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It’s bluesy and soulful, the melody delicate and sweet, but the lyrics are what I’m interested in. When I’m on stage, my heartbeat unexpectedly calms. I lift the microphone out of its stand and let the dreamy chords fill me up before the words to “Son of a Preacher Man” flash overhead.
It’s as though the whole pub is swaying in time to the gentle beat of the music. When I sing, they hang onto my every word. As the song progresses, building to a coy crescendo, I find I somehow already know all the words, that they’ve always been buried deep inside me, to the point that I barely even need to look at the blue screen to confirm them, eschewing the ball jumping over each syllable in time to the music for something more instinctive.
The soulful song register suits my voice range. And as my voice gets more and more confident, I try to imbue it with a warm brassy sound — but I’m also utterly drunk, so what sounds good to my ears could be diabolical to everyone else’s. But that can’t be true, because the audience is cheering me along with every chorus. I end up throwing caution to the wind and belting out the final chorus, to whoops and cheers before the song even finishes. Danny’s up on his feet, looking at me like I’m amazing, and Rory’s arms are crossed over his chest, an amused smile playing on his lips, like yeah, I might have done something good enough to pierce that cool exterior. Pride blooms deeply within me as the whole pub bursts into applause.
“Our final song for the night, ladies and gents! Miss Jessa Weir!” The applause only grows louder, and I can scarcely believe it’s all forme. I’m beaming, grinning from ear to ear.
People pat me on the back as I cross the room. I’m beaming brightly and too numb to speak. I feel exhilarated in a way that only dancing had ever made me feel.
When a bell clangs at the bar, half the pub rushes up to request their last drink of the night.
At our table, Rory’s buttoning his smart overcoat, winding a soft-looking scarf around his neck and inserting his hands into gray gloves. Danny copies him, shrugging on an old black jacket and balling his hands into his pockets.
“Wow!” Danny gasps, staring at me in astonishment, and, in one single rush, blurts: “Was that for me? ‘Son of a Preacher Man?’ Because…WOW. I’ve never had a song dedicated to me before. Wow!”
“It was… formidable,” Rory acknowledges with a small, pleased smile. He eyes me carefully. “How are you?”
“Why?” I’m on cloud nine, my heart thundering like a thousand wild horses galloping across the plain. It must be obvious all over my face. “I feel treeeee-mendous.”
Rory laughs softly. “Treee-mendously drunk, perhaps. But I think it’s helped you finally come out of your shell,” he murmurs. “Thereisa performer of sorts hiding in there.”
I frown at this comment as I pick up my jacket. “Idance.”
“Since when has dancing involved using your voice?” he asks meaningfully. “Tonight you performed in new ways, and you weren’t scared. The whole audience was in the palm of your hand, Jessa.” My name sounds so strange andrealon his tongue compared to his favoredlittle saint. “You’ve been pretty powerful tonight,” he adds, and I know he’s not just referring to my singing.
But I can also hear Finlay in the back of my mind laughing darkly at him,Aye, okay, it wiz only fuckin’ karaoke.
As if Rory can see my skepticism, he murmurs, “Get comfortable with people looking at you. When you speak, I want them to listen. I want you to be brilliant.”
He has things in store for me — things I know I won’t be privy to until the time they happen. But Rory’s cryptic comments raise the hair on my arms, and I wish I knew exactly what he was hinting at.
We leave the pub, entering the cold shivering blast of October night air. My happy buzzing blanket of a head sobers up unwillingly within a second, and I blow warm air into my bare hands to keep my teeth from chattering.
“Here,” Rory says, releasing his hands free from his gloves. “Take them.” When I pause, he adds, as if anticipating the comment, “They’re made from bamboo.”
I accept the gloves, and the instant they cling to my skin, I suddenly feel warm again. Rory holds my hand as we walk aimlessly down toward the university. Ahead of us, Danny’s literally skipping, humming lightly to himself as he leaps over cobblestones.
“‘Son of a Preacher Man,’” Rory muses, glancing at the vast midnight sky above us. “Danny-boy’s happy. He gets a whole song dedicated to him.”
“If that’s what you think. I sang it because it works for both of you.”
Rory frowns. “My father’s not a — well. Hmm.” He blows out a short, laughing breath, as though I’ve unexpectedly checkmated him. “Okay, little saint, I see how it is. You’re cleverer when drunk than I gave you credit for.”
I grin up at him.
“I don’t want tonight to end,” Danny says wistfully, gazing up at the shining stars. His breath comes out in cold white clouds.
“My head says otherwise,” Rory drawls. “I don’t think I’ve fully recovered from all the head-banging we just did. Were we really up on stage singing ‘The Boys Are Back in Town’?”
Danny beams at him. “We were fabulous.”
“You saidGreasewas on,” I suggest, feeling similarly to Danny. Tonight has been — well,long, for a start. Unexpected. But also I feel like we’ve all grown in subtle ways. It’s the kind of night I want to cling onto with my fingernails, as we bob around, seeing where the night takes us. Like Danny, I don’t want it to end.
Rory shoots me a bizarre look, like maybe he misheard. “Grease? Er, no. You’re okay.”
“Yes!” Danny exclaims. “Let’s doGrease!”
“Karaoke was bad enough, I’mnotdoingGrease,” Rory says, and he sounds utterly adamant about this, thrusting his hands deep into his overcoat. He looks so fucking gorgeous, standing in the cool autumnal chill, with his long navy-blue coat and the peek of an evening suit beneath, his loafers gleaming like polished onyx in the starlit night.
