“Thanks!” she calls.
In the living room, Willowdean and Ellen are standing on the coffee table in T-shirts and underwear; Willowdean’s readsTuesdayon the butt. She’s a little bit of a mess, but I feel seen, to be honest. “Two doors down, we’re laughing and drinking and having a party,” they sing.
Tucker waves me over to where he sits on the floor. Hannah and Clem sit beside him on the couch, squeezed onto one cushion. “I like your sister,” he says.
“I like your... friend,” Clem says.
I narrow my gaze, but she keeps bopping her head along to the music.
My fingers are splayed out on the carpet between me and Tucker, and I watch from the corner of my eye as he inches his hand closer.
The song finishes, and Alex takes the microphone from Willowdean and Ellen.
“Awww, come on!” they say. “One more.”
“I fear those two have discovered karaoke for the firsttime,” says Hannah, “and now there’s no going back.”
“I love the legendary Dolly Parton as much as anyone, but that was your third song in a row. Time to pass the mic,” Alex says.
Before the words are even out of his mouth, Kyle yanks the microphone away from him. “Me, me, me, me!”
My spine goes ramrod straight as I feel Tucker loop his pinkie finger over mine.
I want to look. I want to see what our nearly intertwined fingers look like together, but I’m scared that if I even breathe, he’ll move.
Kyle takes the coffee-table stage, kicking his mom’s basket of potpourri to the side, and breaks into a very passionate rendition of Taylor Swift’s “You Need to Calm Down,” which is honestly pretty edgy for him and I’m a little bit impressed.
Before long, the living room is shouting along with him, and when the song ends, he lets himself free-fall onto the couch, where Clem and Alex catch him. And all the while, Tucker’s pinkie finger stays right where it is.
“Who’s next?” Alex asks from underneath Kyle.
“Pumpkin!” screams Kyle.
Immediately, I want to duck into his mom’s silk robe like a turtle, and on top of that I don’t want this moment with Tucker to be over.
“Yes!” chimes in Clem.
Tucker nudges me, his pinkie leaving mine. “Say yes.”
I shake my head.
“You could get up there and sing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ rightnow and this whole house would go nuts. That’s how drunk everyone is,” he says.
“Yeah, everyone else is drunk,” I say. “The problem is I’m not.”
“It’s perfect,” he says. “You’ll be epic to everyone either way.”
I look at him, the word on the tip of my tongue.
“Say it,” he urges.
“Yes,” I blurt before I can change my mind.
Kyle howls and throws the mic at me, which I catch, but barely. I check the songbook and go with a song I feel deep down in my bones.
I hike one foot up on the coffee table, testing its stability. It’s solid, but it’s also probably never had to hold a six-foot-three, three-hundred-plus-pound person before.
There’s a moment of quiet while I’m waiting for the song to start and I’m forced to look at everyone staring back up at me. I don’t have the benefit of being under a spotlight in a dark bar.
