Avalon
Okay, maybe I exaggerated when I said the karaoke machine was old. It wasn’t old—just well-loved in the year and a half Aunt Brie had owned it.
“Aunt Brie had it custom-made by some guy in Italy or France. Cost her half a fortune, and then she just let it sit here.” I rolled the dolly onto the stage.
Clarke followed, microphones in hand, her heeled cowboy boots clicking against the wood.
I’d grown used to that sound over the weekend—it meant she was near.
It meant my nerves would start sparking like faulty wiring.
It meant my curiosity sharpened like a cat’s.
She was an enigma—a puzzle begging to be solved.
“You’ve got to put this thing to use, Aunt Brie.”
“It is in use. As a seventeen-thousand-dollar decoration. Possibly a family heirloom.”
“If you can find anyone to put up with your antics,” I muttered.
“What was that?”
“I love you!” I shouted, earning fist bumps and shouts from a group of frat boys. One yelled, “Take your top off during the chorus!”
And people wondered why I punched paparazzi.
As I plugged in the machine, I heard Aunt Brie and Clarke whispering behind me—again.
Hushed. Intent. Important. And absolutely impossible for Aunt Brie to keep secret for long.
I remembered my eighth birthday, when my cousins planned a surprise party where everyone dressed as an “iconic” version of me.
Aunt Brie spoiled it by asking which version she should be.
Needless to say, I showed up dressed as Mick Jagger.
“Okay, which song should we do first?” Clarke bounced up to me, hair springing around her face.
“We?” I took one microphone and set it in the stand. “Oh no. This is all you, Texas.” She scowled—adorably—and bit her lip. My eyes dropped to her mouth before I could stop them. I thought about brushing my thumb over her lip, about kissing her again, about— Nope. Not happening.
“If I sing one alone, will you sing one with me after?” she asked.
I pretended to consider. “What’s in it for me?”
She stepped closer, the microphone the only thing between us. “I can think of a few things you might like.” Her voice dipped, her breath brushing my cheek. “Some of which require a lot less clothing.”
I leaned in—and she stepped back.
I would’ve face-planted if she hadn’t grabbed my jacket.
“Don’t believe everything you hear about Texas sweethearts,” she teased. “Just because I like pink doesn’t mean I’m a pillow princess.”
Heat shot through me. I swallowed. Twice.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I managed.
She straightened my collar, humming something familiar. It took me a second to place it— one of my songs.
Of course she’d hum it like it was nothing.
Watching Clarke King sing was… something else. Videos didn’t do her justice. She sang like she felt every word in her bones. The Pit crowd adored her—especially the southern transplants who clung to her voice like it was home.
She made me miss a place I’d never been.
“You like her, don’t you?” Aunt Brie murmured.
I didn’t answer. Clarke was onstage, flushed and glowing, the crowd singing with her. “I don’t know her,” I said.
“But you want to,” Brie replied gently. “Just… whatever you do with her, be careful and kind.”
I wanted to ask what she meant, but her expression told me I’d have to figure that out myself.
Clarke finished her last song to a chorus of disappointed groans.
“I know, I know,” she laughed. “I have a flight in the morning.”
Her eyes found mine in the crowd. She looked like a painting—flushed cheeks, soft curls, bare shoulders.
“For this last one,” she said, “I want to bring up someone who really surprised me tonight.” My stomach dropped.
She walked offstage, weaving through the crowd until she reached me. “And I couldn’t have done that without you.” She slipped her hand into mine.
The crowd erupted.
“Avalon Kennedy,” she said, eyes sparkling, “will you do a duet with me?”
Aunt Brie nudged me. Go.
“Of course,” I said, letting Clarke pull me onstage.
Phones lifted. Lights flashed. Clarke handed me a microphone.
“What song?” I whispered.
“We could do one of yours,” she said shyly.
“So that was my song you were humming earlier.”
She blushed. Hard.
We sang. The crowd lost their minds. Clarke’s voice wrapped around mine like it belonged there. When we finished, the Pit shook with cheers.
Clarke grabbed my hands. “Thank you. This was the best night of my life.” I squeezed her hands. “It doesn’t have to be over.”
Her eyes widened. “We still have a song to write!”
We bowed dramatically and headed offstage.
Aunt Brie hugged us tight enough to crack ribs. “Call me when you get home,” she said, wiping her eyes.
After pictures and goodbyes, Clarke and I walked back toward the hotel, the spring air cold enough to sting.
“Did you know this time of night is called the witching hour?” Clarke asked, seemingly eager to make conversation even if it was a bit random. “If you were a witch, what would you be doing right now?”
“Probably casting a spell to get rid of the male species,” I snorted. “Especially that paparazzi guy who got me six months of community service.”
“Why did you punch him?” she asked softly.
I told her. She listened. Really listened.
“I care, Avalon,” she said.
Three words. Simple. But they hit like a punch to the ribs.
No one cared. Not really. Not except Aunt Brie. But Clarke did. The elevator dinged. We walked to her room in comfortable silence.
Inside, she kicked off her boots and disappeared into the bathroom. I ordered room service and sat on the bed, staring at her stuffed bunny.
When she came out—hair in a bun, sleep mask under her eyes—she looked impossibly soft.
“We can start with the words from the booth,” she said, flopping onto the bed. I repeated them. She wrote. I watched her hand glide across the page, looping elegant cursive like she was born doing it.
She handed me the notebook. “Your turn.”
I wrote. Raw. Honest. Me.
Clarke read it, eyes widening. “Avalon, this is really fucking good.”
We worked for hours—demos, lyrics, guitar riffs, coffee. By 3 a.m., we had the skeleton of a song.
Clarke reached for her laptop. I leaned over her shoulder, noticing a small heart-shaped birthmark on her skin.
I kissed it before I could think.
“Or,” I murmured, “you could come back to L.A. with me. We could work on it together.” She turned, eyes wide. “Avalon Kennedy! Are you inviting me home?”
I kissed her shoulder again. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you not to let a stranger do what you let me do in that photo booth?”
Her jaw dropped. Her cheeks flushed.
“You have to promise never to talk about that,” she said. “I don’t need some raunchy headline about my sex life.”
“I won’t,” I said. And I meant it. Not that I had any interest in telling anyone about that part of tonight. Or that I really had anyone to tell.
We worked until dawn, surrounded by notebook pages, empty coffee cups, and the quiet hum of something new forming between us—something fragile, something dangerous, something I wasn’t ready to name.