“Ryder!”
“Would you relax?” He puts his hand on the small of my back — giving me heart palpitations to contend with on top of the panic attack I’m experiencing — and leads me toward a pair of stools. His mouth drops to my ear and I shiver as his warm whisper hits my skin. “We aren’t in public. Half of these people won’t even remember we were here once we walk out that door. This is the perfect time to try it.”
“But—”
“Come on, chickenshit.”
“I can’t.”
“Youcan. For her.”
“But—”
“Felicity.” He sits me down on the stool. “What’s the worst that can happen? You freeze? You choke?You won’t.And even if you did… I’m right here with you. You aren’t doing this alone.”
I hesitate, wavering as our eyes lock. As much as I’m nervous… there’s a small part of me that wonders what it would be like. Singing in public. Singing with him.
What’s the worst that can happen?
You aren’t doing this alone.
Wrapping his words around my heart like a security blanket, I exhale sharply and give a tiny nod of acquiescence. “Fine. I’ll do it… for her.”
The flare of victory in his eyes makes my heart seize up. “Good. What are we singing?”
I slide a hand though my hair as I run through a mental checklist of Gran’s all-time favorites. The ones she used to play on her old turntable when I was too little to understand why the nice lady from social services said I couldn’t live at my house for a while. Those years — when we’d dance around her screened-in porch and she’d serenade me with all the classics — were the best of my childhood and the last of my innocence.
A brief, bright spot in the darkness.
The eye of the storm.
“Hey, Bethany,” I call, waiting for her to look up and meet my eyes. “Johnny and June or George and Tammy?”
“As if that’s even a question!” She snorts indelicately into her meatloaf. “Great balls of fire, girlie, who raised you?”
You did.I wish you remembered that, Gran.
I blink back tears and force a smile as I look over at Ryder. His eyes are simmering with sympathy.
“Johnny and June, of course,” I murmur.
He nods. “Ring of Fire?”
The lyrics tumble through my mind in a blur. The thought of standing here singing is bad enough; singingthatsong… with him… about burning up beneath my wild desire…
“Um.” I swallow. “I was thinking something a bit more lively — we could doJackson. That’s a fun one.”
Thoughts swirl behind his eyes as he considers my suggestion. “Didn’t they do a cover of Bob Dylan’sIt Ain’t Me Babe? Why don’t we do that one instead? I know the chords better.”
“Sure,” I agree on autopilot, too nervous to argue over song selection. My hands are shaking, so I tuck them beneath my thighs and focus on his foot as it starts tapping rhythmically against the hardwood floor, marking the tempo. The room goes silent as his fingers strum the first chord. I keep my eyes fixed on Gran’s face, to remind myself why I’m doing this. Her smile is wider than it’s been all day.
For her. I’m doing this for her.
Ryder comes in on the first verse, singing Johnny’s lines perfectly. Every woman in the audience, from the nurses to the octogenarians, melts as his deep, rasping voice rolls out through the air.
“I’m not the one you want, babe. I’m not the one you need…”
When he hits the chorus, I take a big gulp of oxygen and join in, adding my voice to his. He shoots me an encouraging grin as we start to sing in unison. At first, I’m worried I’ll sound like a mouse — my alto squeaking pitifully alongside his strong baritone. To my great surprise, the opposite happens. His voice somehow strengthens mine, propping it up on a platform for all to hear. My notes sound clearer, crisper than they ever have when I’m singing by myself in my small room above the The Nightingale.