Page 220 of Accidental Husband

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"Still."

"It's everything you hate about this genre of music."

He points to the screen. A countdown flashes. Four, three, two—"Sing with me or don't." He picks up the other mic. Steps onto the table in the middle of the room. Offers me his hand.

I take it.

Okay, I'm standing on a table in the middle of a crowded room, surrounded by a dozen of our closest friends, and I'm singing my favorite song.

No, he's singing my favorite song.

I'm—

Fuck, I have to do this.

Maybe I can't yellI love youin front of the entire room. Maybe I can't tell him I don't trust him to react calmly about my cutting. Or about the appointment with divorce attorneys. Or—

Maybe I suck at communicating.

But I can stand in front of people and sing.

I can.

Deep breath.

On three.

One, two, three—

I jump in at the third line of the verse.

My eyes open. They go straight to the TV screen flashing lyrics. I don't need the reminder—I know this song like the back of my hand—but it helps having a focus.

My cheeks flame. My chest heaves. My stomach flutters.

But, still, I get through the verse.

I launch into the chorus.

Griff squeezes my hand. He looks around the room. Motioning to friends. Gestures something.

He turns to me. Pulls me closer. Sings his heart out.

He's not technically proficient—neither of us is—but he's there, in the moment, pouring emotion into every word.

I try to get there. To meet him.

My heart races. My breath hitches. My legs wobble.

But I do it. I sing with as much feeling as I can muster. Through the next verse and chorus, through the breakdown, through the outro.

I sing my heart out.

Then I step off the stage, hand the mic to someone, take a seat next to Griff.

Sadly, it's not the end of the attention.

Dean is climbing on the table (is this a thing we're doing?), serenading us withLet's Stay Together.

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