Leo orders us two Horny Pigs (sugary cocktails, apparently) and a plate of dumplings to share. I’m starved after our long day. Once I settle into the atmosphere, take a sip of my drink, and down a dumpling in a single bite, the hectic, anxiety-filled audition process drifts away. It’s just me and Leo looking at each other over a high-top table as the song shifts from “Shallow” to “All About That Bass.”
“Why here? Why karaoke?” I ask with my mouth still half-full. I’m surprised by how unselfconscious I am around Leo. With Buckley, I always sensed a pressing need to be buttoned up. Pluck. Groom. Smile. Chew quietly. Tread lightly. Leo is loud, unabashed, and I want some of that to rub off on me about as much as I want him to rub up on me and, ahem, that’s saying something.
The tiny straw in his cocktail becomes a toothpick dangling off the side of his mouth giving a bad boy air about him. “Because everybody’s tipsy, excited to be here, and nobody cares if you’re good. There’s no prizes, no competition, just good, old-fashioned fun.”
I glance over at the man up on the stage really working the crowd with the Meghan Trainor track. He does look like he’s having fun. “That could not be me.” I flush hot just thinking about how embarrassed I’d be.
“You can’t come to a karaoke bar and not sing.”
“You couldn’t pay me enough to get up there.”
“I couldn’t pay you anything because I’m unemployed, remember?” he says, a self-deprecating jab. “You stand in front of a class and dance. You’re going to be on live TV—”
“Mightbe going on live TV,” I correct.
“Semantics.” He winks, volume dropping low. “You showed off for me on FaceTime. You can’t be shy.”
“I—” I’m floundering for a response. While he’s right, how do I tell him that this Los Angeles me is new? Back in New York, I don’t think I’d have been so brash, so easily whisked away. Still with Buckley, I think this trip would’ve been regimented, planned by the minute with little room for deviation. I wouldn’t have stumbled into a dive bar where an elderly woman is now singing “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman” by Carole King, that’s for sure. “I think it’s you.”
Leo’s eyebrows furrow. “I don’t understand.”
“I think—” I dig deep for the nerve to be vulnerable about something other than Mom “—that you make me feel comfortable. There’s something...” The right word is a butterfly fluttering away from my net. “Uh, comforting about being around you?”
“Is that a question or a statement?” he asks.
“A statement.”
The compliment shifts his expression. His smile doesn’t even slightly resemble a smirk. It’s the most genuine smile I’ve ever seen from him. “Thank you. That means a lot. I feel comfortable around you, too. You’ve got an energy that I really like.”
“What kind of energy is that?” I cut the last dumpling up and offer him the bigger side.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he begins, biding his time by chewing.
“Nothing good comes after ‘Don’t take this the wrong way.’” I hide my face in my hands.
“It’s just...” He audibly swallows, and I peek between my fingers. His Adam’s apple bobs bringing attention to his long neck that had to have been made by a sculptor’s hand. “You’re sad. I can sense it, but that sadness has a strength to it.”
My heart rate picks up as I meet his eyes. Words fail to come as I process this poetry he’s just dropped on me.
He goes on when I fail to find coherence. “Most people who lost a parent so young and just ended an almost four-year relationship would be pretending to be fine. I think there’s power in being sad and still getting out of bed every day, still going on a vacation to Los Angeles to maybe audition for a TV game show.”
“Power or stupidity?” I ask, shirking his attempt at really deep connection. Wasn’t coming here a bid at fineness? The whole plane ride I watched movies, drank diet sodas, and shut out the world, fantasized about leaving the hurt in the airport drop-off lane.
Leo grabs my hands, waits until I face him again to continue speaking. “It’s power, Holden. You can’t work through something if you repress it.” He pauses for a second, tilting his head as if he’s straining to hear someone else’s conversation. Mulling something over, maybe. Then, he snaps back. “All I’m saying is, it’s cool that you feel your feelings. There’s no guessing with you. If you’re sad, you say you’re sad. If you’re horny, you say you’re horny. Makes getting to know you easy and fun.”
I’m touched by Leo’s words. He’s looking at me with a fantastic openness that thrills me. I wish we could body swap just for a second, so I could see me the way he says he does. Since Mom passed, I’ve largely cast myself as the boy who lost his mom right before graduation. Then, I took on the role of Buckley’s boyfriend. I hinged my identity on others, decided I knew how people regarded me before giving people a chance to get to know me. The me underneath the miseries.
Maybe Leo’s right. Maybe all that grief and heartbreak allowed me to shed the worry that my interests are silly and my emotions are wrong. How could I ever be wrong when I madethisright choice: agreeing to fake date Leo?
“Let’s do a duet,” I say brazenly, unable to properly thank him for his kind words that nearly brought tears to my eyes. I’ll sing those words instead, and I know just the song to do it with.
“I’m down. What song?” I’m sure he’s got many go-tos.
I borrow his smirk, play it coy for the fun of it. “Can I surprise you?”
He lounges back in his chair. “Be my guest, but I’m notoriously hard to surprise.”
When I go up to the booth, a white man with a bun on the top of his head and cushiony gold headphones wrapped around the back, hands me a binder not dissimilar to the one Leo handed me on the first day I arrived with all the restaurants in it. The song selections are listed alphabetically by artist so I flip to theL’s and there among the track titles is the song of my heart, the one that I know will excite Leo the most.
