Page 47 of A World Without You
“I’ll have another shot,” I say, sliding over the glasses. He hesitates in a way bartenders don’t do unless you are completely inebriated, so I add, “You can’t get drunk in a dream.”
The bartender, who’d be cute if he wasn’t so judgy, stares at me.
“I tip well,” I say instead. This makes him laugh, and he pours me another shot.
I take it right away.
Then at some point soon after, I order another.
And another.
I may have even gotten an extra glass of wine, but I’m not sure. All I know is the karaoke is getting better and the whiskey is sliding down my throat smoother. I’m laughing hysterically by the second, third, and fourth renditions of Journey. The second Whitney Houston song, I’m out of my seat, singing along. Someone attempts Mariah Carey and it doesn’t matter how wasted I could be in real life. Someone else trying to hit her famous high note will always sound like a squealing cat.
Another shot later, I have the karaoke mic in my hand, the melodic tempo of a Celine Dion song is playing, and I’m singing like my life depends on it. I don’t relinquish the mic after one, two, then five songs.
Everyone in the bar is laughing and singing along. I’m dizzy with alcohol and adrenaline and we’re all having a marvelous time until a bubble rises in my throat, and I hiccup into the microphone, and it echoes through the bar. I should be embarrassed, but I laugh hard and uncontrollably until I’m curled over, and my stomach hurts. When I try to right myself, the standing position makes the room spin, and I let out awooo! The room laughs...I think. Some guy grabs my waist and tries to help steady me. The way his hands linger on my hips is overkill, and the acrid smell of his beer breath makes me shove him away.
“Oh, she’s a wild one,” he muses to no one.
The DJ behind me asks, “Are you good?”
I nod, but it’s a slow dip of my head as I try to turn in his direction to make eye contact, but his face is spinning through my mind when I face him.
“I’m fine!” I declare, knowing I’m not fine. I am drunk in a dream.
“Hey,” the smooth voice I know like my entire childhood says. He’s close to me, taking the mic out of my hand and steadying me with a hand on my back. “It’s time for you to get home.”
I turn to the man who has his arms around me, and the slightly familiar bartender clicks into place. “Bennett?”
He freezes, his cheeks flushing, but he doesn’t smile because he wouldn’t.
“Your hair is longer,” I comment, and his eyes widen as he nods. “Am I drunk?” I ask, still twisted in his arms. The DJ takes the mic, and I would probably stumble off the stage if Bennett wasn’t holding onto me.
“Fucking wasted,” he says.
“That’s ridiculous!” I boop his nose. “You can’t get drunk in a dream.”
He just stares at me with his light brown eyes, dark lashes, and perma-scowl.
“Don’t look at me like that!” I say, my tone simultaneously playful, aghast, and drunk.
He takes my face in his hands. “What is going on with you?”
I shrug and the gesture makes the room spin. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to blink away the dizziness with no luck. My lips rumble as I blow out a breath. “I don’t know. I’ll probably tell you allllll about it when I wake up in my real life tomorrow.”
Bennett huffs out a breath, clearly annoyed. “I’m going to get you home,” he says, still holding onto me. I boop his nose again. His jaw pulses. “Don’t do that again.”
I disobey. “Boop!” I add with this tap of his nose, and I watch him swallow what seems to be some very painful saliva. My gaze travels over him. He’s still tall with his weird, dark, yet light eyes and thick, dark hair. But it’s kind of shaggy in this world—very artsy. His face is covered in stubble and the sharp lines of his face and every expression he shows me tells me he doesn’t smile much...still.What a shame.He could be a charmer.
“Why are you so serious?” I slur, and his grip tightens around my arm. A man a few tables from the karaoke stage yells, “Let her sing!”
Bennett snaps his attention to him. “Mind your business, Jonny!”
Jonny—presumably—shrugs and mocks Bennett’s reprimand as I continue to be absolutely dragged through the bar. He swipes my coat off my bar stool and then grabs his jacket off a hook behind the bar.
“You alright, honey?” A woman with bleach-blond hair and a black apron asks as we make our way to the front door.
“I’m fine,” I answer, stumbling as I sidestep through the dark bar.
