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Good.
I don’t reply, put the phone away, and smile at Marlow. “Babe, play something…”
“Something?” He raises his brows in question.
“That will make my heart explode and sing at the top of my voice.” I need a distraction.
“Oh, God.” He wrinkles his nose. “Do I even want to hear that?”
I slap him on the arm and laugh.
“Play, Marlow, please,” I beg.So I don’t have to think about Archer.
The tug to check the phone is stronger than anything. And the lump in my throat for no reason whatsoever is annoying.
Damnit.
Marlow sits up straight, gives his guitar a caress, and slams the first cord.
“Give me a second,”he starts with a soft smile.
I know this song!
A softer accord follows, and I loudly join in for the next line.
And then several others around us join.
He did the trick, because in a moment, I am singing—we all are—at the top of our voices.
It’s “We Are Young,” a tribute to the times when the future looked bright and we thought that we would indeed set the world on fire. Instead, politicians did, killing our dreams.
Marlow is brilliant on the guitar, his voice the sexiest shade of husky when he sings.
A small group drags their chairs toward us. A couple of girls bat their eyelashes at him. He winks at one of them.
Everyone whistles and claps when the song is over.
“How was my singing?” I grin at him.
“Terrible,” he declares with a frown. I dip my fingers into my glass and flick liquid at him. “Let’s do it again. Maybe we’ll scare away all the mosquitos.”
We sing another song. Then Marlow does a slow romantic one.
“This one is mine,” he says.
“Jeez, you write songs too? Nicholas Perry Marlow, how are you so amazing?” I ask him, finishing my cocktail, thinking that I should go back to my place, all the while acutely aware of my cellphone, wanting to check for messages.
“Awe.” Marlow cutely pouts his lips. “Are you sure you are with the right guy?”
He grins right away, and I roll my eyes.
I leave the restaurant in a bit, and as soon as I step outside, I pull my phone out and check the messages.
Nothing
I walk to my bungalow, simmering in disappointment, and swipe my bracelet.
The button lights up red.
