Emma (now with hair in the perfect cool shade of red) and I (still dirty blond) arrive at the shop a few minutes after eight. Walker and Dean are quick about insisting we ride with them. And about making conversation. Mostly with Emma. Mostly about nothing important.

They get almost all the way to the 405 then turn left. On Sawtelle. Toward Little Osaka.

Oh no.

I turn toward Em. "Don't tell me."

"Don't tell her we're doing karaoke?" Dean teases. "Okay. I won't tell you that, Kay."

Karaoke. Ugh. I can't sing in front of people. I can't even sing in the shower if I know someone is home.

"We're counting on you rocking some emo songs," Walker says. "Really selling that pain."

Emma laughs. "You can admit you're jealous of guys who can pull off eyeliner."

Walker chuckles.

"You two should do a duet," Dean says. "Which of you is Aladdin and which is Jasmine?"

Uh...

"I won't make a joke about wanting to ride your carpet." Dean winks at Emma. Turns back to the road. Pulls into the tiny parking lot of the strip mall on the right.

The private room karaoke place is right there. I know it well. How could I not? It's the only all ages place on this side of town. I can't even begin to count how many parties I've been to at this place.

And how many times I've avoided singing or only joined in on the big, group numbers.

I love music. I love singing. It's just I don't love singing with other people around. It's too personal.

Songs dig at my guts. They force me to confront feelings deep inside me. I'm not about to do that for show.

Especially not when my guts are such a mess.

Brendon.

Grandma.

My parents.

I don't want to feel any of that. I want it far away. I want to forget everything.

I try to come up with something I can sing, something that will label me a good sport without making me feel anything, as we park and make our way to the karaoke joint.

It's as divey as it's ever been. Narrow halls with bright carpet. Beige walls. Blue doors.

Our suite is at the back of the hall. A shiny silver disco ball casts light over the powder blue couches. The song books are sitting on the low table, right next to a bunch of two liter bottles of soda and a large carafe of water.

Emma plops on the couch and pours us two glasses of diet. "So." She hands me my glass then looks to Dean with a smile. "What are you singing?"

"Good things come to those who wait." He winks at us.

She nudges me. See. He totally likes you.

I shake my head. This is a bad lie. I need to set her straight. Without giving away how badly I want to fuck her brother.

"What about you, Walker?" Emma sips her drink. "What kind of music do you like anyway?"

"Metal." Dean laughs. "Have we never brought you to karaoke?"

"Never. Fuck you for that by the way." She flips him off.

Dean laughs. "You close your eyes and listen to Walker you think James Hetfield—"

"Who?" Emma asks.

"Fuck, kids today." Dean shakes his head. "Lead singer of Metallica."

"Oh. Yeah. The Enter Sandman guys." Emma sticks her tongue out. "I don't like that stuff. Too loud."

"Not enough boys in eyeliner?" Dean offers.

"I was thinking skinny jeans." She nudges me. "But that's an irresistible combination. Right, Kay?"

"Right." Or Brendon in anything. Or nothing. Nothing would be ideal, really. Not that I'll ever have the chance to see that.

"You should try that look." She motions to Dean. "Some espresso would bring out your eyes."

The door swings open. Ryan and Leighton step inside. Ryan looks slightly less glum than usual. Leighton is wearing her usual pleasant smile, the customer service one required for working at the front desk.

And there's Brendon.

His eye catch mine. "Who's up first."

"James over here." Dean nods to Walker.

Walker grabs the mic. "You mock because you're jealous." He grabs the keypad. Taps the song in from memory.

A moment later, the title card flashes on screen. Enter Sandman, As Made Famous by Metallica.

The room fills with the song's epic intro. Only it's practically polyphonic.

Then Walker is singing with his voice two octaves lower than it normally is. All gruff and angry a la the original song—everyone knows this one.

Emma lets out one of her full body laughs.

Leighton chuckles.

Even Ryan cracks a smile. "You do look jealous, Dean."

Dean flips his brother off.

The tension in my chest eases. This is normal. Distracting even.

So long as I keep my gaze off Brendon, this feels good.

I cross my legs. Tap my toes together.

When Walker finishes, he hands the mic to Dean. And Ryan picks up the other one.

Huh. Ryan sings.

Strange.

Walker plops next to Emma. Pics up the karaoke book, studies it closely, finds the song to plug into the machine.

The lyrics to a classic grunge song flash on screen. Dean jumps onto the table in the middle of the room as he belts out the first line.

He motions to Ryan let's go.

Ryan shakes his head, but he does get off the couch, move to the front of the room, and sing.

He really sings.

With passion and zest and enthusiasm.

It's like he's a different person.

The two of them are both there. In the song. Feeling every word.

The two of them aren't exactly great singers, but they're swinging for the fences.

And they're working together.

Like brothers who actually love each other.

Like it makes sense they have matching forearm tattoos.

Like they can fight and makeup and everything can be okay.

I check to make sure no one is watching then I pull out my cell and shoot him a text.

Kaylee: I really am sorry.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He looks up at me.

I nod check it.

He pulls out his cell. Glances at the screen. Then he's tapping a reply.

Buzz.

Brendon: I know. We'll talk later.

Kaylee: What does that mean?

Dean takes a bow as the song ends. He nods and waves to his adoring audience—we're clapping a little—then blows us kiss after kiss.

He winks at me. "Your turn."

"It's your turn, Kay." Emma takes my free hand. "Pick something or I'll pick for you." Her voice lifts to that encouraging tone.

She thinks this is my opportunity to finally tell Dean to be the one to "pop that cherry."

Dean is undeniably attractive. Tall. Tan. Piercing blue eyes, long, shaggy hair. He's funny. Confident.

Supposedly, he has a cock piercing.

And he has that colorful sleeve tattoo. Fuck, there's something about a full sleeve that makes me weak in the knees.

But even with all that—the thought of Dean's hands on my body makes me cringe.

The sight of Brendon's shoulders in that snug t-shirt—

My heartbeat is already picking up.

My lips are already parting.

My body is already screaming more.

"Kay? You there?" Emma asks.

"Yeah." Sort of.

She motions to Dean. Then to the karaoke book, currently up to Britney Spears.

She taps I'm A Slave 4 U.

Uh...

There's no way I'm singing anything that sexual. And certainly not to Dean. But it's a good idea.

I need the right song.

One I know.

One I can sell.

One that says everything I want to say.

"You don't have to sing, Kay," Walker says. "It is your party."

"Yeah," Leighton agrees. "Not all of us get off on blackmail."

"Get off? Huh?" Dean jumps to his feet. "Am I needed?"

She laughs. "You think you're that good?"

"Think? Honey, I don't think shit—"

"That isn't news," she says.

"I know." He motions come here to Leighton. "I'm more than happy to prove it."

She sticks out her tongue no thanks.

Emma shoots me a concerned look.

I shake my head it's fine.

'Cause I'm in love with Dean. Yeah. Right.

I'm running out of energy to sell this.

Time to sell... well...

I just hope this gets through to him.

"Thanks. But I'm looking forward to my debut." I plug the number into the machine. Take the mic from Emma. Step up to the front of the room.

The TV flashes with my song.

I force myself to turn back to the room.

To stare into Brendon's dark eyes.

And I let Ariel's words fall of my lips.

I find the intention to sell every line of Part Of Your World.

When I'm done, my body is buzzing with nervous energy. I can barely hear everyone clapping. Yelling. Teasing.

I can't see anything but the softening in Brendon's expression.

He knows I'm sorry.

And maybe he forgives me.

But that doesn't mean he'll be mine.

He might never be mine.