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She taps her glass. “Already got one.”
“That’s cool. Maria! Shots! Please and thank you.”
He’s a ball of energy, a Labrador with a tennis ball. I’ve never seen him trip over his feet to impress a girl before. I rein him in when Maria pours all three of us tequila shots. Already, my liver hurts, but I take it anyway. “C’mon. Let’s toast.”
“What are we drinking to?” Kenzi asks. “The new year?”
“And the old years,” Jason responds.
“The return of the muskrats,” I say, and they both agree to that with a “hear, hear” as the three of us clink glasses.
61
Jason
Now that Kenzi is here, the New Year’s party is in full swing.
I redress. We drink. We catch up. We laugh.
It feels fucking fantastic to have her here.
I try to convince her to get onstage, but she shies away from it, and Donovan says he’ll only go up if they let him sing Blink-182’s “Happy Holidays, You Bastard.” They will not.
Upon Kenzi’s second drink, however, she says she’ll “look” at the set list. I see her eyes light up at a song.
“Do it,” I say. “Whatever it is. Just do it.”
She bites her lip. “Fuck it,” she says and then puts her name down.
I’ve never heard Kenzi sing before. But, as it turns out, she slays Fiona Apple’s “Criminal.” She laughs nervously at first, but by the second bridge, she’s closed her eyes and melted into the song. She cradles the microphone like a pop star and shimmies her shoulders to the beat.
It’s beautiful to watch her blossom. I’m completely, irrevocably charmed. I howl in support when she ends, and Donovan wolf whistles.
Kenzi returns to the bar, but first she stops in front and bows dramatically. Donovan and I give her a second round of applause.
“Okay—that was ridiculous,” Kenzi says. “I’m going to launch myself into the sun now.” But she’s grinning while she says it.
“Hold on.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Before you do that—I have to get your signature. My friend Kenzi is a huge Fiona Apple fan. She’s going to be so pissed she stayed home and missed out on seeing you live.”
“Shut up,” she says, but the compliment just widens her grin. “What time is it?”
Donovan checks his watch. “Ten ‘til.”
The music changes. It’s a slow, intimate number.
Perfect timing. I extend my hand toward Kenzi, palm upward. “May I have this dance?”
She wrinkles her nose. “You are so corny.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not.” She takes a sip of her wine and then gives it up, putting it on the bar with Donovan.
“Oh yeah, don’t mind me,” Donovan says. “I’ll just…watch the drinks.”
Kenzi takes my hand. Her palm feels small and hot in mine.
“Do I make you nervous?” I ask. The bar doesn’t have a dance floor, but it does have a small clearing of tables, and I take her there and pull her against me.
