Page 54 of Best I Never Had

“You first,” he says, gesturing toward me with a sympathetic smile.

“I don’t think I’m ready to go home just yet,” I confess.

He tilts his head, giving me that same sympathetic smile as his head angles in the opposite direction from where we came from.

“I know a place.” He suddenly grabs my hand, almost sprinting through the busy sidewalk. I stumble after him, tripping over my feet.

“Marshall, my legs are about half the length of yours. You’re going to have to slow down or you’re going to be dragging me behind you like a rag doll,” I call breathlessly behind him.

“Keep up, Marquez!”

After multiple turns and sprints across intersections, we land in front of a bar with tinted windows and neon signs decorating the front in bright blue and pink lit-up words saying “half off mai tais” and “karaoke night.”

I turn to face Hayden. “What is this?”

“Better warm up those vocal cords,” he says, his hands rubbing together in front of him with that devilish grin I know only comes out when he’s got something hidden up his sleeve. “’Cause I’m about to out drink youandout sing you.”

“Hayden, I’m not doing karaoke.” My mouth dries, and my palms start getting clammy. I’m definitely not doingdrunkenkaraoke, let alone karaoke.

“Yes, you are.”

He latches on to my wrist and yanks me toward the door, dragging me along as I uselessly resist. Once inside, Hayden plops me onto a barstool lined against a small table and walks toward the stage area, where a binder and a mic sit at the edge of a stage. He grips a pencil before he furiously scribbles his request on a clipboard.

I start toying with my fingers under the table, hunching my back forward as I try to disappear in the room slowly filling with those ending their day with a drink to take the edge off, most still in their loosened work clothes.

“So, I thought we would ease into it with a little bit of Carly Rae Jepsen and Vanessa Carlton. And then end it with a bang with a Carrie Underwood number,” Hayden says, returning to our table.

When he smiles at me, his grin widens enough to cause a giggle to slip through the pile of nerves settled in my stomach.

“Wait here,” he orders. “I’ll grab us a few drinks.”

Before I can protest, he takes off, rushing toward the bar at the other end of the stage.

As I patiently wait, I scan the room, my eyes landing on a couple sitting nearby under a low light situated in a secluded corner, acting as if they were the only two people in the world. They look into each other’s eyes, their fingers tangled and ankles overlapping each other, as I watch a little too wistfully. The tears that rim my eyes appear out of nowhere, just as the tugging ache pulling at my heart becomes too much to bear.

Up until now, I’ve been able to pretend that Matteo isn’t actually getting married. That the invitation isn’t real instead of sitting in my kitchen drawer where Carmen strategically placed it under a growing pile of junk.

But now, I’ve seen her. I’ve seen himwithher. Her dark wavy hair tumbling down in every direction. Down her shoulders to her arms, down her chest as it curved along her face and figure. Her blue eyes shined and looked at Matteo the way I used to, proud and blissful. She would make a stunning bride.

A sudden sob breaks from my chest as I quickly wipe the tears that fall before Hayden returns to his seat across from me.

“It’s almost our turn,” he whispers with a smile that falls as soon as he sees my face.

“Yeah,” I manage before looking up at him. I gnaw on my lower lip as I force a smile through the wiped away tears.

Hayden opens his mouth but whatever words of encouragement or insult he set aside for Matteo dies on the tip of his tongue when a familiar tune starts to play over the speakers. Hayden hands me one of the shot glasses he placed in front of me, clinking his own against mine.

“This better not be tequila,” I question, lifting the glass.

He makes a forcedpfftsound before saying, “Please, Marquez. Don’t act like I don’t know you.”

I let a small smile slip before I reluctantly toss the contents of the shot glass down my throat and grimace. Hayden drinks his own glass of what I now know is vodka, confirming he really does know me, and nudges my shoulder.

“Come on,” he says, turning to walk to the stage. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

I follow Hayden, my steps much less confident than his. He takes the mic left on a lone barstool sitting in the middle of the stage and hands it to me, gesturing at me to raise it. He firmly grips the one already on the stage nestled in a mic stand, and we both face the room. The slowly gathering crowd causes a thin layer of sweat to form down my back. I peer over at Hayden, silently glaring at him before he wiggles his eyebrows at me in response. And I laugh, throwing my head back just as the beginning beats of “Call Me Maybe” play in a loop over the speakers, waiting for us to finally start singing.

When Hayden sings, it’s loud. It’s obnoxious and shrill and scratchy. He hits all of the beats at the wrong times and the notes at opposite pitches. And it’s perfect. By the time the song is finished, I’m breathless. Not from singing along with him but fromlaughing so hard.

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