Page 87 of Three Bossy Boyfriends
“What’s happening?” Mike asks, looking confused. But he does cut the music off.
I hand him a slip of paper. “Put this on instead.”
Then I look out at the crowd, making sure I have everyone’s attention. I clearly do. Some looked annoyed the music cut off. Others are just bewildered. “That was our past,” I tell everyone in the bar. “See, I was an asshole in high school.”
“It’s true!” Diggs yells out.
A bunch of people laugh. I lock eyes with Finley. “I was an asshole to Finley, and probably to other people too. I want to apologize again for that.”
Finley sips her drink through the straw and watches me, skepticism splashed across her face.
She is unimpressed with my speech so far.
Maybe I should have stuck with what I was singing and left it at that, but she asked for a love song.
“But this next song, my real song that I’m dedicating to her, is because even then, all those years ago, Finley was special. She stood out, not just because she wore black hoodies when it was eighty-five degrees, but because she knew who she was, without apology, and without fear. She stood up for herself, and for others, and she has a fire inside her that has only grown as she’s matured. She’s fucking amazing, honestly.”
Finley sets her drink down with a hard thunk and is…glaring at me?
I’m not sure why she looks angry, but she does.
Does she think I’m bullshitting her?
I’m not. Everything I’ve said so far is the fucking truth.
But maybe she wants me to be sappier.
I decide to really lay it on thick.
“So amazing that I can’t live without her. I wake up every morning thinking about her, and she’s the last thought I have as I fall asleep. She’s intelligent and funny and damn, is she sexy, and I want the whole fucking world to know that I love her.”
What astonishes me more than my willingness to publicly humiliate myself is that the words don’t feel…wrong exactly. Which is insane. I do not love Finley Anderson.
I want to fuck Finley Anderson.
I have a healthy dose of respect for Finley Anderson.
And yet…it kind of feels easy to say all of that, and I’m not even drunk.
There are murmurs in the bar, and my friends are in various states of disbelief. Cliff is moving toward me like he’s going to use a giant hook to drag my ass off of the stage.
I have to keep going. There’s no other option. I’ve somehow been Finley’d yet again, and I think I might have done it to myself. “I fucking love this girl just the way she is, and I want her to know that everything about her is amazing.”
When I give Mike a nod, he starts the music and I begin to warble my way through a Bruno Mars song.
Finley picks her drink back up, walks right up to me and yanks the mic out of my hand. “Let’s hear it for Tucker, everyone, a round of applause!”
The audience cheers and claps.
She hands the mic to the emcee and looks up at me, her expression unreadable. “Don’t quit your day job.”
Then she walks away.
Confused, I follow her. Yet again, I’m trailing after her.
Jesus.
She walks right out the front door.
