Page 67 of Business or Pleasure

“And with good reason,” Krishanu puts in.

Finn’s gaze is still hard on mine. Insistent.

“Fine,” I relent. “But you’re going first.”

Krishanu flexes his hands behind his head as Finn gets up and heads toward the stage. “This’ll be good.”

With that, I expect Finn to have the voice of an angel, or at least, like, Art Garfunkel. But when he steps up to the microphone, throws us a wink, and starts singing “Come On Eileen,” I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing, though Krishanu and Derek don’t even try to hide it. Because Krishanu was right: Finnegan Walsh is a dreadful singer, and he knows it.

And he doesn’t seem to care.

He cradles the microphone like it’s a precious, delicate thing, before whipping it off the stand and strutting across the stage. He’s all in on this song, the audience singing along with him.

I lean across the table to Krishanu, thinking back to what Finn’s mom said about his dining-table performances. “Was he always like this?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. One-on-one, sure, he could be pretty animated. But most of the time when we were kids, he’d be a thousand times more likely to have his head in a book than onstage. It’s been such a trip, watching him become this completely different person.” Then he considers this for a moment, takes a sip of beer. “Although every time he’s back here, it’s like he never left. So maybe he hasn’t changed that much—not in the ways that matter, at least.”

“How so?”

“He’s not someone who opens up very easily,” Krishanu explains. “He’s always kept his private life very private. So the fact that he’s doing it with you, letting you see this side of himself...”

“It’s for the book.” I’m almost surprised by how defensive the words sound, especially after that eyebrow quirk Krishanu gave Finn. The one Finn was so quick to shut down.

Krishanu and Derek exchange an odd glance, the kind honed by couples who’ve been together long enough to communicate without a single word. “Right.”

Now Finn’s dragging the mic stand across the stage, flicking his hair back, belting the chorus. The audience sings along with him.

He makes eye contact with me. My thoughts, I confess, verge on dirty. Come on, Eileen.

A shiver runs through me.

I like this side of him.

I might like it a lot.

The audience goes wild, and Finn dramatically collapses back into the booth, as though the performance simply took all the energy out of him. His hair is askew, body warm. I’m both desperate to get out of the booth and curious what would happen if I inched closer.

No, no, no, I remind myself, trying to forget about his DayQuil-induced confession. Besides, even if he did have a crush, it’s very possible it’s faded by now. Just because I spent years swooning over Wyatt doesn’t mean Finn’s feelings aren’t mercurial.

And crush is such an innocent word, isn’t it? It doesn’t have to mean that he spends all his free time thinking about me. It could simply mean that he finds me attractive, which I already know from the time we’ve spent in bed.

So really, maybe it wasn’t a revelation at all.

“Remember, you asked for this,” I tell Finn as I head toward the stage, gripping the microphone with trembling hands.

The last thing I’m expecting when the chords of the Dandy Warhols’ “Bohemian Like You” start—they’re from Portland, I have range—is for my table to let out a whoop. It emboldens me, makes my voice come out slightly less shaky than I’m anticipating.

It’s not a difficult song, easy enough for my limited vocal range, aside from what I realize is quite an absurd number of woo-ooh-oohs, which my voice cracks on at first. I white-knuckle the microphone, watching Finn and his friends. His eyes barely leave mine, except for when he leans across the table to say something to Krishanu and Derek. When I nail the second chorus, his mouth quirks upward, and it gives me even more confidence.

When I return to the table and he lassos me for a hug, I’m unsure why my heart is thumping faster than it did while I was onstage.

I down a few sips of beer as the notes of a Frank Sinatra song start up, and when the elderly man onstage opens his mouth, the whole bar goes quiet.

“Holy shit,” Krishanu says, because the guy is good. “Putting us all to shame.”

Finn holds out his hand, and it takes me an extra second to realize he’s holding it out to me. “This feels like the kind of song we can’t not dance to.”

All around us, that’s what people are doing, including Krishanu and Derek. So I give Finn my hand and let him lead me to the dance floor.

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