“Don’t take it personal; that’s just his face.”
I laughed. “Well, that makes me feel a little better.”
“He’s not a bad guy, just an arrogant one who knows far too much about comic books to be considered normal. How about Greg? I saw you guys eating together.”
“Greg and I just had the best lunch. He’s so easy to talk to.”
“Isn’t he?” she asked with a smile that might be a little wily.
“He really is. We had a deal; I’d never had a Monte Cristo before, so we ended up splitting one of those and a meatball sub.”
“Ooh, good choice. From Jonesie’s?”
I nodded. “So good.”
“Greg’s worked here since we opened, and he runs the bar better than I could. I’m more the bookish, sensitive type,” she joked. “I’ve actually been trying to get him set up for years. I’ve been known to…well, meddle is probably the nicest term for it. It’s why I spend so much time organizing our mixers. I’ve sorta been banned from any matchmaking.”
“That bad, huh?” I asked with a brow up and a sideways smile to match.
“Oh, trust me, it was bad. But I’ve learned my lesson. Mostly. So, do you have a boyfriend?”
I laughed.
“I told you, mostly.” She shrugged.
“No boyfriend. I’m new in town.”
“Fresh meat,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “I remember when I first moved here from Iowa. It’s a shock, huh?”
I conspiratorially leaned in. “It’s crazy, Cam. There are so many things to see, so many buildings and bodies, and it smells…different. Like metal and people and cars and possibility, all mixed up and packed into the spaces between buildings.”
“I know what you mean. I was so overwhelmed, I thought I might bust. But it gets better. Easier. More fun.” Cam turned to her laptop. “Speaking of fun, how often do you want to work?”
“Every day you’ll have me.”
“I like your enthusiasm, Annie,” she said with a smirk. “Tell me you sing. I really need a better karaoke buddy than Rose. She only sings if she’s tanked.”
I laughed. “I love to sing, and I will karaoke with you any day of the week as long as you can find a place that will let me in underage.”
“Duh, here. Tomorrow night and every Tuesday.”
“Seriously, put me down for every day on the schedule, would you?”
“Karaoke is nothing. You should see our costume parties. We have one coming up where you come as half of your favorite historical couple.”
I pointed at her computer screen. “Right, so put me down for working all the days that end in Y.”
She snickered. “Done, starting with karaoke tomorrow night. But not to work—to sing.”
My smile could have lit of Fifth. “Deal.”
Cam typed away on her keyboard, amused. “How about thirty hours a week, and you can come hang out with us on the rest of your days off?”
“I accept.”
She chuckled.
“Really, Cam, thank you. This is…I think this is just what I needed and at just the right time.”
“Well then, I sure am glad you ran into Greg yesterday and asked for a job.”
“So am I,” I said, and meant it.
4
Come Sail Away
Greg
The bar was packed with smiling faces that night, and the karaoke mic had been well met with talent. We had yet to have the quintessential slurred rendition of Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” and instead had been graced with a version of “Single Ladies” that had the crowd’s jaws on the ground. We’d also been given a few gems of the ’80s hair-band variety, and a duet performed “Push It,” complete with all of Salt-N-Pepa’s dance moves from the video.
And those were just the highlights.
Beau and Harrison were behind the bar with me, and Bayleigh was working service, making drinks for the cocktail servers and bar-backing, which meant ensuring we were stocked with glasses and enough ice to keep the drinks coming.
I hadn’t stopped moving but for a couple of times—when Annie walked in, waving at me over the crowd, when she swung by the bar to say hi a little bit after, and when she stepped to the microphone.
She seemed to favor ’80s music, singing “Just What I Needed” by The Cars with Cam. The second song, “You Make My Dreams” by Hall & Oates, had me smiling and dancing a little with Bayleigh and Beau behind the bar. Beau went full Molly Ringwald and did the little kick-dance thing she had done in The Breakfast Club. But, when she stepped up onto the stage and the opening to “Head Over Heels” by Tears For Fears started, I stepped off to the side, abandoning the bar without even realizing I’d done it.
She closed her eyes, cupping the microphone in her hands, her shoulders swaying as she sang with a velvety voice about how she wanted to be with me alone, about being lost in admiration, begging me not to take her heart or break it or throw it away.
During the na-na-nah part, she had the crowd going, her arm waving over her head in time to the music until everyone else was doing it too, the whole bar singing along, even tone-deaf me.
I didn’t know how she had done it, how the second she’d picked up the microphone, she became music. She sang like every song meant something to her, sang so deeply that she could have written the words herself. She felt it, felt it through every bit of her, and transcribed that feeling to us through her breath and her lips. And her feeling was so natural, so alluring that we all joined in with the hope that we could feel it too.
The crowd roared when she finished, and behind the bar, we were clapping and whistling and whooping our appreciation.
Annie waved and hooked the microphone back on the stand. When she wound her way through the crowd to the bar, I made sure to put myself where she landed, which was at the end near Bayleigh and out of the way of the crowd.
Harrison and Beau took over, covering me without a word spoken. After a couple of years of working together, we were a well-oiled machine of efficiency in the square feet of space behind that bar.
