Chapter 25
Two weeks until Opening Night
“A few of us are going for karaoke,” Max announces after rehearsal.
“You have to come.” I glance over at Theo, who gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Karaoke is generally against my personal belief system.
This is where I would normally tap out, but I’m in a good mood, the evening is young, and we don’t have rehearsal tomorrow.
I am finding at every turn that the more I engage with people here, the better it goes.
“I’m not singing,” I say, even though I will, and it will be awesome. They will just have to work for it.
“Amazing,” says Max.
I arrive at the pub to find a small group, Theo and Max, Bailey, a few of the mechanicals.
Nick. Will. They are sitting at opposite ends of the table, a free seat next to each of them.
I go to pass by Nick, but he beckons me to sit down.
I glance at Will, catch a hopefulness in his face, but Nick pulls me down next to him.
“Is it okay that I’m here?” whispers Nick.
There is already a buzz among the other locals in the bar that Nick Nolan is here, and I know he will put on a show for them later. Nick loves karaoke. That should tell you everything you need to know about him.
“Sure,” I say. “Who am I to stop you.” It’s my fault for suggesting we be friends.
“Yeah, but . . .” He looks nervous, a tiny crack in his veneer that seems to have stayed there since our talk in the balcony. “I just want you to be, you know, comfortable. I don’t have to stay.”
I’m inclined to snap back with some quick jab, but he looks sincere, for once, and for once, I am feeling generous toward him.
“Stay,” I say. “It’s just a drink.”
“Karaoke is never just a drink.” He grins. I smile back at him. It feels foreign but also kind of a relief.
Out among humans, Nick almost passes for a regular person.
I have only seen him in performance mode for so long, I’ve forgotten the version of him that can be genuinely funny.
He doesn’t have a lot of interesting thoughts, but he is a great pretend listener, so he makes the people around him feel interesting and tended to.
Pitchers of beer and platters of apps appear for the table.
He winks at me, and I know he has just told some server to “keep ’em coming,” that he will pick up the tab, that this will render him heroic to the group and still be less than he spends on wine in a week.
The only thing worse than karaoke is public karaoke.
You should at least have the decency to rent a small room in a karaoke bar where you can enact the strange contortions of your ego in relative privacy.
I have been dragged to many of these, the perils of being young in the city.
I finally stopped accepting invitations to birthday parties if they were held at a karaoke bar.
It’s always the same girl who just wants everyone to cry while she sings a power ballad.
Usually Celine Dion. Usually off-key. For people who can actually sing, it’s intolerable.
Karaoke in a pub with the general public and either a jaded or hyped-up host, waiting for your turn to be called, is just torture.
There are amusing moments, sure: Max and one of the mechanicals doing an extremely dramatic rendition of “Tribute” by Tenacious D.
I glance at Theo to laugh at them, but he is starry-eyed, watching Max pretend to be a demon.
I make a note to self to get an update there.
Some local guy in a trucker’s hat with a giant beard sings a tuneless, earnest “Faithfully” by Journey.
Under the table, Nick gently knocks his knee with mine. I knock back aggressively, and he bangs his knee on the table.
“Ouch.” He looks at me, injured. “What?”
“This is not a moment we’re having.”
“What moment?”
“We are not going to bond and reunite at karaoke.” I look at him pointedly. “Friends!”
He pretends not to hear me and grabs the sticky black binder with the song list. “You know in the movies where the hero woos the heroine with the perfect song?” he says in general to the table.
This time, I smack his knee under the table.
He’s going to give us away. This doesn’t stop him.
I have a feeling I’ve been swindled. Whatever middle ground I thought we’d found back in the balcony seems, like everything else, an act.
“Let’s see . . . ‘Sorry,’ Justin Bieber? Oh! ‘If I Could Turn Back Time.’”
“I love Cher,” says Theo. “Sounds like a naughty hero.” He winks at Nick.
Nick nods. “Unfortunately, in this movie, yes. I could do ‘Everytime.’ Britney. Classic.”
“It’s actually a very sad song,” says Bailey. “Poor Britney.” Every woman at the table nods.
“How about ‘Apologize’ by OneRepublic,” I say. “Or ‘Take a Bow’ by Rihanna.”
Nick laughs. “Maybe the heroine should sing those.”
“Maybe the heroine should sing every Taylor Swift song. Like, ever.”
Nick settles on “Take On Me” because people like it, and above all, Nick needs to be liked.
He has a surprisingly good voice, and he really sells it with some solid ’80s dance moves.
People love to see a celebrity acting like an idiot.
It’s significantly preferable to his singing me subliminal messages about our relationship with Cher as the vehicle.
Theo sings “Life on Mars?,” a reminder to us all that there is no one cooler than Theo. Maybe only Bowie.
Bailey sings “Part of Your World.” Unsurprisingly, she has a perfect Disney princess belt. I’m happy for her.
Nick pushes the binder down the table toward Will.
“I don’t sing,” says Will. He is drinking whiskey, I think specifically so he doesn’t have to drink beer that Nick bought. I hope that’s the case anyway. He shoves the binder back to Nick.
“C’mon, man.” Nick pushes back. “It’s karaoke.” Will glares at him and takes another sip.
“Mira hasn’t sung either,” pipes up Max.
“Wow, thank you.” I throw a nacho chip at him.
“Oh!” says Nick. “How about a duet?”
