by Lauren Rowe
I move across the room to the karaoke DJ, wading through clapping, screaming, hooting people, all of them hurling love with both arms at Jonas and Sarah, and make my way to the DJ.
“Hey, man,” I say. “You ready to do that thing we talked about?”
“Whenever you are, bro.”
“Okay. How about you do one song after Sonny and Cher for whoever else and then we launch into my thing?”
The DJ grabs the piece of paper I slipped him earlier (along with a fat tip that ensured there’d be no waiting all night long for anyone in our group). “This still what you want me to say?” he asks, looking at the short script I gave him.
“Yeah. Hey, can you hand me that scarf I stashed earlier?”
“Sure.” He grabs the scarf behind him. “Fucking hilarious, man,” he says, handing it to me covertly. “You think she’s gonna ham it up? Or will she chicken out?”
“Oh, my girlfriend never chickens out about anything—it’s not in her DNA. Did you see her doing ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’? She’ll ham it up for sure.”
“Cool. Okay. One more song after Sonny and Cher and then we’ll do it.”
“Thanks.” I stick the scarf in the waistband of my pants, hidden by my jacket.
The guy looks up at Jonas and Sarah, singing their adorkable hearts out, and chuckles. “Man, this guy’s horrible—absolutely atrocious. Pretty much the worst I’ve ever heard and I’ve been doing this a really long time.”
I look at my brother and grin. He’s totally outside his comfort zone right now—sweating bullets, moving across the stage like a gorilla with hemorrhoids. God, he’s awesome.
Out of nowhere, my stomach clenches vicariously to think about what he’s about to do next week. He’s taking a huge fucking step—the hugest step known to mankind—but, damn, he sure looks happy. Hard to argue a guy off doing anything that makes him smile that fucking big.
“Yeah, he’s terrible, huh?” I say. “Gotta love him.”
I head back to our table, my fingertips toying with the poker chip in my pocket, and sit back down next to Kat. She’s clutching Henn’s forearm, tears of laughter streaming down her cheeks.
Jonas and Sarah reach the slow finale of their song and the entire place erupts into a standing ovation.
When the song is done, Jonas dips Sarah dramatically, kissing her like no one else is in the room, and she comes back up red-faced and giggling.
The waitress pays another visit to our table. “Another round?”
“Yeah,” I say absently. “Why the fuck not?”
Jonas and Sarah make their way back toward our table while two young, toker-looking guys get up onstage and start singing “American Pie.”
“Awesome, bro,” I say to Jonas when they return to our table and plop themselves down. “I can die a happy man now.”
“Never again,” Jonas says. “That memory’s gonna have to last you your whole life long.”
“How the fuck did you get him up there, Sarah Cruz?” I ask.
Sarah shrugs. “I’m magic, Josh Faraday.”
“Sarah and I had a little bet and I lost,” Jonas says. “I’ll never bet against her again, I swear to God.”
I look at Kat and she flashes me a smart-ass grin, obviously telling me, “See? Never bet against a woman.”
“What was the bet?” Kat asks.
“Oh, the details aren’t important,” Sarah says. “But let’s just say I held onto my title in the underwater breath-holding Olympics.”
We all look at each other and make a face. Clearly, this is a sexual innuendo of some sort, and God knows we don’t wanna know.
“Well, you were awe-inspiring, big guy,” Henn says.
“Hey, Kitty Kat, you haven’t gone in a while,” Hannah says. “What are you gonna sing next?”
“Oh, I dunno. You wanna do another duet, Josh? A little ‘Islands in the Stream,’ perhaps? Or am I flying solo?”
“Yeah, a duet for sure,” I say, the hair on the back of my neck standing up. I can’t let Kat go up there again and ruin my little plan. “But let’s give it another song or two, okay? I’ve got drinks coming for us.”
Kat leans back. “Sure. So, hey, Henny, how long are you in town? You and Hannah wanna do dinner with Josh and me Sunday night before Josh heads to the airport?”