She brushed her hair out of her face, beaming and energized. “Hey!” she called.
“You are a woman of many talents,” I said, trying not to beam back with quite a bit of difficulty.
A blush colored her cheeks. “Thanks. Mostly I just sing in my shower. Karaoke is my exception.”
I laughed. “Something to drink?”
“Oh, that would be great. Water, please.”
I reached for a glass and dumped a scoop of ice into it. “So, ’80s music, huh?”
“I know. I was barely even born in the ’90s, but my mom loves ’80s music. I grew up to Journey and The Police and INXS and Eurythmics. Daddy was more into classic rock. So I didn’t listen to a lot of pop music as a tween. Total freak, I know,” she said on a chuckle.
“Please, don’t ever apologize for not listening to Miley Cyrus.”
She full-on laughed at that and took the water once it was poured and offered, downing half of it in a series of pulls. On a sigh, she set the glass down. “How about you? Are you gonna sing?”
“And bust a hundred people’s eardrums? Probably not.”
“Aw, come on.” She leaned on the bartop, smiling. “There has to be a song you love to sing. Everyone sings in the shower when they think nobody’s listening. And if they don’t, they should.”
I snickered and rested my forearms on the bar across from her. “I’m tone-deaf.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile grew even wider. “So? It’s not about how you sound; it’s about how you feel. I know you have at least one song. You sing it…” She tapped her chin in thought. “Ah, you sing it in the kitchen while you’re making pancakes. Or in the car when you’re driving—wait, you don’t have cars here. Hmm…when you’re getting ready to go out with your friends, you sing it into your brush in front of your mirror.”
She looked so sure of herself, I had to laugh.
“In the shower,” I correc
ted, my cheeks warming a little. “I sing it in the shower. Or I used to.”
Annie bounced, satisfied at her rightness. “What song?”
“Styx, ‘Come Sail Away.’”
A lovely, happy laugh burst out of her. “Power ballads! ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ is my go-to; it’s Mama’s favorite. Come on, we have to sing yours.”
“Not on your life, kid.”
Her smile shifted to a pout in a heartbeat. I wasn’t sure if it was for the refusal or for calling her kid.
“Have you ever done karaoke?”
“Never. Tone-deaf, remember? You wouldn’t even be able to tell what song I was singing.”
“I’ll back you up. Come on! Just once in your life, you have to sing your favorite song with a microphone in your hand.”
I gave her a look.
She started to sing “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley.
I didn’t waver.
She switched to “I’ll Be There for You,” shimmying around with a corny look on her face.
I fought to keep my lips flat.
When she launched into the hook of “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want” by The Smiths, I gave up, laughing.
“All right, you win.”
She clapped, her green eyes twinkling. “I’m going to go tell Cam! And don’t worry; I’ve got your back—promise. Be right back!”
She turned to go and ran smack into a guy, who grabbed her, chuckling.
“Whoa, you okay?” he asked.
I watched through narrowed eyes.
“God, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m such a klutz.”
“A klutz who can sing like an angel.”
I involuntarily rolled my eyes at him, not that he was paying any attention to me.
She laughed, totally unaware that he was looking at her like she was an ice cream cone he’d like to treat exactly like an ice cream cone.
“You come here often?”
“I work here, so…yeah.” Another laugh.
“I’m here every Tuesday. Tell me I’ll see you again here.”
She shrugged and stepped around him. “Probably! Nice to meet you!”
Annie bounded off, and the mystery douche and I watched her go.
No clue. She didn’t have a single clue. And I wished it hadn’t left me relieved, but it had.
I wondered briefly how many guys she’d inadvertently blown off. Which, naturally, made me wonder what kind of man would get through to her. He’d have to be clear about his intentions and obvious. Persistent. Because subtlety didn’t seem to be something she responded to. I got the impression that Annie took everything at face value, accepting what was simply by what it appeared to be.
The thought sent a flash of unfounded worry through me.
I shook my head when I remembered that she’d just left to set up a circumstance wherein I would be singing in front of a crowd. At least, if I had to endure the horror of singing in front of people, I would be doing it with someone like Annie. Because I had a feeling that she didn’t do anything in her life without some measure of fun and happiness, and I knew from experience that her brand of fun and happiness were contagious.
Jett, the manager of our extensive romance department, who had hair out of a fashion ad and a smile out of a toothpaste commercial, stepped up to the bar where Annie had been and extended his hand for a bro-clap. I obliged.
“What’s up, man?” I asked.
“Nothing much. Good night, huh? Man, the new girl can sing.”
I smiled. “She’s something else.”
“Yeah, she is. Harrison said he was going to make a move on her before he found out she’s only eighteen.” He shook his head. “Brutal.”
“Trust me, I know.”
His expression shifted into assessment, then realization. “Ah. You too?”
I made a half-assed psh noise. “Please. I like her, but she’s barely out of high school. We’re just friends.”
Jett didn’t say anything, but one dark eyebrow rose.
Annie pushed back through the crowd, breathless and grinning. “She’s got us all set up! Come on!”
