchers “Friends in Low Places” with enthusiasm that almost makes up for his complete lack of pitch.
At nine o’clock, Dot points at Jesse.
“You’re up, Nashville.”
He looks at me. I raise my eyebrows. He sighs.
“If this goes badly, I’m blaming you.”
“If this goes badly, I’m filming it.”
“That’s cruel.”
“That’s incentive.”
He walks to the microphone. The room goes quiet, that particular hush when people recognize someone famous.
“So,” he says into the mic, “apparently I’m required to sing tonight. House rules.”
“Damn right,” Dot calls from behind the counter.
“I was going to do something from the catalog. Something people might know.” He adjusts the mic stand. “But then I remembered that my wife - my estranged wife - told me I’ve forgotten how to be stupid for fun. So I’m going to do something different.”
He pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
“This is a song I wrote this afternoon. About a pig. Her name is Butterbean, and she’s looking for love.”
Someone in the back laughs. Jesse grins.
“This goes out to Butterbean, wherever she is. May she find a gentleman worthy of her one hundred magnificent pounds.”
He starts to sing.
“There’s a pig in Marigold named Butterbean,
The roundest pig this town has ever seen.
She lounges in the sunshine, takes up half the shade,
And judges every human with her disapproving slouch.”
The room ripples with laughter. Jesse’s voice is deliberately off-key, warbling where it should be smooth, cracking on notes he could hit in his sleep.
“Butterbean, Butterbean, queen of the farm,
She’ll steal your heart but never mean no harm.
She’s got a face like a grumpy little moon,
And she’s looking for a lover, better find her one soon.”
I’m laughing. I can’t help it. My hands are on my belly and tears are pricking my eyes and Jesse’s up there performing this ridiculous song with complete commitment, like it’s Madison Square Garden and not a diner in a town of eight hundred people.
“Now Butterbean’s been single for a year or two,
Her last boyfriend left her feeling pretty blue.
He was a boar from the next farm over,
But he ran off with a sow named Clover.”
The church ladies are losing it. Wanda’s pounding the table. Carmen’s filming on her phone and I don’t even care because this is the most Jesse thing Jesse has ever done, making a fool of himself, on purpose, just to make me laugh.
“So if you know a gentleman of substantial size,
Who appreciates a lady with judgmental eyes,
Send him down to Marigold, tell him Butterbean’s the name,
She’s waiting by the food bowl, playing hard to get is her game.”
He finishes with a flourish, a deliberate voice crack on the last note, and the room erupts. Real applause, real cheering, people stomping their feet and demanding more.
Jesse bows, exaggerated and theatrical, and makes his way back to our booth.
“You wrote a love song for a pig,” I say.
“I wrote a matchmaking jingle for a pig. There’s a distinction.”
“There’s really not.”
“Butterbean deserves love. Rosie says she’s been moping since that boar left.” He says it with a straight face.
“Rosie told you about Butterbean’s romantic history?”
“In extensive detail. Did you know the boar’s name was actually Gerald? Clover was his second choice.”
“Butterbean got dumped for a pig named Clover by a pig named Gerald?” I set down my fork to process this.
“The drama is Shakespearean.”
“The drama is ridiculous.”
“And yet here we are, discussing it like adults. At a diner. On a date.” He’s grinning, that crooked grin that has never once played fair. “I’d call that progress.”
“I’d call that insanity.”
“Insanity’s underrated.”
I shake my head, still laughing. “I can’t believe you did that.”
“I can’t believe you doubted I would.”
“I didn’t doubt you would. I doubted you’d enjoy it.”
“Did I look like I was enjoying it?”
“You looked like you were having the time of your life.”
“I was.” He reaches across the table, stops just short of my hand. “That’s the thing, Lo. I forgot what that felt like. Having fun. Being stupid. Making you laugh.” His voice goes soft. “I forgot that was the point. Of all of it. Making you laugh.”