Page 52 of Have To Be Mine

A group of women approached our table. They were the same ones who’d been cheering from the bar earlier. One of them, a brunette in a tight dress, leaned in close.

“You have to sing again,” she said in a French accent. “You were amazing.”

“I was terrible,” I corrected.

“We’ll cheer you on,” she said.

I glanced at Krista. She was watching with a small smile. “Go for it,” she said.

“Alright,” I said, standing up. “One more.”

The women cheered and followed me back toward the stage. I could feel Krista’s eyes on me as I requested my song from the DJ. Elvis. If it worked for Briggs, maybe it would work for me too.

The opening notes of “Hound Dog” filled the cafe. I grabbed the microphone with both hands.

I gave it everything. Every ridiculous hip swivel and exaggerated gesture. I channeled every Elvis impersonator I’d ever seen and cranked it up to eleven. The cafe went wild. People were dancing, laughing, and singing along. The women from earlier were practically screaming.

But I only cared about one person’s reaction.

Krista stood out in the crowd. She had her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with laughter. That was all I needed. I finished the song with a final dramatic flourish, dropped to one knee, and pointed directly at her for the last note.

The place erupted. I handed back the microphone and made my way through the crowd, ignoring the hands trying to grab me, the numbers being offered on napkins. I only had eyes for the woman in the corner who was still laughing so hard she had tears streaming down her face.

“You’re insane,” she said when I reached her.

“You love it.”

“I really do.” She wiped at her eyes. “I don’t even have words. Elvis is probably rolling over in his grave.”

I grabbed my whiskey and finished it in one swallow, feeling the burn all the way down. I was buzzing now, from the alcohol and the performance and the way Krista was looking at me like I’d just hung the moon.

“Your turn,” I said.

“No way.”

“Come on. I sang twice. You owe me.”

She bit her lip, and I could see her wavering. “I can’t.”

“You can. And I’ll make you a deal.” I leaned in close, lowering my voice. “If you’re really that awful, I’ll make a scene. I’ll cause such a massive distraction that you can flee and never see anyone here again. I’ll knock over tables if I have to. Start a conga line. Whatever it takes.”

She looked up at me, her eyes searching mine. “You’d do that?”

“Without hesitation.”

A smile broke across her face. I felt like I was floating. Maybe she wasn’t as impenetrable as I’d thought. Maybe beneath all that armor was someone who wanted to be seen.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “But you pick the song. I can’t handle that responsibility.”

I walked with her to the DJ booth and scrolled through the available songs. I needed something that wouldn’t be too challenging, something that would let her ease into it. My eyes landed on a title I recognized from childhood, something my mother used to play on repeat during Sunday morning breakfasts.

“This one,” I said, pointing to “Torn” by Natalie Imbruglia.

Krista nodded in approval. The DJ queued it up. I squeezed her hand once before she took the stage.

The cafe was still buzzing with energy from my performance, people talking and laughing. As Krista stepped up to the microphone, all eyes in the room were drawn to her. She stood there for a moment, clutching the mic with both hands, and the room gradually fell quiet.

The acoustic opening started, soft and gentle. Krista closed her eyes, took a breath, and began to sing. I nearly fell off my chair.