Cam’s voice came through the speakers announcing us, and Annie hurried me out from behind the bar, all while Jett watched, laughing so hard, his hand was pressed to his stomach.
I shrugged at him, which only made him laugh harder.
The second Cam thrust a microphone in my hand, I regretted every decision I’d made to bring me to that point in my life.
The opening piano riff began to play, and I held that mic with a sweaty fist as I looked over the expectant faces of the bar patrons and my coworkers, who had incidentally halted all work and were watching with unbridled anticipation.
Worse: they were listening.
But then Annie took my hand, looking up at me with big, encouraging eyes and a smile that made me feel like I could climb mountains.
And with my magic feather in my hand, I sang.
I sang with timid discord at first, but Annie was unabashed, nurturing my courage. But she didn’t sing to the crowd. She sang to me. And then it was like it was just her and me.
We air-guitared—I had logged hundreds of air-guitar hours in my youth, and I had to say I was really convincing—and we got a little psychedelic during the bridge. The crowd sang through the end with us, and we were all sailing away to our futures together.
When the song was finally over and the crowd clapped and cheered, Annie bounded into my arms, saying with her lips near my ear, “See? It’s about how you feel. I hope you feel good, Greg.”
And I did, better than I would ever be allowed to admit.
5
Hearts On Fire
Annie
“Who’s that one?” I asked, pointing to the extra-fat goldfish in Meg’s tank as his tail worked a little too fast to keep him afloat.
“That’s Titus. And that one in the back is Athena. This one in the grass is Bruce Wayne because he’s a loner, and that one is Giggles because it looks like it’s smiling. See?”
I did see and laughed.
“That’s the one I named after Aunt Susan.”
“I love that.”
“So,” Meg said, “how was Greg?” She stretched his name into three syllables, fluttering her lashes.
“He’s fine, thank you. We sang at karaoke last night. He’d never done it; can you believe it?”
“That’s so sad,” she said as she sat at the foot of her bed where Balthazar, the golden retriever, had taken up residence.
“I know! Oh, and he convinced me to eat a Monte Cristo.”
Her mouth popped open. “He got you to abandon the sweet-and-salty rule? Are you sure he’s not your boyfriend?”
I made a face. “Since when are you so into boys? Do you have a boyfriend?”
She shrugged and ran her hand down Balthazar’s shaggy back. “Maybe.”
It was my turn to gape. “Well, go on and tell me.”
“His name is Jake. He brings me a brownie every day, and he always picks me for his team in recess, no matter what we’re playing. We’re reading The Hobbit together.”
I shook my head, smiling. “That’s some serious reading for the fourth grade.”
“It’s kind of hard, but I’ve got a dictionary on my phone. And Jake and I talk about it, so that makes it easier.”
“I still can’t believe Mama let Susan get you a phone.”
“It was the only way they’d let me walk to school by myself,” she said. “Anyway, is sweet-and-salty Greg your boyfriend or what?”
“I don’t know where you get these ideas,” I said. “I shouldn’t have even told you his name.”
“Why shouldn’t I know the name of your future husband?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my friend. He’s way too old to be my boyfriend. He’s almost too old to be Elle’s boyfriend. It would be…weird. Like if Jake were twenty.”
She paled. “Ew.”
“And anyway, why am I defending mys
elf to a ten-year-old?”
“Because I’m adorable and persistent.”
“That is certainly true—and too smart for your own good,” I said on a laugh. “I’m going to go rest for a little before this dinner tonight. Hopefully, it’s not too weird.”
Meg’s eyes lit up. “Aunt Susan said earlier—she didn’t know I was sitting behind the couch—that Fanny’s name is appropriate because she’s a complete a-s-s.” She snickered.
“Well then, dinner should be interesting.”
I ruffled her hair and made my way to my room with about an hour to spare before the Ferrars arrived. I didn’t have much to do in the way of freshening my exterior, but my interior reveled in the solitude for a little while. First, I dug through the piano bench in my room and the wealth of sheet music stored there. I was too happy for Rachmaninoff or Brahms but found a book of Haydn pieces and smiled, flipping to Sonata No. 59.
It was romantic and beautiful and happy, and my fingers played the cool keys with gladness, high off the day, holding my face just above the surface of the water, ignoring what lay beneath. For now, the sun warmed my cheeks, and I would enjoy it until I was pulled under again.
A quarter to seven, the dogs took up their barking, thundering toward the door. I closed the piano lid and left my room, moving toward the sound of voices, my sisters and Mama joining me in the hallway.
The dogs wouldn’t allow passage for everyone from the entryway beyond the door, though Susan was shooing and nudging and asking John for help. Behind her was a man who looked unyielding though not unpleasant, more apathetic than stern. He stretched over the dogs and Susan to shake hands with my uncle, who was smiling, seemingly unaware of the obstruction his wife’s dogs had created.
Behind Mr. Ferrars was a proud and pinched woman, her face hard angles and her eyes shrewd. She wore a smile that looked more like a scar than an expression, strict and humorless, her back as straight as a razor and her sharp chin lifted so that it seemed she had to look down her nose at you.