Tuesday karaoke became one of our routines. This introvert does love to sing. Desi would indulge me, sometimes singing along. I’m no Pavarotti, but I’m okay.
My sweet Desi, though…
Oof. He could set off car alarms and make dogs howl. Not the worse I’ve ever heard, but definitely not the best, either.
But he’d do it for me, because he saw how much fun I had. He’d let me drink too much and enjoy myself before driving me home and pouring me into our bed, where he’d hold me while I sang myself to sleep in his arms.
Why wasn’t I good enough?
I try to snip that line of thinking at the source, yet it’s difficult not to let my mind meander down those dark and twisted back roads.
A year before Desi moved permanently, he was offered a junior partnership at a major firm, where they guaranteed he’d make over five hundred grand a year. One of the senior partners was friends with his mom, I guess. My heart broke a little as I told him I wouldn’t stop him, that we could make it work, and he took me up on my agreement and stayed with his parents when in Miami. First, he would come home for three-day weekends. Which then became a couple of times a month.
Then he bought a condo in Miami and permanently moved back there once he took the bar in New York and passed it there, too. They were sending him up there several times a month.
He insisted we could still make things work between us, that people made long-distance relationships work all the time.
But I knew. I knew the day he packed the rest of his stuff and drove out of town three years ago that it was only a matter of time before the inevitable end came, even if he kept wanting to try to make this work.
My sweet guy hoped to convince me to follow him, I know he did. That’s why when we were together, his phone stayed off and he kept his attention focused totally on me while he wined and dined me and showed me all the sights.
There’s no way I’d walk away from my business, though. Or my town. Maudlin Falls is in my soul and I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else. I’ve never had dreams of “escaping” and living elsewhere. He grew up in Miami. I know that’s an entirely different world, not just a different state.
But escaping this place never held any lure for me.
I’m content helping my friends and living my quiet life. New movies dropping on Netflix and whatever Jester’s next fixation happens to be are my big excitement.
The longer I sit here this evening, the more I realize I’m only going to make myself miserable. I head up to Colley to do some shopping there. Not that I don’t like shopping at the Pig in town—although it hasn’t been an actual Piggly Wiggly in years, but we all still call it that—but I don’t want to see familiar faces.
Yes, I might be checking my cell phone way too often for any missed calls or texts from Desi.
It’s after six when I return home and still no call from Desi.
Anger tries to creep in but my grief and loneliness drown it out. He’s busy, I’m sure. He’s never not called me back when he’s promised to call me.
But if I sit here tonight and do nothing but wait for his call, I know it’s not good for me.
The book club is absolutely out of the question. I don’t need all of them staring at me, obviously biting back their questions or hoping their sympathy isn’t too visible.
Then I remember what else I can do—every Tuesday night, the Falls Inn holds karaoke. They make decent burgers, and I can have a couple of beers while I keep myself distracted.
With that settled, I scoop Jester’s litter box and go take a shower. At least I won’t be “alone” for most of the evening.
* * * *
I haven’t been here to sing karaoke in over a year, at least. It’s moderately busy tonight, and being closer to Webley and Sarcan than it is to Maudlin Falls means that there are fewer friends here tonight. I recognize at least half of the people by face if nothing else, but no one who, even if they did hear the rumor, know me well enough to be bold enough to ask me about it.
Thank goodness.
I settle in at a small table in a corner and order a burger, fries, and a beer to start with. Then I grab one of the binders of song lists and a notepad and start picking out my favorites. I go for fun showtunes and songs I can really lose myself in, making sure I stay away from any rock ballads or love songs that will most likely put me over the edge.
Definitely don’t want to be one of the sloppy drunks crying on stage tonight.
I’ve already sang my first number when my order comes out. Deanna, my waitress, smiles and holds out her palm. “Hand them over, please. Phil’s orders, you know that. You can check in with him before you’re ready to leave.”
Chuckling, I dig into my pocket, pull out the keys to my truck, and hand them over. If someone comes alone and doesn’t have a specified designated driver, Phil confiscates keys and makes you prove to him you’re sober enough to drive and reclaim your keys. Otherwise, you have to be driven home by a sober patron, or call for a rideshare. If you can’t drive, your car is safe there in his parking lot until you can come get it the next day. Or else you can pay a couple of dollars for one of the wait staff to bring it to you.
He used to have two of his sons work tag-team to drive patrons home, the younger one following in his own car to ferry the older brother back, but they graduated college and moved away.
