Page 28 of A Storybook Wedding

“Finally!” I clap. I take him by the hand and pull him inside, through a crowd of singers and dancers, directly into a sauna. Not kidding. It’s balls hot in this place. The venue is deceptively large, with multiple rooms inside. In the corner of the first room, which is where “Havana” is coming from, I see a pair of DJs. I make a beeline through the crowd for them, almost losing Nate in the process. A beautiful drag queen decked out in glitter is the soulful voice behind Camila’s ode to Cuba.

I wave one of the DJs down to me. I fish through my pocket and place some bills in his hand. “Can I please go next?” I beg.

He eyeballs the money in his palm. I’m not sure how much I gave him, but it must be enough, because he nods and hands me a Post-it note and a pen. “Write your name and your song here,” he hollers in my ear.

I scribble on the yellow sticky and hand it to the DJ before looking back at Nate, raising my eyebrows. “So fun!” I yell. He’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have, I think. Maybe this is what happens when you discover your true passion.

The singer finishes up, and the DJ waves to let me know it’s my turn. He reads my chicken scratch through his microphone, and I am empowered. “Next up, we’ve got CJ and Pen with their rendition of this Ne-Yo classic. Where all my independent ladies at?”

The crowd roars, estrogen pulsing through the throngs of bodies undulating on the dance floor. Gripping Nate’s hand, I use superhuman strength to pull him up onto the stage, where I see a screen toward the floor with a fuchsia background and white words scrolling. The stage is completely empty except for a random drum set, and Holy cow, that’s a lot of lights. I squint while grabbing the microphone out of its little cradle holder, and I stretch my arm out to position it between me and Nate. The music begins, and I’m off to the races. Look at all these people! I think as I begin to wave my free hand back and forth while two-stepping for the first set of eight counts. Nate stands to the side of me, his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. His formerly bemused expression has developed into one of complete bewilderment—as in, What the fuck is happening right now and how did it come to this? Yet before I can orchestrate a presentation about the effects of high-quality alcohol on an extreme lightweight who indulges maybe once a year, my mouth takes off on a journey all its own. “Ooh it’s somethin’ about, just somethin’ about the way she moves,” I sing. “I can’t figure it out. It’s somethin’ about her.” You got this, Cecily. Work those pipes.

Nate studies my face as if he’s surprised that I can sing. He’s smiling at me but is silent, so I keep the mic in my hand and begin to work the stage around him as if he is my prop.

“Said, ooh, it’s somethin’ about the kind of woman that want you but don’t need you,” I croon, doing my best to walk sexy in a circle around Nate, the heat of the lights making me squint and throwing me a bit off-kilter. “I can’t figure it out; it’s somethin’ about her,” I go on. The crowd is happy with my music selection—everyone loves “Miss Independent”—and I give exactly zero fucks about what I look like or whether I am city-ish enough because really, I am a writer now, and writers don’t do stage fright. The song is my story now. The lyrics are my prose. I give Nate Ellis my best come hither look and I. Sing. It. My hips pop out: first the left, then the right, and I boldly run my forefinger down Nate’s body from his chest to his navel as I continue. “’Cause she walk like a boss, talk like a boss, manicured nails to set the pedicure off. She’s fly effortlessly…” I close my eyes, feeling the moment, singing the rest of the lyric by heart. I don’t need a prompter; this was one of my favorite songs growing up. It’s like Ne-Yo’s silky smooth voice is one with my soul, and I dig deep to channel his cute-hat-wearing hotness and spin it into my own personal brand of swagger.

At the split second of anticipation before the chorus sets in, with my eyes still closed, I prepare my body to use my diaphragm to belt out the words that come next. The crowd must be with me because all of a sudden, there is cheering—like real loud cheering and what sounds like the rushed movement of bodies on the dance floor before me. I inhale all of their energy deep into my soul and expunge it into the microphone: “She’s got her own thing, that’s why I love her. Miss Independent, won’t you come and spend a little time?” The crowd is going absolutely wild. I mean, I know I can carry a tune, but it’s not exactly American Idol up here, and it’s in this moment that I realize there are some new sounds harmonizing with me.

