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 corrected, 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.