Page 69 of Gin and Bear It

Jada is still staring at me, biting her plush bottom lip. Unfortunately, my heart flips in my chest just looking at her. She’s so different than Alexis in every way, but something about her internal spark and all her passion is drawing me to her in a way that’s uncomfortably familiar to the six months I just described.

I need a distraction.

“Want to watch a dumb movie?” Jada asks, like she’s read my mind. “Or maybe we can go back out once I change.”

“Let’s go back out,” I say automatically. Being next to her on a bed is distracting in a bad way.

“Karaoke bar!” She brightens and stands back up. “Gimme like, five minutes.”

“Wait, karaoke?” I ask.

“Hell yes. What better distraction than singing in a group of strangers and possibly embarrassing yourself?” She slides past me and shoos me away.

She gets dressed in the jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers that she was wearing before, her smile bright when she opens the door.

“I’m not against it. But I’m not a big singer.” I can sing, though.

“You were literally in a band,” she says once we hit the streets. “How can you not be a big singer?”

“Because I played the bass?” I say.

“You never sang backup?” she asks. “You’re used to performing, at least.”

“I sang backup when threatened. And the bass player was always in the back.” That was the best part—I got the thrill of performing without being the main focus for the full song. “Caro needed to be the center of attention every single second, so I rarely ever got the full blast of attention from the crowd.”

Karaoke bars are a dime a dozen here, so I let her pick one. Since the hotel is off the main strip, the spot isn’t as heinously touristy. There’s a stage in one corner, where someone is singing a country song vaguely in tune. It’s not too busy.

Jada finds the tablet where people can pick songs and scrolls through the options.

“Okay, your turn.” She steps aside and points to the screen.

“I’m not getting out of this place without singing a song, am I?” I ask.

“Nope.”

I choose a song I know the lyrics of and grab us another round of drinks. Jada bops along to the song the next person starts singing, sipping her drink.

“Do you miss performing?” she asks. She has to lean close to me to be heard and she smells way too good. “Even if you were in the back?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “Well, kind of. I haven’t really wanted to play or practice or anything since the band fell apart. But when we were doing well, it was amazing. I was able to get into a zone I can’t get into anywhere else.”

She nods. “I can see that. I love going to concerts, even if I don’t get to go all that often.”

I miss going to concerts, too. I miss music, period. It was always my escape. Even when my dad was shitting on me for liking it—he doesn’t like music, being completely tone deaf—it was the thing I could do where I felt right. I could focus on getting a chord progression or pick out a song by ear. When I got into high school and beyond, it was a place where I could make friends.

I just wish it wasn’t so complicated now. Every piece of music I listen to or play has a connection with a moment in my life, and a lot of those moments are ones I want to shove into a vault for now.

Jada cheers for the person who finishes their song with a long note. The next person steps up and she lightly smacks me with the back of her hand.

“I love this song. I should have chosen it,” she says.

It doesn’t matter, though—she sings her heart out along with the person on stage and with the rest of the crowd. And with the next person and the next person. Her energy is infectious, and I start to lose myself in it, too.

It feels good. Almost uncomplicated, aside from the fact that it’s making me like her even more.

“Next up is Jada!” the person running the mic says.

Jada hands me her drink and jogs up the steps. She doesn’t have an ounce of self-consciousness, and when she starts to sing, I can see why.