The drums, for one thing.

And What the hell? What is that other sound? It sounds like a buzzing nasal sound, reminiscent of one of my musical toys from the library. It’s almost like a—

I open my eyes and turn to look at Nate, but he’s still standing to the side, only now his hand is actually covering his mouth in what looks like very real shock.

So I look behind us to the drum set.

I must be drunk, because I’m definitely hallucinating.

Is that Questlove? As in, the Questlove from The Roots crew on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon? The producer—the DJ—the famous author Questlove?

Is he backing me up on drums? Is this real? Is that a fucking kazoo in his mouth?

My eyes do this thing where they threaten to excuse themselves from my face permanently—like they bug out so far that I am very likely straining my ocular muscles, and my jaw drops to my chest.

“Miss Independent, ooh the way we shine,” I sing off key, stupefied by this new development.

In pure confusion, I turn back to look at Nate, whose face (which I can only describe as terrorized if gleeful) confirms that yes, that is Ahmir fucking Questlove Thompson, and he is smoothly grooving on the drum set behind me.

Kazooing.

I am going to die.

There’s a man with a camera in the audience directly in line with Questlove—like, a real camera, none of this iPhone bullshit—although it stands to mention that there are also now literally hundreds of iPhones being hastily taken out and held up by the crowd in front of us. I have the world’s fastest come-to-Jesus moment. This is happening. Questlove and I are performing this karaoke number together.

But wait. This isn’t okay. I can’t leave Nate just standing there looking like he drank a bottle of lamesauce. He has to join me! As the second verse begins, I sexy-walk-dance over to him with a look on my face that lets him know yes, this is very much a situation, and we are here for all of it, whether he likes it or not. I plunge the microphone at him with determination, and he takes it from me, possibly because my forceful handoff looks a bit like I might be readying myself to punch him in the mouth. Nate remains mute, limply holding the microphone as I rip off my jacket and toss it to the back of the stage, and now the crowd cheers because they undoubtedly think that the nerdy girl hanging out with Questlove from the Roots is about to embark on a wintertime striptease.

“C’mon!” I say to Nate with a hysterical grin. I grab the mic back with one hand and pull him up to the front of the stage with the other. We’ve somehow only missed two lines of the song, but Quest has carried our team like an ace with his kazoo. Nate almost trips over his own feet, but by the time we rejoin Questlove, we are both upright, bouncing to the beat of this glorious feminist anthem. At the next chorus, Nate and I dance into each other (naturally, I choose this exact moment to try twerking for the very first time) while we cry out together, “She’s got her own thing, that’s why I love her!” and it is next-level magic with Quest on percussion and killing it with that damn kazoo. A Thanksgiving miracle. Take a picture, folks. Cecily Jane Allerton is winning at life.

Adrenaline and alcohol swirl like dreams down the toilet as I hit every note of Ne-Yo’s bridge. Alongside these two fantasy men (What? I’m still human. I can have sexual fantasies about whoever I want, thank you very much!), I crescendo through the peak of the song and back into the last set of choruses, and I am overcome. This is my best day ever. I am a writer with a completed manuscript who immersed herself so deeply in the literary world today that she got rewarded like a boss with a karaoke number featuring not one but two New York Times bestselling authors.

I manifest success all around me.

I am the shit!

The final lines of the song are muffled by the screams of the crowd in front of us, and in a moment of delirium, I turn toward Nate. He’s laughing—open, hearty laughs that feel like the warm welcome of an old friend. His smile is incredulous. I can’t imagine that this is the same guy from my workshop, the same guy who had to defend his own seminar in the throes of Alice Devereaux’s attempted humiliation, the same guy who puked in a bucket in the bed across from mine only months ago. I’ve seen him brooding, busy, thoughtful, and even sick, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen him really happy.

It’s because of me! Look at all that I am capable of!

I throw my arms around Nate’s neck and plant a giant kiss right on his mouth. The crowd cheers even louder.

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