"Neither can half the people in here. And when did that stop you in the past? Honestly, singing quality is not the point."
"What is the point?"
He swallowed a mouthful of his beer. "The point is that sometimes you have to do something ridiculous because it's a night out in Thunder Bay, and you're alive. The alternative is going home to reorganize your sock drawer."
"You reorganized your sock drawer last week."
"Right. Time for a new adventure."
The karaoke host—a guy with a handlebar mustache—tapped the microphone and grinned at the crowd.
"Alright, you beautiful disasters! Who's ready to metaphorically strip themselves naked with musical accompaniment?"
The crowd cheered. Someone in the back yelled something about wanting to hear "Puck Life," which earned a round of laughter and at least three people shouting "NO!"
"Our first brave souls tonight are Sarah and Mike with 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart!'"
I watched a couple in matching flannel shirts take the stage and immediately start butchering the Elton John and Kiki Dee classic.
I leaned in close to Evan. "Any hints about what musical crime we're about to commit?"
"One." He leaned across the table, close enough that I could smell his shampoo. "Rusted."
As I wracked my brain for what song Evan's mysterious clue could imply, the host called out across the bar. "Jake Riley and Evan Carter! You're up!"
Evan stood. "Showtime."
I drained half my blue drink for courage and followed him toward the stage, wondering what the hell I'd gotten myself into and why I was so fucking excited to find out.
The opening synth line of "Love Shack" exploded through the speakers, and I turned to stare at Evan with a mixture of horror and pure admiration.
"You absolute psychopath."
"Don't you dare back down now." He grabbed his microphone with the confidence of someone who'd been planning this ambush for weeks. "The B-52s don't sing themselves."
The crowd was already losing their minds. Someone wolf-whistled. I heard Hog's distinctive cackle from somewhere near the back, probably already pulling out his phone to document the occasion for future blackmail purposes.
"Fine." I took the microphone, rolling my shoulders in preparation for battle. "I'm doing the weird talking parts."
"That's obvious. I don't have the vocal range for Kate Pierson."
The first verse kicked in, and Evan started singing. Not well—his voice had roughly the same musical quality as someone reading a phone book—but with the kind of deadpan commitment that made it better than actual talent.
I jumped in on the call-and-response parts, being fully theatrical with it. I wrapped the microphone cord around my wrist, cocked my hip, and pointed at random people in the crowd with my free hand.
Suddenly, the clue was there. I shouted the spoken word, "Tin roof! Rusted!"
The entire bar sang along with the chorus. Badly. Loudly. Their drunken enthusiasm turned our performance into a religious experience.
I grabbed Evan's hand and spun him around, microphone cord tangling between us. He laughed and spun back into me hard enough that our shoulders collided.
"LOVE SHACK!" we belted together, our voices clashing and harmonizing equally.
Hog's voice boomed from the back: "THAT'S MY BEAUTIFUL BOYS!" I saw him holding up his phone, grinning like Christmas morning. "THIS IS GOING STRAIGHT TO THE GROUP CHAT!"
Evan was loosening up. He moved to the beat, not standing there like someone had stapled him to the floor. The way he looked at me when he sang—fuck. It wasn't performance. It wasn't karaoke camp or ironic distance. It was Evan Carter, looking at me like I was worth keeping.
I almost forgot my next cue.
