It was a Friday night, and everybody in town was at the high school to see the Caswell Cougars play the Cape Fear Falcons. I went with Sallie, which seemed like a healthier option than staying home watching Say Yes to the Dress and eating Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough out of the carton.

Sallie, a former cheerleader, was critiquing this year’s squad. “That girl in the back faked her handspring. And her nail polish is too dark. Ooh, is that the new coach?”

I looked and there he was, big-framed, good-looking, his fair hair gleaming under the Friday-night lights. It was like the marching band burst into the love theme from Titanic. “Wrestling coach. His name is John.” My heart was pounding, my voice carefully casual. “John Brooke. I think he helps out in the weight room.”

“You know him?”

“He comes into the bank sometimes.”

Three times, to be exact. Each time, my heart gave a little bounce of happiness and excitement.

“He’s cute. Dibs,” Sallie called, even though she and Ned were already an item.

But I didn’t care what Sallie thought. I saw him first. And after the game, he came over to talk to me, leaning in to listen, fixing me with those warm, brown eyes. We went out for ice cream—along with Sallie and the football team and half the year-round population of Bunyan.

“Can I take you home?” he asked me in the parking lot afterward.

I could have pointed out I had my own car, a practical Prius with side airbags and great gas mileage. I could have given him my address, a sensible one-bedroom in a recently built complex close to work.

I stood there, struck dumb with happiness.

“Or . . .” He watched me. “We can drive to the beach. Spend the night. Watch the sun come up.”

I was the sensible sister. The responsible firstborn. “Never any trouble,” as Aunt Phee liked to say. Not the type of girl to hook up on the first date. To hop into the car of a near-stranger and drive an hour to the beach for tear-your-clothes-off sex.

Of course I said yes.

We checked into a room in Carolina Beach. We made love against the wall. And on the bathroom counter in front of the giant mirror. I couldn’t look at my reflection for days afterward without blushing. Even now, the memory made me tingle.

I never told anybody. Not Sallie, who would have cheered me on, or Amy, who was way too young. Not even Jo. I had to set a good example.

I told Momma we met at the bank. Well, it was true.

“I can’t believe I got lucky,” John confessed to me later, after we’d been dating a few months.

But I knew I was the lucky one.

I moved in a year later; we married the following June, with Daddy officiating and my sisters as my bridesmaids. Momma rented a tent for the reception in the upper pasture, and Amy decorated the long tables with lace runners and mason jars of peonies and cornflowers.