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The last song James and I performed in front of an audience was the John Lennon classic, “Imagine.” It happened to be a tribute song to our mom, who would sing it to us whenever we were having trouble falling asleep as kids. It was also the song we both sang to her while she took her last breath. It wasn’t until years later that we were able to find the strength to sing it again during a cancer fundraiser held in the Baker City town square. I can still feel James’s hand holding onto my smaller one, trying to keep me from crying during the song. He was my rock, and since his death, nothing has come close to filling that void—not even a little pill.
Emotions overcome me, and I sniff back the moisture wanting to escape. I stare into the back of the dark room, trying not to connect gazes with anyone in particular. The less I realize I am being watched, the better. I need to detach. To treat this like a job. My breath is shallow and frequent. I fear that it can be heard through the mic, in a creepy horror-film kind of way.
I hear the same familiar tune echoing again in my ears. Shit. I missed my entrance. My eyes fill with tears as I dart them back to Zander. His soft smile and nod assist in me regaining my composure. His voice—a barely-there whisper—starts my part of the song. I inhale sharply and let it go. My lips part, and I get swallowed up in the music. I do not even recognize my own voice as it picks up where Zander fades out. It is the voice resurrected from the ashes of the old me.
The eruption of the crowd blasting through the air is quickly silenced by the slow tempo of the song’s melody. My eyes hop from the back of the venue to Zander who plays the guitar like an expert. The words purr from my lips on their own volition.
I relax into the melody and find it easier to focus. In the back of the venue, I see a tall man in the shadows. My stomach lurches at the possibility of seeing the crystal blues that have been hijacking my recent resting thoughts. I feel crazy. Why would someone who has an exorbitant amount of money go to a no-cover-charge pub that doesn’t make any food that isn’t coated with a week’s worth of fat and where the average age is twenty?
I go back to the page of lyrics to make sure I don’t blunder the words. Zander’s skilled blending of our voices and the sound of his guitar surprise me at how we turn the solo song into our own version of a duet and actually make it sound good.
I vow to myself that this is a one-time deal—a favor for a friend who I am indebted to for multiple rescues. Singing on a stage is a slingshot ride back to a past that I buried when James died.
As the ending of the song fades out, Zander is on his feet, pulling me from my stool into an all-encompassing hug, spinning me around as the volume of the crowd is at ballistic-level again. The irony of what a romantic song could do to people who are drunk is impressive. Cheering, cells waving, beer splashing over the edges of glasses. A. Damn. Good. Time.
“Encore!” is repeated on loop. Zander lets go of me and holds his hands up to the crowd to shush them. He looks down at me and asks, “Want to do something upbeat?”
The ice has already been broken, and I have a new sense of bravery. I give him a nod.
I forgo the stool and grab the mic from the holder so I can move around the stage some. Zander starts playing “Don’t Stop Believin’” and we get the entire venue to participate in the anthem.
When the song ends, I am physically exhausted from bouncing around the stage.
“You killed it, Angie!” Zander says while picking me up once again.
I laugh my trademark nervous laugh as I return to the wooden floor. Zander leads me down the stairs. Claire and Resa join in the reunion, hugging me and telling me how good we sounded. Zander earns some handshake rituals that only guys can manage to make look cool and some pats on his back. Blake follows with two drinks in hand. He must sense my unease of the whole situation now that I can process it and my need to debrief. He clinks the glasses together before placing one in my right hand.
“Thanks, Blake!”
“That was a firecracker performance. You were amazing! Both of you were. Had no idea!”
“Neither did I,” I admit quietly. I don’t even sing to the radio in the car or while getting ready for school. It’s something I did in my old life. But not any longer. Tonight was…
Surprising.
“When did you learn how to do that?” Resa asks, making me gulp air as if it would run out.
I blink hard and glance to Claire who covers for me instantly. “Well, our girl Angie has many talents. Why do you think I keep her around?” The cheeky comment puts the innocent interrogation at bay for the moment. I do not need to talk about James right now. I do not need to cry.
I slurp the frothy mudslide drink, getting drizzled chocolate sauce and whipped cream on my nose in the process. The feeling of relief and adrenaline produces a pleasure surge of endorphins through my system. For just a moment, I feel invincible.
“This drink is awesome!”
“Goes down like a milkshake!” Blake announces, making our glasses clink together again.
I make my way back to the bar with the gang and find that Bryce is saving our seats, earning everyone’s praise. Blake stays back near the stage to prepare for his poetry reading act.
“Well done, Teach.”
I sink into the bar stool, knowing that my work is done. Time to relax and get my drink on. The mocha drink is way easier to down than the wicked lethal teas. I swallow the last drops in record time and place the empty hurricane glass on the waxed wood.
The bartender saunters over to our corner and places a glass down in front of me with a little cocktail napkin underneath the base.
“What’s this?” I ask in confusion.
“A gift.”
“From whom?”
