Page 82 of Things We Fake
Cam whistled. “My kind of place.”
We descended into the station, the air turning thick with that familiar underground smell—a mix of warm metal, damp concrete, and the occasional whiff of something best left unidentified.
Cam nudged my arm as we waited for the train. “So what’s your go-to karaoke song?”
“Oh no. I have to be drunk first.”
The train screeched into the station, and we stepped inside, gripping the pole as the car jolted forward. A man playing a saxophone in the corner filled the space with a smooth, bluesy melody, and I found myself swaying slightly, the beer and the night making everything feel deliciously unhurried.
Cam squinted at me. “You look like someone who’d belt out “Rolling in the Deep” after three drinks.”
I scoffed. “It would take at least four drinks.”
He smiled slowly, his gaze lingering on me, sending something warm curling low in my stomach. I was on slow burn despite the chilly night. All of this felt like foreplay.
A few stops later, we emerged onto a street lined with glowing signs and late-night food carts. Goldie’s stood between a closed pawn shop and a bodega. Its neon sign flickered unevenly, half the letters inKARAOKEstruggling to stay lit.
The inside was a scene straight out of a New York fever dream—colored string lights hanging haphazardly from the ceiling, posters of rock legends peeling off the walls, and a sticky wooden bar crowded with people clutching neon cocktails. On stage, a woman in a leopard-print dress was wailing her heart out to Celine Dion’s “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now,” and the audience was drunkenly singing along.
Cam winced. “Damn. That’s a bold song choice.”
“I respect the confidence. Do we think she’s had more or less than five drinks?”
“At least six.”
We found a booth near the back, away from the speakers but close enough to watch the trainwrecks unfold. A waiter in a David Bowie T-shirt slid over, balancing a tray on his palm.
“What’s your poison?” he asked, tossing a napkin onto the table.
Cam turned to me. “You pick, while I go to the bathroom. But not something pink with an umbrella.”
I grinned at the challenge. “Two whiskey sours.”
The waiter nodded and disappeared, just as another singer took the stage—an older guy in a suit, slurring his way through “Sweet Child O’ Mine”.
In a few short minutes our drinks arrived. Cam returned from the bathroom and slid into the booth, stretching an arm along the back. His fingers lazily traced patterns against the vinyl, his eyes settling on me with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
“So, sweet child o’ mine,” he teased, nudging my foot under the table. “What kind of kid was little Susanne? Did you play teacher with your dolls, and have a strict schedule for all your stuffed animals?”
I scoffed, swirling my whiskey. “I was not that predictable.”
“Oh? Enlighten me.”
“I was also the kid who reorganized the pantry by category and yelled at my brother when he messed it up. And yes, okay, maybe I made lesson plans for my dolls. But I also was a little bit of a troublemaker.”
Cam raised an eyebrow. “This I have to hear.”
I sat back with a satisfied smile. “I told you I grew up on a vineyard, right? Acres of grapevines, rollinghills, a big old stone cellar… It was a dream for a kid who loved sneaking around and getting into places I wasn’t supposed to be. I used to run barefoot through the vines, stealing grapes before they were ripe, then daring Paul to eat them. We’d get into trouble constantly, and my dad would yell ‘Ma che diavolo state facendo?’ every time we trampled through his rows.”
Cam chuckled. “I can picture it. You with twigs in your hair and grape juice all over your face.”
“Yep. But my true kingdom was the wine cellar.”
“Do tell me more.”
“There were these old barrels, stacks of wooden crates, dim lighting—it was perfect for hiding out when I didn’t want to do chores. Or when I wanted to eavesdrop. Grown-ups say the most interesting things when they think a kid isn’t around.”
He laughed. “You were a little spy.”