“Sorry, leaving tomorrow. I’ve got a job in Munich, actually.” He looks at Hannah. “But after that I’ll be home in L.A. for a good long stretch. Maybe you and Hannah can come visit Josh and me together and we can all go out in La La Land?”
Kat looks at Hannah for confirmation. “Great,” she says.
“Hey, maybe you should think about opening Golden PR in Los Angeles instead of Seattle,” Hannah suggests. “Maybe you could do PR for the entertainment industry.”
“Well, that’d be pretty stupid,” Jonas pipes in, sipping his Scotch.
“What would be stupid?” Henn asks, clearly feeling defensive on behalf of Hannah. “Sounds like a great idea to me.”
“No, I mean, it’d be stupid for Kat to move to L.A.,” Jonas clarifies. “What would be the point of Kat moving to L.A. right when Josh is moving back home to Seattle in a couple months?”
Fuck me. My stomach lurches into my throat and my eyes bug out. This isn’t the way I’d intended to tell Kat about my upcoming move. Shit. I didn’t even think to warn Jonas I hadn’t told Kat about the move.
“What?” Kat asks, her eyes blazing with instant excitement. She whips her head to look at me. “Is he serious?” She clutches her chest, obviously overcome. “You’re moving to Seattle?” She’s practically shrieking with joy.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“For good? You’re moving here... for good? To live?” Yep, full on shrieking. She’s acting like she just won the showcase showdown on The Price is Right.
“Yeah. Um. I’m moving home. Just got a place.”
She’s bouncing happily in her seat. “When? This is awesome. A dream come true.”
“In a two or three months, probably.”
“Really? Oh my God. Why didn’t you tell me? Did you just decide today? Why didn’t you tell me? This is incredible news. Oh my God. I’m elated.”
“You didn’t know?” Jonas asks, his face etched with obvious confusion.
Kat takes in the expression on Jonas’ face and her entire demeanor changes on a dime. Boom. She knows something’s up. Just like that. Thanks, Jonas.
“No, he didn’t mention it to me,” she says slowly, her eyes drifting warily to mine. “Why didn’t you mention it to me, Josh?” she asks, her tone edged with obvious apprehension. “Were you planning to... surprise me?”
Oh shit. This isn’t good. This is really, really bad. “Uh...” I begin.
“How long have you known?” she asks quietly, understanding dawning on her. “You said you already found a place?”
Shit. I’ve totally fucked up here. I’ve really, really fucked up.
“I’ve known for just a little while,” I say. “Let’s talk about it later, okay?”
She swallows hard. “How long have you known, Josh?” Her lip trembles.
I look at the group. They’re all staring at me.
“Did you know when I said that thing about the long distance thing being brutal? Did you know then?”
Shit. “Let’s talk about it later, babe,” I say, trying to sound charming and smooth. “Don’t get all worked up about it. I was just waiting until it was for sure.”
A strange cocktail of emotions flashes across her face in response to that comment—like she’s not sure whether to be extremely disappointed or relieved. “Oh, it’s not for sure? That’s why you didn’t tell me?”
“Well, no. Actually.” I swallow hard. “It’s for sure. I’m moving.”
“Oh.” She shifts in her seat. Her cheeks flush. “That’s great. So you’ve already made... plans? You’ve got a place?”
“Let’s talk about it later. What’s everyone planning to sing n
ext?”
The entire bar is boisterously singing along to the final chorus of “American Pie.” But I feel anything but festive. My stomach is churning. My chest is tight.
“Have you put your house on the market yet?” Kat asks, her chin wobbling.
Oh shit. This is a catastrophe. Why didn’t I foresee how badly this would go down?
“Uh. Yeah, actually, it sold last week.”
“It already sold?” Her face turns bright red and her eyes prick with tears. “How long was it on the market?”
“Can we talk about this later. In private?”
“How long was it on the market?” she asks between gritted teeth.
“About three weeks.”
The two “American Pie” guys depart the stage to raucous applause.
