“Hearing that makes me want you to sing something,” Cooper said.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“I told you. I don’t sing anymore.”
This really wasn’t computing. “But we used to singall the time. We’d harmonize and everything. Your face would light up.”
“I remember.”
“You seemed like you were having fun.”
“I was having fun.”
“I just don’t see how you shifted from memorizing every lyric in my mom’s old vinyl collection to never singing at all.”
The answer was right there. But if he couldn’t see it, I wasn’t going to show him.
Moving on: “You’re missing the point, anyway.”
“What’s the point?”
I took a breath and said, “The point is, it gets worse. Because despite it all, I have to singat this wedding.”
“This wedding? This week?”
“Ashley wants me to serenade her at the reception in lieu of a toast.”
“Why?”
“Because when we were little kids, we promised each other we would do serenades at our future weddings. And back whenIwas the one getting married, Ashley signed up for actual voice lessons so she could totally crush it at mine. But when I finked out, she was off the hook.”
“Why would you make a promise like that with Ashley if you had a fear of singing?”
“I didn’t know the contract was binding.”
“She can’t hold you to a promise you madeas a child.”
“It’s Ashley. She can do what she wants.”
“Just tell her you can’t do it.”
“I did,” I said.
“And?”
“It didn’t work.”
“What do you mean, ‘It didn’t work’?”
“She thought I was lying so I could surprise her.”
No response from Cooper, like he was trying to imagine how that could happen.
I explained. “I told her, ‘Look, I’m not going to serenade you at your wedding after all. I’m just going to do a normal maid of honor speech.’ And then she said, ‘Okay,’ and then she winked at me.”
“She winked at you?”
