Page 12 of Untruly With You

“You know me well, Sutton,” Laine says, walking even faster toward our first spot. “Maybe better than anyone, ifyour plans for tonight are any indication. But if we’re going to karaoke, you’re going to have to actually sing this time.”

“Do you want to invite anyone else? The reservations were all for four because Cyrus and Althea were going to come.”

“No.” Laine sighs. “I’d rather just spend it with my best friend.” She grins up at me, and the breeze stops for a moment, like the world itself is reverent at the sight of Laine’s smile. For another moment, I forget about my family. I forget about the missed call from Frankie I have yet to return. I allow Laine’s expression to be a balm for my worries, lightening that ever-present sinking sensation in my stomach.

The night goes off without a hitch. As if knowing how important our celebration is, every restaurant delivers perfect dishes and atmospheres. We take our time at each spot, enjoying the freedom to talk about everything aside from school. When we arrive at karaoke, we’re over three hours deep into the night, bellies full and feet tired. But still, our questions haven’t slowed.

“Well, you’ve worked your ass off all semester to become an editor,” Laine says after ordering us our first drinks. “Still think that’s the career for you?”

“I’ve been working my ass off for six years,” I correct with a laugh. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Buthowcan you be so sure?” Laine shakes her head in disbelief. “I mean, I think I could have been happy in dozens of careers, dozens of lives. How do you know you’re choosing the right one?”

I scratch my beard, wondering how detailed to be. On one hand, I’ve made a habit out of not sharing personal things with anyone. On the other hand, Laine doesn’t feel like just anyone. “Sometimes it feels like there is this heavy fog around me. Things can feel so distant, so dull.”

Laine nods, her eyes wide as she soaks in the rare scene of me opening up on this level.

“It was like that when I was little, too. I think my mom knew that I was depressed. So, she would read to me. We would climb into my bottom bunk bed and read under the covers together. And when I was engulfed between the pages of a story, some weight was lifted, at least for a moment. It felt like…like finding a secret oasis in a harsh desert. A little sanctuary. I want to bring that to other people. To kids, if I can.”

The bartender slides our glasses to us, and I take a long sip, studying Laine. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t drink. She just stands, absorbing my words. Near the back of the room, someone at the microphone is giving us a particularly rough rendition of “You Can Call Me Al.”

“When I checked in with you last week, you were still wanting to be a journalist,” I say. “No changes since then?”

Laine glares at me playfully. “Probably to your surprise, I haven’t changed my mind. I think journalism will be a good fit. I’ll get to work on new stories constantly, so it should keep me engaged.Should.”

“Any update on the job search?”

Laine huffs. “No. And I don’t want to talk about it. Tonight is all about celebration. I’m going to go sign us up to sing.”

I’m watching her flip through the song choices on the other side of the room when my phone goes off. I check it and decline the call, but it immediately rings again. Not wanting that to continue all night, I hit the green button.

“Frankie?”

“It’s about Wells,” she says in lieu of a greeting.

6

LAINE

Unsurprisingly,it takes me ages to pick a song. When I finally decide on one (“Cowboy Take Me Away”), I head back to the bar. But Sutton isn’t there. After a minute of searching, I see him outside the front windows, talking into his phone with his jaw clenched. Everything about his face is tense, strong, and angular. It’s not a look I’ve seen before—at least, not with such intensity. I didn’t know Sutton even had that kind of emotion in him.

Not wanting to intrude, I stay at the bar and turn back to the stage. There, a drop-dead gorgeous couple has taken the stage. The woman has long chestnut-brown hair cascading in loose curls, and the guy has a short-trimmed beard, not unlike Sutton’s, and dark hair that is pushed back, hanging to the collar of his shirt. Even without them being on the stage, they would both tower over me like Roman gods. They’re singing a folksy song that I haven’t heard before, but it sounds old and romantic.

I’m enthralled by them. Not because they’re particularly gifted singers, but because they look at each other with smiles so full and contagious, laughing through the lyrics,everyone in here smiles in return. The young woman looks so familiar, though I can’t put my finger where I recognize her from.

When the couple is done, they walk, intertwined, toward the bar, leaning into one another.

“You two did great,” I say to them, leaning closer so they can hear me over the tone-deaf rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” that just started.

“Thanks!” the woman says, smiling at her date yet again. After she orders a drink, she asks me, “Are you here with someone?”

I gesture outside to Sutton, who is still talking on the phone, pacing in tight circles.

She nods and looks my purple tiered and ruffled dress up and down. “You’re celebrating tonight?”

“We just graduated from NYU today.”

“Exciting!” she gushes. “I’m Ophelia Brooks. And this is Adam Abrams.”

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