Page 63 of The Doctor's Truth

“For a teenager.”

“For anyone.”

There’s that smile, a little of Kenzi’s old mischief trickling back in. “Hey,” she says, “thank you for my present.”

“Good, huh?”

She smiles. A secret smile that makes my blood rush.

“Very,” she says.

“Good. Now I know what to get for White Elephant next year.”

She laughs at that. All at once, it hits me in the chest—Jason wasn’t the only one waiting on pins and needles for her to show up. I’m glad she’s here.

“Kenzi!” Jason finishes his set and practically barrels through the crowd to get to her. Her back goes stiff when he approaches, and he comes to a halt in front of her, hair slightly mussed from his performance, big, dopey grin on his mouth. He took off his shirt during the performance, and now it hangs in his hand. His muscles practically glisten with the light sweat. “Fuck, you look good,” he says, which is when I realize I wish I’d told her that.

“Thanks,” she says. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. I can tell she’s trying to look anywhere but his bare chest.

“Is Otto here?”

“He had a long day. Went to bed early.”

“What’s the saying? When the mice are asleep or something?” He waves over Maria. “Let me get you a drink.”

She taps her glass. “Already got one.”

“That’s cool. Maria! Shots! Please and thank you.”

He’s a ball of energy, a Labrador with a tennis ball. I’ve never seen him trip over his feet to impress a girl before. I rein him in when Maria pours all three of us tequila shots. Already, my liver hurts, but I take it anyway. “C’mon. Let’s toast.”

“What are we drinking to?” Kenzi asks. “The new year?”

“And the old years,” Jason responds.

“The return of the muskrats,” I say, and they both agree to that with a “hear, hear” as the three of us clink glasses.

33

Jason

Now that Kenzi is here, the New Year’s party is in full swing.

I redress. We drink. We catch up. We laugh.

It feels fucking fantastic to have her here.

I try to convince her to get onstage, but she shies away from it, and Donovan says he’ll only go up if they let him sing Blink-182’s “Happy Holidays, You Bastard.” They will not.

Upon Kenzi’s second drink, however, she says she’ll “look” at the set list. I see her eyes light up at a song.

“Do it,” I say. “Whatever it is. Just do it.”

She bites her lip. “Fuck it,” she says and then puts her name down.

I’ve never heard Kenzi sing before. But, as it turns out, she slays Fiona Apple’s “Criminal.” She laughs nervously at first, but by the second bridge, she’s closed her eyes and melted into the song. She cradles the microphone like a pop star and shimmies her shoulders to the beat.

It’s beautiful to watch her blossom. I’m completely, irrevocably charmed. I howl in support when she ends, and Donovan wolf whistles.

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