Chapter 17
17
Tatum
Dawn has indeed picked a place where there are a lot of women. A lot of people in general, packed in for what they’re calling a queeraoke night here, where people sign up to belt out show tunes, big ballads, and everything in between.
By a stroke of luck, we’re able to grab seats along the actual bar. A disco ball hangs from the ceiling, scattering circular light over the bartenders as they race back and forth to make enough drinks to accommodate the crowd. It’s loud in here, but bearably so, and the groups ebb and flow, providing countless candidates for Dawn to pitch as a potential date.
“Is this okay?” I whisper to June. “It’s busy.”
“I’m good,” she tells me. “I promise.”
“What about her?” Dawn shouts, pointing at a short, pretty blonde who has just finished singing a warbling but very committed rendition of “Leather and Lace,” opting to cover both parts of the duet.
Before I can answer, the blonde walks up to a brunette in the crowd and kisses her hard, which makes the small group around them erupt into a second round of applause, even louder than the one the blonde got for singing.
“Taken,” I say, like we all can’t see that already.
Dawn, undeterred, scans for more options.
One by one, I shoot them down.
It’s not intentional. I can just look at someone’s face, or the way they take up space in the room, and know it isn’t right. I can even imagine the smell of their breath in the morning, or what loyalties they have to people in their life that they shouldn’t, and it’s enough to shut down any inkling of attraction that might exist within me.
“These women won’t work for me because I won’t work for them either,” I say to Dawn. “No need to waste our time seeing if that can miraculously change.”
Abruptly, June announces she plans to sign up for karaoke. She threads her way through the crowd, heading toward the performance area, where twinkle lights and a single mic stand set the scene. It’s a raffle, and every person drops their name into a bowl with the hopes of being picked before the night ends.
“I’m glad she’s feeling better,” Dawn says.
“Me too.”
June smiles at the DJ, who smiles back twice as big. There’s a sick little tug in my stomach at the sight, and I shove it down, running through the list of reasons it can’t be her, finding it less and less compelling each time I do so.
“Let’s try a different approach,” Dawn says, forcing my attention back. “My third attempt at making sense of this, mind you. And look, I understand all your fears. I really do. But since you’re willing to work through them, surely there’s something specific you look for. A certain type. Like for me, when I was going for women, I liked the butchy ones. Is that still okay for me to say?”
“Butch is still a term, yes,” I tell her.
“What’s your thing?”
“I don’t really have a thing,” I say. Knowing Dawn is one hefty sigh away from berating me, I force myself to continue. “All my life, I’ve just been drawn to the energy of certain people. When I was a kid, I was obsessed with Martha Stewart. I don’t know if it would be considered a crush. I never wanted to kiss her or whatever. I just wanted to watch her all the time.”
“So you like older women?” Dawn asks, not following.
What the hell am I saying? I’m digging my own grave.
“No,” I say, too quickly. “Not that you’re not beautiful. Or that you’re old.”
Dawn puts a hand on my arm. “Stop floundering.”
“I just mean that to me, liking someone has more to do with how I feel around them than how they look, I guess,” I say. “And I didn’t ever want to date Martha Stewart, but she’s the first person I can remember in my life who made me understand that for me, love is fascination. And I’ve never felt that way about any man. Only women.”
It’s a testament to Dawn’s resilience that she doesn’t give up on me altogether. “Yes, I haven’t forgotten that you’re a lesbian. That’s about the only clear thing going on.”
It’s funny enough to get a laugh out of me.
“All right,” Dawn concedes. “If it’s about feelings, then how do you like to feel around a woman?”
“I kind of like to feel a little uncertain of myself,” I say. “I like to feel like when I’m with her, I can’t predict what will happen next. I’m a little too good at figuring situations out. It’s kind of my curse. So I guess I’m looking for a woman who surprises me.”
“I don’t know how the hell to look for that, but that’s nice to know,” Dawn says. June returns, and Dawn wastes no time looping her back into the conversation. “What do you look for, June? Maybe that’ll help our friend over here. The one who specifically asked me to help her get a date.”
“Remember? I’m not trying to date anyone right now.” June readjusts her short pleather skirt so that it covers the tops of her thighs as she settles onto the barstool. The thrill of seeing her upper thigh makes me linger on her legs too long.
Not her , I remind myself again.
“I just got dumped,” she continues. “I need to learn the art of being single. I’m far too prone to wanting people I can’t have.”
My heart goes into my throat.
