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“And what can I get for you?” he asks with a smirk, his gaze lingering on Rachel’s breasts.
“Can we get two beers?”
The bartender chuckles. “You can.”
Ugh. This is going to be a long night. “Excuse me,” I start while he grabs two beers from the refrigerator behind him, “is there an Open Mic tonight?”
“Oh, yeah.” He opens the beers and passes them to Rachel. “It starts in about an hour. You one of those so-called ‘poet’ types?”
What does he mean by that? I’m in no mood to question him on it, blaming my sensitivity on my anxiety. “Yeah,” I say simply while bobbing my head in agreement. “I am. Should I go check-in somewhere or—”
The guy laughs at me and my words die inside me as I fight the need to grab him by the collar and wrench him towards me. I don’t know why I’m getting so angry. This isn’t me. My hands fist and I smile at him to keep myself from yelling insults.
“No, you don’t need to check in. You should be on some sort of list. They’ll just call you up and you go on that stage over there.” He gestures to the far back where there’s several tables lined up. I see two couples have already claimed the front two while another group sits in the back.
“You going to be reading anything?”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s talking to Rachel and not to me. Fuck, what is wrong with this guy? First, he insults me and now, he’s trying to flirt with my girl. Don’t be jealous, Lucas, I tell myself. Rachel is beautiful. Of course, others will see that. Don’t be that guy. Nobody likes that guy.
“Oh, no,” Rachel says with an awkward giggle, glancing at me for help. Ok, maybe I can be that guy. “I’m not a writer.”
“We should get going.” I wrap an arm around her shoulder while taking the beer she hands me. “Thanks for your help.”
“Whatever,” the bartender replies.
Quite the service they have here. I thought this was supposed to be a big deal. Steve wouldn’t have suggested I apply if he didn’t think this was up my alley. I glance around at the people sitting at the tables, my eyes widening when I see Stacey Jones sitting in the corner. She’s a famous poet, known for her dark tones and her romantic themes. Sitting next to her is Allen Rodriquez and Sophie Laurent, both novelists, both famous in the writing world.
I guess I am in the right place.
“This place is cool, right?” Rachel says before taking a quick drink. “It has kind of a dark vibe.”
“Yeah,” I say while nodding.
I guide her towards a table across from Stacey and her group. I can’t lie, there is a part of me that wants to go over there and fanboy all over them, but seeing how I will soon be on that stage, I don’t want to ruin their first impressions of me. If they even remember me. It’s not like I’m known for anything. All I won was a small poetry anthology contest. I haven’t done anything more than that, other than get cut off by my parents and perform at Open Mic nights at a small town near a university. Who am I kidding? This was a mistake. I should leave now while I still have the chance, deposit Lori’s check, and write that stupid book about my family.
“Lucas?”
I flinch, only now realizing that Rachel has been trying to get my attention for a while. I ease into a chair in the corner, happy to be hiding in the darkness away from the others. “Yeah?”
“You okay? You’ve been staring at that group for a while now.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. My fingers tap on the tabletop while I pull out a folded piece of paper from my pant pocket. My eyes run over the words. I have the poem memorized at this point. The paper is ripped and crumpled. The other poets will probably bring their book on stage.
Rachel places a hand over mine, jarring me from my negative thoughts. “Don’t worry. You’ll be amazing.”
“How do you know?”
Rachel smiles, her thumb rubbing against the top of my hand, igniting heat with every stroke. “I just know. They wouldn’t have accepted your application if they didn’t think you were any good.”
She’s right about that. I release a long sigh, my body relaxing with it and I gently fold the paper and push it back into my pocket. “Thank you for coming with me again,” I say. My fingers lacing with hers. “I don’t think I could do this without you.”
“I think you could. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
I smile in answer, deciding to believe in her. The next hour flies by faster than it should and the bar fills up. It’s not extremely packed, but all the tables are taken and there are several people leaning against the bar, watching the technician place the mic on the stage. Rachel is speaking, but I can barely hear her voice. All I can hear are my words in my head, repeating them over and over again, worried I will trip over them, stutter, or do something else that could be considered embarrassing.
I release a shuddering breath when I see Stacey Jones take the stage, her greying brown hair looking golden under the lighting. She leans against a stool, taking the mic in one hand while she smiles at the crowd.
“Hello, everyone,” she says, her voice soothing and reminding me of how I mother should sound when she’s giving advice to her child: sweet, calm, and understanding. It’s the kind of voice I wish my mother would use with me, the kind I expect all mother’s use with children they love. Unfortunately, in my case, love doesn’t come easy to my mother, and there were often times when I suspected she didn’t love me at all.