“And now,” the DJ says into his microphone, reading from the piece of paper I gave him earlier. “I have a very special treat for you.”
“Kat, we’ll talk about it later, okay? Here.” I pull the poker chip out of my pocket and plunk it into her palm. “Please. I’ll explain everything to you later. Right now, I’ve got a surprise for you.”
She looks down at the poker chip, her eyes filling with tears, and I know I just made matters worse, not better. Much, much worse. Oh Jesus. I’m an idiot.
I stand and motion to the DJ to tell him to stop, but he doesn’t see me because he’s looking at the fucking piece of paper in his hand—the paper I gave him and asked him to read into his goddamned microphone.
“We unexpectedly have a superstar among us tonight, folks,” the DJ says, reading from my script. “The one and only Rachel Marron.”
People at nearby tables are looking at each other quizzically, clearly not recognizing the name.
“Poor Rachel’s endured some death threats recently, so she’s here with her devoted and stoic bodyguard Frank Farmer—former Secret Services detail for the President of the United States.”
There’s a tittering in the crowd. People are starting to get it.
I look at Kat and my heart squeezes. “Babe,” I say. “Please don’t leap to conclusions. It’s not what you think. Just enjoy the poker chip.”
“Under Frank’s watchful eye, Rachel’s agreed to sing her signature song for us. A heartfelt rendition that’s sure to make you weep.”
The place is going crazy all around us.
“I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me. You already sold your house. You didn’t want me to know you were moving here?”
“So let’s hear it for Rachel Marron everyone!”
Everyone in the bar hoots and screams.
“You’re not excited to live in the same city with me? To see each other every day? You don’t wanna go to the dry cleaners and the fish market?”
“Looks like she’s feeling shy, folks. Let’s get her up here, huh? To perform her classic hit, ‘I Will Always Love You!’”
The place explodes with excitement.
But Kat looks like a wounded deer in headlights right now.
My heart is breaking. What have I done?
“Babe, you’re totally misunderstanding the situation,” I say. “I’ll tell you all about it later. Right now it’s poker chip time. Enjoy it. This is your biggest fantasy.”
“Come on, Rachel!” the DJ calls. “Come on up here with your bodyguard!”
Kat looks down at the poker chip in her palm, a pained look in her eyes, and it’s abundantly clear acting out her bodyguard fantasy is the last thing on her mind.
I pull the scarf out of my pants and hold it up, trying to make her smile. My heart is beating a mile a minute. I’ve fucked up. Oh, fuck me, I’ve royally fucked up. I’ve got to get control of the situation. Make it better. I’ve got to charm her back to being Happy Kat.
“Remember the last scene of the movie—when Whitney wears the scarf on her head?” I coo. “I brought the scarf for you, babe. So you could look just like her.”
Kat’s dumbstruck. She looks at the poker chip in her hand again, tears filling her eyes.
“Kat, come on—be my Whitney, baby. I’ve got it all planned. We’re doing the song here and then I rented an entire laser tag place for the six of us. It’ll be everyone else against you and me, baby, all night long—I’ll protect you. I’ll be your bodyguard.”
“Rachel?” the DJ says. “Are you coming or not? Your fans are waiting. Last chance.”
“Sing here, then laser tag, and then I’ll take you home and let my feelings override my stoic sense of duty.” I smile, trying my damnedest to charm her.
“Rachel? Last call.”
She abruptly snatches the scarf out of my hand, wraps it around her head a la Whitney, and marches in a huff toward the stage, determined.
Thank God. She’s playing along. This is gonna be okay. That’s my girl. She’ll understand when I explain it to her. She’ll totally understand. I let out a huge sigh of relief, slide my sunglasses on, and follow my beautiful Whitney to the stage, my heart pounding in my ears.
Seventy-Nine
Kat
Everyone in the place is cheering and banging on their tables. But I’m in a daze. I can’t think straight. Josh is moving to Seattle? That’s incredibly awesome news. I’m ecstatic about it. But why didn’t he tell me about it? Was he planning to surprise me—the way he burst into his bathroom wearing a ski mask?
