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Besides, I have the pipes. My mom could sing, and she encouraged me to too.
I finish my second one, Johnny Cash’s version of “You Are My Sunshine”, when I see the note on the machine that the next song isn’t mine. It’s not even country. It’s Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine.”
Well, to each his own. I take a stool at the bar as I thumb through the songs. But when the voice comes over the speakers and that mournful tune flows out, I’m rooted to my seat.
Elias.
Eyes unfocused, he stands on stage, pouring out the hopeless lyrics. When he sings about the daily darkness, though, his eyes fix on mine before flitting away.
His whiskey voice is more tentative than my bold one. But it’s smooth and clear, and his baritone warms me. I had no idea he could sing. Much less like this. Damn.
And his sunshine song directly counters mine.
It also twists a knife in my gut, but I can’t allow that. I find an old Merle Haggard song and cue up “I Think I’ll Just Stay Here and Drink.” It would land better if we didn’t have to wait for a group of nearly drunk summer tourists to finish “Friends in Low Places,” but I’m guessing he gets the message all the same.
But I stutter when the lyrics discuss the jukebox, because the lights flit away from the stage for one second, and I can see into the crowd. It isn’t the packed house that gets me. Or the leering eyes of the older men up front… all of whom are old enough to be my father’s age and who leer like they want a shot with me.
No.
It’s the waifish blonde standing at the bar with Elias that makes me trip over the lyrics. The beautiful woman poised at his shoulder, looking at him coquettishly, running a finger up his forearm.
I recover from where I falter. Few will notice.
But he will.
And that alone pisses me off more than I can express.
I make a quick exit for the bathroom and avoid the tourists attempting Jimmy Buffet. No one should do Buffet. His songs are fun and easy enough to sing along with, but too iconic. Buffet must either be mimicked or owned. This crew really should just avoid it.
I run a cool, wet paper towel over my face, trying to perk up and remove the sweat from the hot spot lights.
This is bullshit.
I go back to the bar ordering yet another drink, this one straight vodka when I hear him. He’s singing again. This time he’s ruining one I wouldn’t think he’d even know. The problem is he’s not ruining it and he’s staring straight at me singing Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud.” Fucker.
This means war, and it’s on.
I make my selection and practically run him off the stage when I hear the first strums of my musical fuck you to him. I belt out Lorrie Morgan’s “What Part of No Don’t You Understand” until the crowd is on their feet.
I own the lyrics of this song.
And, oh, do I have the vodka flowing through my veins.
I’m eating it up, my vision blurry, my soul warm, when I see the title of the next song, and I just can’t. Just fucking can’t.
Luke Combs. I love Luke Combs. He’s one of the few in modern country that I can enjoy. And I do. Every freaking song. And here comes “Beautiful, Crazy.”
Dear God, please let it be a tourist or one of these gross old men. I can unhear them sing that song, but if it’s—
And, fuck my life, it is.
It’s fucking Elias Finchley singing the best love song of the last decade.
To me.
As I still stand on the stage. Like I’m a magnet inexplicably drawn to him and can’t unstick my feet to walk away.
And damn the lone traitorous tear that escapes my eye, rolling to my chin, betraying me and my badass, take-no-shit, what-part-of-no attitude.