“Jesus, Nick, no.” I catch Will’s eye. I can feel some weird setup happening here, and I don’t like it. Will stands up, whispers to the karaoke host, and jumps onstage.
Will has chosen “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,” a classic, but a classic that is seven minutes long, an epic about turmoil on the high seas.
It’s the straight man’s version of “All Too Well.” Will was right: He does not sing.
It’s more of a melodic-ish shouting. Artistically, it’s not a great moment for music, but he is loud to make up for it, and around minute four, the whole bar is pounding their tables and singing along with him.
He grows bolder and louder, and by minute six, he is just staring directly at Nick, screaming at him about a shipwreck.
I do not understand men.
He finishes with a big note, and the entire bar screams their approval. Three old men rush over to shake his hand and buy him another whiskey. Will looks at me, triumphant, and not a little drunk. He raises his glass to me, and the crowd goes wild.
“Wow,” says Nick. “I—I don’t understand why that was cool?”
“Don’t underestimate the power of Gordon Lightfoot in a small-town bar,” I say. I get up and go over to Will.
“That was really weird,” I say. “And oddly . . . awesome?”
“I don’t like that guy,” he says, his voice gruff like the weary old sailor that he apparently is now.
“You really showed him,” I say. I sit down. “Whiskey, huh?”
“I’m not drinking that guy’s beer.” He seems to be in a very salty mood.
“Why are you mad?” I ask. “You just achieved peak karaoke success.”
“I don’t sing,” he says again. “It was either Lightfoot or that jackass was going to make us sing ‘A Whole New World’ or some shit.” This is a new version of Will. He’s a little unhinged. I don’t hate it.
“You’re not wrong, unfortunately.” Nick would have done that. “So . . . you’re mad that you did something you didn’t want to do?” I glance over. “Because, dude, you won. Look at him. You stole all the thunder.”
“Good,” he says. He swills his drink. It occurs to me only now that I don’t think I’ve seen him drunk. A cider here or there, but this whiskeyed Will is an interesting new find. A new song starts up: three drunk middle-aged women, singing “All by Myself” very loudly. Interesting choice for a trio.
“I’m pissed, okay? This guy just shows up and steals my summer.
” Ah. There it is. “I was going to do this play, and it would have been this cool role, with you. And you’re so .
. .” I look up at him in surprise, but he is staring into his drink.
“And you guys have this . . . whatever, history, and I wanna be respectful, right? But I like you. There’s something here. We both know it. What are we doing?”
“You terrify me,” I whisper, but the bar is loud.
“I can’t hear you.” He leans in. I shake my head never mind.
Our heads are close. “Hey,” he says. He looks up at me now, totally disarmed, and without thinking, I take his hand.
It is warm and calloused. I know Will is drunk and having a moment he might not remember tomorrow, but I feel suddenly thrilled.
“Hey,” I say. The women onstage scream the big note, except they’re all singing different notes, and not in a good way. I have to lean in so he can hear me. “Nick is nothing. It’s shitty for both of us that he just showed up.”
“Yeah.” He laughs bitterly.
“And I like you too.” His eyes lock on mine. For a minute, I think he’s going to kiss me. I want very much to kiss him, I realize with sudden clarity, but not in this shitty bar at a table where Nick Nolan is also sitting and, I realize, glaring at us. I sit back.
“That’s good news,” says Will. We are just sitting there, holding hands, staring at each other, when I hear my name.
“Mira! Our song!” Theo drags me up onstage. “I saw that,” he whispers as he hands me a mic.
To be clear, Theo and I do not have a song.
He has selected “Complicated” by Avril Lavigne, which is close enough.
We used to drive around and sing it on repeat, blaring it out the windows.
It’s not what I would have picked, but it’s fun, and Theo and I put on a show.
Our table hoots and claps, and I catch both Nick and Will staring at me like I’m candy.
When we’re done, Max grabs Theo and kisses him, which makes me happy for so many reasons.
I come off the stage and head back to Will, but Nick grabs my hand.
“I need to talk to you.”
I pull my hand away. “You’re drunk.”
“Just five minutes.”
“Not when you’re like this.” Will has clocked us and is watching closely.
“Is there some other guy?” he asks. “You’re with someone else?” He stares openly at Will.
“What?” As though that’s the only reason I wouldn’t want to be with him.
“I see him looking at you.” His tone has hardened so completely that I almost laugh. “He punches like a little bitch. Steal my girl . . .” he mutters under his breath.
“What? No.” Will looks at me? “I’m not your girl.”
“I don’t like that guy,” Nick slurs. “I don’t like him talking to you.”
I laugh in his face. I’m angry. “You have no say in who I talk to.”
“I do.” Nick’s voice is getting louder, masked only by “Hollaback Girl” sung by an extremely large man in coveralls.
“I did all this for you. I came here and I’m doing this stupid play in this stupid town, and I think I get to say who my girlfriend holds hands with.
” He’s never called me his “girlfriend” before.
“I dumped you, remember?” I shout back over the music, not noticing that the song has ended. “I’m not your girlfriend anymore!”
You can all but hear the record scratch.
The room is silent. Nick looks around, smiling, then back at me.
“Looks like they all know now,” he says. “Secret’s out. Your move, Belmont.” He smirks at me and walks away.
I don’t realize that Nick has left the bar until the server appears beside me with the bill. “The, uh, famous dude said to put it all on one tab?” She looks around, but we both know he has gone.
I sigh and hand over my credit card.