Josh places a chair at center stage for me—and I position myself onto it exactly the way Whitney sits on a chair in the snow in the music video—and then Josh fusses with the scarf around my head, making it Whitney-with-a-broken-heart-on-the-private-airplane-perfect, and everyone in the place laughs and hoots, totally loving the set-up. When he’s done with me, Josh turns to the audience and makes a big point of sweeping the crowd for snipers and wackjobs—and everyone slurps him up like a tray of Jell-O shots.
The music starts.
I’m in automatic pilot. I’ve heard this song ten million times. I don’t even need to think to sing it.
There’s got to be a logical explanation why Josh didn’t tell me about his move that has nothing to do with him intending to break up with me when he moves here. He had to have his reasons. Good reasons. The fact that he didn’t tell me doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be with me. There’s got to be another logical reason. But I can’t think what it could be. What other reason could there possibly be except that Josh doesn’t want to be with me when he moves to Seattle?
Tears fill my eyes. Why doesn’t he want to be with me? I want to be with him more than anything. More than I want literally anything else. I think it’s fair to say I want to be with Josh more than I want to breathe.
I pick up the microphone.
Maybe he was just gonna surprise me with the news—and Jonas let the cat out of the bag? But, no. I saw Josh’s face when Jonas spilled the beans. He didn’t look like a guy whose happy surprise got unwittingly spilled by his brother. He looked like a guy who just got busted on something—a guy whose cover just got blown.
The teleprompter begins scrolling the words to the song, and, even though I have no desire to sing it right now, my mouth begins half-heartedly mumble-singing the first lines. But the words are slaying me. They’re too close to home. They’re about Whitney having no choice but to leave her lover. She loves him, but she’s got to go. It’s just the way it is.
Everyone’s cheering uproariously. As far as they’re concerned, I’m giving the performance of a lifetime—an emotion-packed Whitney-tribute.
I yank the scarf off my head. Fucking scarf. Why the fuck am I doing this? I don’t want to role-play a freakin’ fantasy right now. I wanna talk to Josh in real-life. I wanna know why he didn’t tell me.
The teleprompter reaches the words of the chorus—the words I’ve been singing at the top of my lungs in the shower since I was ten years old.
I look at Josh. He’s standing stock-still, no longer playing his part. He’s looking at me with the same expression he had when I opened my door to him in Las Vegas after reading his
application.
My eyes drift to the teleprompter again, though I certainly don’t need it to know the lyrics.
I can’t sing these words to Josh. Not like this. These are sacred words—magic words. The words I’d planned to say to Josh later tonight when we were all alone in my bed.
The words I’d planned to say when I thought Josh loved me, too, but just didn’t know how to say it. And now, suddenly, I realize he doesn’t feel the way I do.
Without conscious thought, I toss the scarf into the air, letting it flutter to the ground, bolt out of my chair, and sprint out the front doors of the bar, ugly tears streaming down my face.
Eighty
Josh
“Kat!” I yell. She doesn’t turn around. The night air is chilly, but my skin is blazing hot. This is a fucking catastrophe. “Kat!” I yell again, my voice strained.
She whips around to face me, heat wafting off her skin. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she blurts, tears streaming down her cheeks.
My heart is physically pained at the sight of her. I grab her shoulders, desperate to make her understand. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion. Just listen to me, okay?”
“You put your house on the market three weeks ago—you’ve obviously known for a while.”
I exhale. “I only decided for sure about a month ago.”
She throws up her hands.
“But I’m not moving for two or three months,” I say. “I can’t move until I’ve got everything squared away with Faraday & Sons.”
Her expression is a wicked combination of devastation and fury.
“I didn’t wanna say anything until it was closer,” I say soothingly. “That’s all. I was gonna tell you. Just later.”
She clenches her jaw. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why wait ’til later to tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to get your hopes up if...” I stop. I can already tell this isn’t gonna go over well. Oh shit. I’m fucked.