Page 3 of Perfectly Complicated
Gabriella beams back at him. “Yes, let’s definitely move to the front.”
“Oh, no,” I say, stopping in my tracks. “We arenotdoing this.”
“Doing what?” Madi asks.
“That,” I say, motioning to a group of girls at another tablewho are eyeing the men on the dance floor. “The pointing and whispering and ‘accidentally’ bumping into guys.”
“Would we do that?” Gabriella asks with an innocent smile that tells me she most definitely would.
“Okay, have fun, then. I’m leaving,” I say, turning toward the door. The last thing I want to be tonight is someone’s third wheel.
“Wait, no,” Madi begs me. “You can’t go yet. We rode together.”
Oh yeah.They’re my ride, and this isn’t exactly a metropolitan area with transportation options. I could walk, but it would be a three-mile trek in boots made for cuteness, not comfort. Knowing my luck, I’d get picked up by Mrs. Hagerson from the school board, who would havemanyquestions about why I’m hitchhiking home.
I reluctantly follow Gabriella toward the table in the front, right next to the karaoke stage.
The song finishes—thank goodness—and a few people clap out of sympathy.
I lean across the table and whisper, “No offense, but I could do better than that guy.”
“Maybe you should, then,” Gabriella says.
I shake my head. “I haven’t sung in months.”
“Come on,” Gabi says, elbowing me. “You used to love karaoke. And you just said you could do better.”
“Yeah, but I don’t see the point of proving it.”
“Okay, then,” she says, leaning on the table. “I’ll make you a deal. Sing one song, and you get to say when we leave.”
I stare at her for a moment, considering this option. We could get a quick dinner, then take off as soon as we’re done.No harm done.
“Only one?” I ask.
Madi nods. “It’ll be just like old times. You were always the best singer of all of us. Might as well show Sully’s Beach who’sstillthe reigning queen of karaoke.”
“Alright,” I say, her words just the push Ineed. With a newfound confidence, I push my chair back and head to the karaoke sign-up, where I flip through the songbook. I need something that screamsI’m not your typeto any guy who might be thinking about approaching me. You know, the perfect anthem for a woman who’s still reeling from heartbreak.
I scribble down my selection and hand it to the DJ, who glances at it and raises an eyebrow. “Bold choice,” he says with a nod. “You’re up next.”
I make my way back toward the front when the DJ’s voice booms over the speakers. “Next up, we’ve got ‘Before He Cheats.’”
My stomach flips nervously as I try to remind myself that it’s only one song—and half of the crowd isn’t even paying attention. Most of the women are focused on a group of men who just came in and took over the table in the corner away from the stage.
The opening notes start, and I grab the microphone, nervous energy humming under my skin. As I open my mouth, the mic lets out a horrible screech that makes people throw their hands over their ears in pain. Then the track skips before cutting out entirely, leaving me standing there in total silence.
The packed room is staring at me, and my face flames like I just bit into a ghost pepper.
This is worse than the time I accidentally had the back of my skirt tucked into the waistband of my underwear in front of the entire kindergarten class.
AndGod bless them,kindergartners think nothing of showing their panties in public.
But adults?They forget nothing.
Just then, a movement in the back catches my eye. A man rises from his table—making every woman in the room take notice—including me. He’s tall, easily six foot four, with a build that suggests serious time at the gym: broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, wearing a black tee that fits like the shirt company used him as the model. Dark hair falls across his forehead as he walks toward the stage with a serious expression.
And now I know why everyone’s staring.
