“You have a club?”
“White Oaks. Keller comps executive memberships. What?”she asks, taking in my dropped jaw. “You think we shouldn’t fraternize because we’re competitors in the industry?” She waves a hand airily. “Forget that.”
Something about Sharon tickles my memory, but I can’t quite pin it down.
McHuge drifts back to the table. Sometimes I forget how gigantic he is until he’s up close and making the furniture look like we’re in the kids’ display area at IKEA.
Kinda like that big guy at the corner table who’s doing a hell of a job making the chairs seem short. His longish, mid-tone hair is pulled back in a stubby ponytail. Waterproof patches dot his dark red puffer coat, like—
Dismay bursts like static behind my eyes.
Tobin’s here.
He sees me and pauses, a mini donut halfway to his mouth. He has a terrible weakness for deep-fried dough, despite his quasi-religious commitment to fresh, simple food.
And he’s sitting next to a woman who’s looking at him like he’s warm and covered with cinnamon sugar.
He wouldn’t be on a date. I hate my brain for going there. He’s just Tobin; people naturally gravitate to him. Pulling groups together is his favorite thing. He has special radar for clients who aren’t natural joiners, hyping them until everyone loves them, giving them nicknames and made-up backstories and even theme songs.
I wonder if I was one of those people to him.
He puts down the donut and pushes out of his chair as the last of the rookie guides troop in, shedding layers and shoving each other good-naturedly.
I meet him halfway, not wanting to do this in front of the improv crew. Or the guides. I hadn’t envisioned my work life and my improv life untidily crossing over, beyond the regrettable fact of Dick Head. And McHuge. Already, improv makes me feel likea different version of myself—so who should I be now that my worlds are colliding?
“Hi.” Tobin’s smile is an eight out of ten instead of the usual eleven out of ten. “I didn’t know your class would be here.” He scans my table, a confused line popping up between his brows. He doesn’t know these people, and I do. This is a new dynamic for us.
“Me either.”
“I can move the guides’ orientation meeting. It wouldn’t be a big deal.” Behind him, a server brings a giant tray of drinks to his table. It’s already too late.
“It’s fine, Tobin. We can coexist at the same bar.”
I shouldn’t have said that. McHuge’s karaoke-based desensitization therapy is bad enough without my mostly ex-husband watching me go down in flames.
There’s a burst of feedback from the sound system. “I’d better go. We’re, uh, doing a thing.”
The DJ comes on. “Good evening, folks, and welcome to karaoke night at the Kraken,” he shouts, fight-night style. His peppy tone is all wrong for those of us currently shivering in fear, clinging to the table like we’ve been shipwrecked. Although Sharon looks pretty chill. She’s survived worse, literally.
“First up! Please welcome! The amazing! LIZ! Performing ‘I Will Always Love You’!!!” Every one of his many! exclamation! marks! stabs me right in my quivering soul.
“Which version?” I whimper at McHuge.
It doesn’t matter; both of them violate the First Law of Karaoke. Namely: one does not attempt to match the greatest voices of our time without a) a flawless voice of one’s own and/or b) a highly original take on the song.
I have neither. My voice isn’t great, or terrible. It’s easy to ignore, like the rest of me, which is fine until I’m onstage trying to hit the high notes like Dolly Parton or Whitney frickin’ Houston.
I’m going to poison McHuge in his sleep.
McHuge shrugs off my glare. “I know you like romance. I thought you’d appreciate this choice.The Bodyguardand all.” To his credit, he said “romance” in a normal way, without that dismissive flick in his voice that some people use while discussing media that has the audacity to end with happiness and love.
“It’s a love story, not a romance,” I snap, even though arguing with McHuge is pointless. I don’t think he knows how.
The DJ waves at us, then points at the screen. The video’s starting.
“Shine on, Liz,” McHuge says, giving me a playful bump. He’s not the kind of big guy who doesn’t know how strong he is, so his nudge isn’t a believable excuse to keel over and fake my death.
I don’t remember climbing onstage, unholstering the mic, and sending the stand to the wings (good decision; if there’s a chance to trip over something, I’ll make the most of it).
