We take a taxi downtown to Rose & Crown with Emily and a few other coworkers. It’s karaoke night, and on the way there, we tease each other with dares about different songs to sing. I silently pray that no one makes me get onstage.
The interior of the bar is purposefully kitschy, all deep wood and decorations of mermaids, fish, big white sharks. A light machine near the stage casts the entire space in moving blue dots.
Compared to the crowded bar we came from, the place is near empty. There are only a handful of other groups. A couple sits in a circular booth in the far right corner, deep in conversation, so I can’t see their faces.
The lady running karaoke is wearing a sweatshirt, leggings, and glasses, but when she sings, she sounds like she belongs on Broadway. She belts through a few ballads to kill time while waiting for people to sign up. Theo walks right up to her immediately, writes something down on a slip of paper, and returns to our table triumphant.
“What did you put down?” Emily asks, touching his arm. My eyes follow the embrace.
“You’ll see,” is all Theo responds.
When it is his turn, we all stand up to cheer and clap. Strangely, I feel nervous for him, protective. Theo clears his throat onstage, pushes his hair back, turns around, and starts to snap. I cover my eyes. A guitar riff begins. Some people recognize it immediately and begin to holler. Theo spins around.
“Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes)” by Edison Lighthouse starts playing.
Emily jumps on the top of the booth’s vinyl cushions, cheering. I draw an invisible line between the two of them with my eyes.
As Theo sings the lyrics, his voice is deep, and soothing, and surprisingly good. Everyone is singing along as he dances across the stage. I stand up, too.
Each verse, he seems to gain even more confidence, if that’s possible, dancing and snapping, dipping the microphone and then grabbing it just before it hits the ground.
I yell at the stage like a fangirl, laughing. He has never mentioned that he can sing before, but there he is, sure as sin. People have begun to enter the dance floor, couples spinning each other, mothers and daughters dancing.
That’s when I notice them, the couple from earlier. As the crowd shifts and the lights dot across the bar, they appear to me in momentary focus, knees bent toward each other in a deep, intimate discussion. I recognize the woman first. It’s my mom’s best friend, Josie.
It takes me a second longer to identify the man, but when I do, I can’t believe my eyes. From across the bar, Thomas looks up. He has a scared, guilty look. It’s not too far off from how he looked in the garden this morning being sucked into my grandfather’s narcissistic orbit.
At the sixth verse, Theo walks into the crowd, microphone still in hand. He approaches our booth and sings the last chorus, except this time, he replaces “Rosemary” with “Lily.”
Emily squeezes my arm. My heart dips to my stomach. Is he doing this now? Is this happening?
I try to stay in the moment, but I can’t tear my eyes away from Thomas and Josie. What is he doing here with her? Are they on a date? Even if he’s done with Rose, this seems cruel. Going for her best friend?
Theo stands beside me on the booth, still singing. He’s close to my face now, and at the end of the last sentence, he leans in and closes the remaining two-inch gap. My stomach performs gymnastics. The whole room erupts in applause as he kisses me, and I can feel his hand on the small of my back, his mouth urgent, and warm, and serious, but a smile just beneath it.
When we pull apart, I smile at him. I look back toward the booth but Thomas and Josie are gone, the door of the bar banging shut behind them.
Chapter Twenty-FiveLily
July 12
I’m going to vomit,” says Mom the next morning. “I actually think I may puke.”
She leans against the back door of the cottage, pressing her arms against the screen like she’s physically holding it back from being barged open.
“What?” My voice is rusty with sleep, hands wrapped around my coffee cup as if in prayer. I made it in a groggy state a few moments ago with robotic precision: chilled espresso, ice, milk, cream. I kept thinking about the lyrics “Clouds in my coffee… clouds in my coffee.”
Henry texted me this morning.Hey, did I see you at The Box last night? Why didn’t you say hey?he wrote.
I haven’t responded, but the text unnerved me just the same. Why is he still reaching out? It’s over. It has to be over. I can see that now. No matter what any psychic has to say.
Mom’s face is red, and she begins to frantically move about the room, picking up a teapot and then immediately placing it back down,scooping crumbs into her hand, and then looking around dazed, as if suddenly uncertain where the trash can is. “I mean, I didn’t think he’d be in there—I had no idea.”
“What?” I repeat. “What are you talking about?”
“Tommy, of course!” she says, like I’m being intentionally obtuse. “I just walked in on him in the outdoor shower.” The redness across the ridge of her nose looks like a sunburn.
“You walked in on him showering?” I suppress a laugh, relieved that this is all that’s wrong. But then I remember what I saw last night: Thomas and Josie leaning in close at the karaoke bar. My smile drops.
