“My feelings are best buried deep and repressed.”
But Zoe’s already raising her hand, and the DJ is pointing at our table. “Looks like we have a volunteer. The sad little rag doll in the corner!”
“I will murder you inyour sleep,” I hiss as the crowd chants, “Doll! Doll! Doll!”
“You’ll thank me later.” She shoves me toward the small stage. “Pick something emotional. Let it all out.”
Somehow, I end up on stage, microphone in hand, scrolling through song options while the crowd cheers. And then I see it—Celine Dion’s “All By Myself.” It’s so on-the-nose it’s almost a parody, but three Witch’s Brew-hahas have obliterated my judgment.
The opening notes fill the bar, and I close my eyes, swaying slightly.
My voice cracks on the second verse, a warbling, off-key disaster that makes several people near the stage wince. But I push on, building to the chorus with all the subtlety of a bulldozer.
Then I belt out the chorus, definitely not wanting to be all by myself, one hand clutching my heart, the other reaching dramatically toward the ceiling.
I’m dimly aware that I’m making a spectacle of myself, that my makeup is running in black streaks down my cheeks, and that my wig is slipping sideways. But at this moment, I don’t care. The alcohol and the music and the raw emotion of the past few days converge into a perfect storm.
I throw everything I have into the final chorus, closing my eyes and picturing Brooks’ face as he told me to go to LA, as he all but pushed me out the door. The note I attempt is so far beyond my range it might as well be in another solar system, but I hold it anyway, voice cracking and wobbling like a dying hyena.
When I finally open my eyes, the bar is silent. For one horrifying moment, I think they’re about to boo me off stage. Then someone starts clapping, then another, and suddenly the whole place erupts in applause and whistles.
“That was... something,” the DJ says, taking the microphone back with what looks like relief. “Give it up for Raggedy Ann!”
I stumble off the stage, face burning, only to trip over my own floppy costume shoes. I go down hard, arms windmilling, landing flat on my back with a thud that knocks the wind out of me. The crowd roars again, this time with laughter.
Zoe helps me up, barely containing her laughter. “That was the most glorious thing I’ve ever witnessed.” She steers me toward the bar where the DJ is holding out a cheap plastic trophy.
“I hate you,” I mutter, accepting the trophy with as much dignity as a drunken, literal raggedy doll can muster.
“No, you don’t,” she says. “You love me so hard.”
She’s right, and we both know it.
An hour later, we’re stumbling through the bar to leave, arm in arm, my wig more askew and Zoe’s cat ears somehow turned backward on her head.
“You know what the worst part is?” I stop to say, my voice slurring. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this without him.”
“Do what? Live? Breathe? Go to LA and kick ass at your dream job?” Zoe turns to face me. “Sydney Holt, you are the strongest, most independent woman I know. You’ve been handling your life just fine before Brooks Kingston came along, and you’ll handle it just fine after he’s gone.”
“But what if he was right to push me away?” The question that’s been gnawing at me for days finally escapes because I’m too drunk to hold it in. “Jonah said Brooks had some horrible secret. Something that would make me walk away if I knew.”
Zoe frowns, her whiskers crinkling. “Did Jonah tell you what it was?”
“No. Said it wasn’t his to tell.”
“Well, I saw you two together, and that manlooked at you like you hung the moon, Syd. And that was before this whole fake relationship thing started.”
“You think?”
“I know. And the way he was with you these past three weeks? No one’s that good an actor, not even for his dying grandmother. Which I’m so glad she’s notactuallydying, by the way.”
I laugh despite myself, the sound watery and thin. “God, what a mess. And now I’m headed to LA for this interview, my dream job, hello, and he’s cleared to play hockey again, so our fake relationship had to end, anyway. I know it’s probably for the—”
I freeze mid-sentence, spotting a familiar figure sitting at the end of the bar, very close to us. Donny Dexter, his blond hair unmistakable even in the dim light. How long has he been there? How much did he hear?
“What?” Zoe follows my gaze. “Oh, great. Dickhead Donny.”
“If he heard me talking about LA...” I whisper, panic slicing through my alcohol haze.
