Page 53 of Bound To Be Mine

She was terrible. Genuinely bad. The notes she was reaching for probably had every dog in a twenty-mile radius crying. Her timing was also way off.

I prayed Caleb Followill, who made this song and the band, Kings of Leon, famous, never heard this. It was atrocious.

On the big chorus she closed her eyes and committed fully.

“You know that I could use somebody,” she screeched.

My shoulders inched up to my ears, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. I was transfixed. I felt someone bump me as they walked by.

I watched my accidental wife sing one of my favorite songs in front of strangers. She had ears. I knew those ears worked, so she had to know how terrible she was. But she did it anyway. And she was looking directly at me while she did it. That song was for me.

I couldn’t name the feeling I had. But it felt weird. Good. Warm. But strange. Was this the warm and fuzzies I heard people talk about but had never personally experienced?

She believed in this moment. Whatever her plan was, she had committed to it entirely.

The song ended. She lowered the microphone, and a handful of generous patrons applauded. She hopped off the stage and crossed the bar toward me. I noticed she was walking a little fast, like she was running from the scene of the crime.

“Was it terrible?” she asked.

I shook my head. “That’s one of my favorite songs. Kings of Leon. Use Somebody. How did you know?”

She flashed a dangerous smile I was coming to recognize as trouble. Trouble for me. “Either I’m psychic, or you told me on our wedding night.”

“You remember what happened that night?”

“No.” She pulled out her phone. “But the internet does.”

She held up the screen and pressed play. It was a video I hadn’t seen. In the video, I was watching her sing that exact song and I looked totally in love with her. I looked completely, embarrassingly, irreversibly gone for the woman on stage.

I cleared my throat. “Where did you find this one?”

“Someone tagged me this morning. It’s been making the rounds.”

“I’ve seen a different video,” I said. “I was the one on stage.”

“Oh, I’ve seen it.” She giggled. “Should I call you Elvis?”

“Please don’t.”

“At least we’re both embarrassed,” she said.

“Very much so.”

“I know I can’t sing but you seemed quite confident.”

“I was very drunk,” I said. “And thankfully, I don’t remember humiliating myself.”

“Liquid courage will do that for you. Let’s sit down.”

“I’m not getting up there and singing,” I told her.

“Of course not.”

“I’m not drinking.”

“Me either.”

A waitress appeared at the table we secured. “Club soda,” I said.