Page 10 of Wish You Would

“No.” He shook his head, still laughing. “Not at all.”

I folded my arms across my chest and stared. He laughed harder.

“Vaughn.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes and then folded them in front of him. “It’s just, I don’t know how you found the single most clumsy person in all of Port Agnes.”

“Oh, they’re not only clumsy,” I said, fighting a smile of my own. “They’re also awful at making drinks. And serving. And, apparently, operating a mop bucket?”

Vaughn snorted. I didn’t bother glaring this time. “What are they good at, then?” he asked, and it was a fair question.

“When I find out, I’ll let you know.” I glance back toward the kitchen. “Maybe Dante would be willing to take them under his wing?”

“He did say he and Steph are trying for a baby. Could be good practice for parenthood.”

At that, I laughed. “I’ll pitch the idea tonight.”

“You let me know how that goes.” Vaughn flipped his book back open and put his glasses back on.

“Will do.” I reclaimed my pencil and turned my focus back to the schedule.

We settled back into our quiet bubble of co-work for a while, only the sounds of pages turning, pencil scribbles, and the occasional crash or bang from the back interrupting the peace. As I was punching in numbers on my phone’s calculator to budget hours, a text from Halle flashed across the top of screen.

Question, it read. Any interest in singing for PM? Like, permanently?

A jolt shot through my gut. PM, as in Patti Mayonnaise. Patti Mayonnaise, as in the band. Would I be interested in singing with Patti Mayonnaise, the band? Was she shitting me?

I opened the message. What? I typed back, heart pounding in my head. Why? What about Jas?

Navigating back to the calculator, I tried to get back to work. But my focus was shot. Singing for PM just kept replaying in my mind. I could barely remember the last time I performed. Definitely didn’t know it would be my last time. The thought of stepping onstage again set my heart to a gallop. My pencil dropped to the counter as I picked my phone up again, watching as Halle typed her reply.

It doesn’t matter, I told myself. I can’t do it. I had a job. Responsibilities. None of which included singing for a band that traveled all around the tri-state area, and was sometimes on the road for months at a time. My place was here. Literally. Right in this very spot in this very bar. I couldn’t—

My phone buzzed in my hand. I almost dropped it. Vaughn glanced up. I pressed my lips together in a sort-of smile, then turned my focus to the screen.

Quit, Halle said. No notice or anything.

Yikes.

My thumbs hovered over the letters as I pondered a response. But Halle wasn’t done.

Holding auditions this week, but thought I’d ask you first. You’d be a great fit.

Pride swirled around my chest, mingling with the cold reality of my current situation. Halle and I used to perform together back in high school. It’d be so cool to do it again. And with a band as good as Patti Mayonnaise? Electricity danced along my spine as I let myself picture it. I could almost feel the stage lights on my skin. The—

“Everything all right?”

I looked up to find my brother watching me, concern in his dark eyes. I swiped away from Halle’s messages and back to the calculator. “Yep.” I forced the oxygen from my lungs in a quick breath and reached for an assuring smile. “All’s good.”

He narrowed his eyes. I smiled harder. Then, reaching over, I turned his book so I could read the title. “Walden, eh? How you liking it?”

Vaughn looked at the book in question and shrugged a shoulder. “Another old book by a self-important white dude,” he said. “Looking forward to getting to more interesting works.”

I studied his face as he said it. There was a happiness that wasn’t there when I came home nearly a year ago. A contentment. And, sure, that could be because of his hot girlfriend. But maybe it was more. “You’re enjoying it, though, right?” I asked, whirling the book back in his direction. “The whole college thing?”

His thumb traced along the edge of the hardcover, mulling over his answer. Some part of me, some selfish, childish part of me, wanted him to say no. Wanted him to say he missed the bar. Missed running the place. Wanted to take back the reins.

And I hated me for it.

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