Page 22 of For One Night Only

We’re back, babes!

7

Valerie

If the song choice hadn’t surprised me enough, the eyeliner stops me in my tracks.

Urban Decay Perversion, on top of tousled waves, and that electric presence that casts the whole room in neon—Caleb looks and sounds incredible. The original key of this song is at the top of his range, but his voice is sinfully sweet on the highest notes. I’ve missed every version of Caleb, but especially this one—free, fun, having the time of his life and making you feel like it’s the time of yours just because you’re witnessing his joy.

Now he’s waving me up there in the middle of a song.

It’s like I’m time traveling six years in the past—or hell,ten—to become the girl I was back then, the girl who sang with him. I’m even wearing a vintage T-shirt I stole from him years ago, and it’s become so integrated into my own wardrobe that I forgot where it came from until this very moment. The room is full of people recording, and this is going to get out…which I remember is exactly what I wanted. Caleb is throwing me a lifeline. The gesture feelsintimate, the first connection we’ve had in years, and I almost don’t want to let all of these people back in.

But performing is like improv—the only response to your partner can be “Yes, and…”

So I say yes. Jane’s already urging me up with a gentle push, and as I weave around the tables, the buzz of the crowd intensifies. The bar is hot, almost humid, and my feet keep sticking to the floor where beer has spilled, but I don’t let anything stop me until I reach him.

I smile shyly at Caleb from the base of the stage, but I’m not sure what to do. The chorus is almost over and I don’t see another microphone—are we supposed to share one shitty karaoke mic? But the emcee is paying close attention, and with a light of recognition in his eyes, he hurries up to plug in the second microphone, offering it to me like a gift.

Here we go. I climb up the steps to the stage and grab the mic for dear life. It’s cold and rough in my hands, the grille dented and scraped from years of misuse.

Caleb points to me and points up. Immediately recognizing the signal, I take melody on the next verse. Caleb layers an earnest harmony on top of my line, his eyes never leaving mine, and his voice is a delicious embrace, even on this cheap sound system in an unremarkable bar in Venice.

And then I remember it all over again.

No matter when or where we play together, it happens every time, this spark. The music we make is lightning across my skin, burning through my veins, igniting me from head to toe. Our hearts set the beat.

I don’t know if I can’t look away or if I just don’t want to.

But a whoop from the crowd shocks me back to my senses, and I tear my gaze from him. I face the room and wink; I toss my hair and sway my hips and lean into the high notes. I make it a show.

Because that’s all this is, for show. No matter how good this feels, I won’t fall for him again—on- or offstage.

This synchronicity is what was missing during rehearsal today.I couldn’t separate the intensity of it from my connection to Caleb offstage, but if we can just connect as musicians like this, that will be enough to make this work. Too quickly, the song ends, and as we each take a little bow, the crowd demands an encore.

The emcee comes up, begging us to honor that request. I squint at him through the harsh spotlight that’s hooked up too close to the stage, trying to survey the packed room. Where did all these people come from?

“What do you think?” Caleb murmurs. He’s all sweaty, face flushed, looking the way he did after his run this morning. But he’s also having fun. And still, he’s asking me what I want to do, the way he always did. Making sure we’re on the same page. Deferring to my comfort.

There’s so much hope in Caleb’s eyes that it just might break me. Something deep in my chest twists. Things have to be different this time—Ihave to be different. So I just nod, almost violently, and he leans into the microphone. “Do we have anyGreasefans in the house?”

I laugh. Fine, Caleb. We can play.

“You’re the One That I Want” cues up on the screen, but we don’t need the lyrics. This was our go-to karaoke song back in high school, when we were playing smelly pubs and crappy time slots and would find a random place to unwind after a show—usually the pizza joint near Riker’s house that was open super late. The arcade was full of broken games, but somehow the karaoke machine always worked.

As the tinny, generic version of the opening bars plays, I flip my hair and smirk, mouthingTell me about it, studto Caleb. He grins,then literally gyrates his hips, and I cackle as he turns to the audience, channeling Travolta.

But damn, my throat catches when he sings the first line. I always thought Caleb should have done Broadway, and I believe it even more tonight. He’s got the chops. Caleb slides up to the high notes like they were made for him, and I enjoy getting to hang out in my low register after singing all day. Still, my voice aches a little from fatigue, and I pull back, letting Caleb steal the show this time.

As I finish the second verse, he gestures up with his chin, urging me to join him on his microphone. Heat creeps up the back of my neck. Too many feelings are swirling in my gut and I’m afraid that if I get any closer to him, I’ll fall back into old habits entirely.

So instead, I turn to face the room and grip my microphone tighter as I belt the chorus out to everyone. To make it look intentional, I use the mic stand as a prop, making it sway with my body as I serenade the tableful of bachelorettes near the stage. They whoop at my efforts, and I blow them a kiss. I avoid looking at Caleb as we finish the song, but it doesn’t matter—the crowd is going completely bananas.

A crowd that has clearly doubled since I joined the stage. It’s standing room only now.

Breathless from the performance, I finally look at Caleb. My chest heaves, but I’m grinning—and his smile is completely gone. Instead of looking happy, his face has lost all color. He swallows thickly, glancing around the room.

Shit, he mouths to me, indicating the crowd with his eyes in a subtle way only I can understand, even after all this time. I can see by his wide eyes that he’s panicking, which is strange.

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