Dawn asks June for more information on her breakup. June starts by explaining who Vanessa is and how they got together, details I was never able to gather during my time as their waitress. They met on a dating app. They were together for five months, and Vanessa helped June find the investors she’s here to meet. They’d been discussing moving in together, but June was worried about it, because Vanessa is very particular about a lot of things, and June anticipated fights over how to load the dishwasher and all the little things in between. Still, the breakup came out of nowhere for June. There were no signs leading up to it that indicated Vanessa might dump her.
I spend the entire time preparing myself to hear her explanation of the ghostwriting angle. I almost miss the fact that June doesn’t mention it. She just tells Dawn that Vanessa breaking up with her unexpectedly stung on principle, but it didn’t hurt in any deeper way. Even though it ended very fast, it was more of a relief than anything else.
“You know, that’s a blessing,” Dawn says when June finishes. “If she’s capable of doing that, she’s not the one for you anyway.”
“I know that,” June replies. “I think I always knew that. I just liked having the company.”
“Never mistake the comfort of company for actual feelings. I did that with my first husband, and he slept with my best friend. Got her pregnant too. May he rest without peace,” Dawn says, laughing.
We join her, although much more tentatively. “I’m sorry,” I offer, wanting to be sure I’ve said it.
Dawn waves me off in her usual way. “Don’t worry about it. I was more pissed off at my friend than I was at him. Because I realized I didn’t even like him. Certainly didn’t want to bring his children into the world. I just didn’t like to be alone.” She stops, registering her own words. “ Ha. Look at me now.”
It’s a journey that makes sense to me—Dawn tricked herself into thinking she loved him because he was the person who was there, who was convenient. It was the life she thought she should have. And in the end, she probably let her bitterness and her fear get the best of her, keeping her from dating and acting altogether, because that made sure she never got hurt again. All that got her was a version of her life she never wanted—one where she’s no longer doing the job she loves, no one to pass the time with either. Sometimes you can be right about every single thing, and it does you no good. Life doesn’t reward your observational intelligence. There’s no grand scoreboard that gives you bonus points for avoiding hypothetical obstacles.
“Two vodka cranberries with lime,” someone calls out, so loud and commanding it forces my acknowledgment. It’s the blonde karaoke woman, shouldering her way into an open space along the bar.
“Nice performance,” I tell her, unable to let the moment pass without inserting a compliment now that we’ve made accidental eye contact.
“My girlfriend bet me a hundred bucks I wouldn’t do it,” the blonde says, pointing to the woman she kissed. “I don’t lose bets.”
“Good song choice,” Dawn tells her. “I used to party with Stevie Nicks when I’d go out to Los Angeles.”
The blonde doesn’t know what to make of that, doesn’t realize she’s talking to a legend of sorts, but she nods in appreciation. “Awesome. My name is Stevie too, so she’s always my karaoke choice,” she tells us. “We’re here for my birthday trip, visiting some of our friends who live out here. Garland surprised me with it.” She points again to the other woman, like we might have missed her the first time. “She’s currently pretending she’s lost the stack of twenties I watched her stuff into her purse before we left for this place. She doesn’t want to pay me.”
“Happy birthday,” June offers.
“Thanks,” Stevie replies. “It was actually in the beginning of June, but I believe in celebrating all month long.”
“It’s the end of July right now,” I tell her.
“ Shh ,” she says. “Anything is possible if you believe it hard enough.” She’s fun, vibrant. The kind of person who can talk to anyone about anything.
“We’re visiting too,” I tell her, gesturing to June. “We’ve never been to New York before. Our friend Dawn here has been showing us around. Taking us to all the good spots.”
“They don’t know I’m just looking up places on my phone like everybody else,” Dawn stage-whispers.
“Your secret is safe with me,” Stevie stage-whispers back. The bartender returns with her drinks. Stevie pulls a wad of cash out of her bra to pay her tab. “Well, I hope we get to hear you and your girlfriend sing.”
The comment hangs in the air after her departure, lingering over the conversation.
Dawn, never one to miss an opportunity, says, “Now, that’s an idea,” looking between June and me.
“Oh,” I say loudly, “I hadn’t even thought of that.”
It’s the most panicked untruth that’s ever left my lips in all twenty-nine years of my life. If the cooks could see me now, they’d banish me to the back room for my least favorite task, ladling our homemade dressings out of the giant vat they’re made in and into the squeeze bottles we use. I’d deserve it too.
“Well, that’s a lie,” Dawn says, uniquely good at making this situation worse.
In the fog of my mortification, I’m distantly aware of June. How she’s not saying anything either. She hasn’t challenged Dawn or laughed it off. She’s as awkward as me right now, and it’s the only thing keeping me from walking out of this bar and wandering the city until my legs can’t carry me any farther.
“What is it, you guys already slept together and it was bad?” Dawn continues, undeterred.
“ Dawn ,” I say, using the same low, stern voice I employ on my parents when they come to bingo night at Rita’s Diner and embarrass me in front of the other players by telling some story from my childhood. It’s probably the tone they used on me as a toddler when I’d say something to a stranger in the grocery store, far too curious and not yet versed in the appropriate pleasantries of the world. The universal message behind it is the same, no matter the reason— Shut the fuck up, please .
The karaoke DJ reaches into the bowl of names where everyone’s submitted their song requests. “Up next, we’ve got June Lightbell!” they call out, reading the scrap of paper.
Yes , I think with relief. Thank you to any and every higher power for providing us with a way out of this moment.
“And Tatum Ward!” the DJ adds.
My eyes shoot over to June, who has folded her lips together. “By the way, I signed us up for a duet,” she says weakly. When I don’t stand, she’s forced to get closer, putting a hand on my leg. “It’s not the kind of song I can sing alone.”
This gets me to move. At least it puts us away from Dawn, who seems to have an entire arsenal of awkward questions she’s more than willing to ask us.
I follow June through the crowd, and we pass Stevie and Garland, who hold up their vodka cranberries. “Hell yeah!” Stevie says. “What are you guys gonna sing?”
“It’s a surprise!” I tell her.
Understatement of the century.
“I’m Whitney,” June whispers before the song starts, providing me with my one and only clue as to what we’re about to perform.
In a matter of milliseconds, I comb my brain for Whitney Houston duets, only coming up with “When You Believe,” the song she did with Mariah Carey for The Prince of Egypt . There’s no way that is what June has picked for queeraoke night.
Right?
A disjointed piano line kicks in, and the title flashes onto the lyrics screen in front of us—“If I Told You That” by Whitney Houston.
It’s not a song I know very well, though it’s familiar. June plays a lot of Whitney on the jukebox, and this is certainly one that I’ve heard. Enough to fake my understanding of the melody as I follow the words on the screen.
“I don’t know when I’m supposed to sing,” I whisper quickly.
“You don’t know the George Michael duet version?” June asks in genuine shock, right before she puts her lips to the mic and begins the song.
To say she commands the crowd is to undersell her transformation. She becomes a performer , pointing her finger and walking back and forth across our three feet of open space, playing to the small crowd of bystanders around us as she sings her way through the opening chorus. She does a confident pivot, head tucked into her shoulder as she nods to cue me for the first verse.
I miss my entrance, part confused at the required melody and part transfixed by her presence. The lyrics fly by so fast they activate my speed-reading brain, where I can pick up a novel late at night and scan the words as fast as a computer downloads information. My voice is no prize, but I’ve never been the type of person to worry about that when it comes to karaoke. And I certainly wouldn’t strand June up here on purpose. There is just so much happening, all at once.
It’s only halfway through the performance that I process the actual lyrics—this is a song about revealing your feelings for a friend.
What would happen if I told you I had feelings for you? Would it ruin our friendship?
It feels like we’re having a conversation up here, telling each other we both know this is more than we’re acknowledging but that neither of us wants to ruin what we are.
Friends. I remember that pledge at the diner.
We are that. But it’s not enough. I want another layer on top of it.
I want June.
I want her so bad I could scream. Or sing. Again. Sing forever. Stay up here performing karaoke until the bar closes down, just to get all this feeling out of me, express it through every song I can find.
I want to know what she’s like up close, to run a finger along her jaw. To hold her body to mine and feel her breathe. To press my lips to hers. To be the one she comes back to after a long night out.
I want to go on trips with her. See the world through her lens. Hold her hand through the bad things. Stand beside her through the good ones.
I want all of it.
When we finish, Stevie is the first person to cheer out loud.
“That was the gayest thing I’ve ever seen in my life!” she calls out, clearly loving it.
Her friends join her. There are two men who look to be identical twins. They both drop to their knees. “We’re not worthy,” they say in unison, waving their arms up and down in dramatic bows of worship.
We return to Dawn, whose skeptical expression has only grown stronger since our karaoke endeavor. If something changed for me during this performance, it also changed for her, because she doesn’t have the bulldog-aggressive curiosity anymore. She even goes so far as to yawn.
“Look, if you’re not gonna make a move on anyone tonight, we should be getting back,” she tells me. “It’s way past my bedtime.”
Make a move on who? I want to ask, but I don’t have to. Because I know who she means. And so does June.
“Of course,” I say to Dawn. “Let’s go home.”
It’s only on the drive back that I realize I’ve called this place my home.
And that I liked the way it felt to say it.