Page 69 of Hate You, Maybe
“Well, I’d offer to be your partner,” Tori says, “But I don’t want Sayla to think I’m jumping in on her territory.”
“Whose territory?” Caroline asks, appearing next to us.
“Oh, just the pharmaceutical bros,” Tori says, darting her gaze to me. “They were telling us about their big new sales territories earlier. Kind of bragging, honestly. Right, Dex?” Tori widens her eyes, letting me in on her ruse.
Clearly, she hasn’t said anything to Caroline about Sayla and me being a couple. A pretend couple, but still. Tori doesn’t know that. So her loyalty is noted. I almost feel bad about her buying into our story so readily. Then again, I didn’t mind the excuse to cozy up to Sayla on the hike.
“You and Caroline should be a pair,” I say. “You’re roommates.”
“I would, but Chad already asked me,” Caroline says. “It’s fine. You two go on ahead.”
Once everyone’s paired up, Hildy and Bob instruct us to settle onto one of the many benches that run along the walls of the room. Tori and I take a seat on the nearest bench, across the room from Sayla and Hogan.
“Do you have any idea what this mystery activity is?” Tori asks.
“Zero.” I’m just glad it’s probably not horseback riding. In pairs. Inside.
Bob taps the mic. “All right, folks,” he booms at us. “We’re going to play a little Camp Reboot trivia, so I hope you all have been paying attention, getting to know each other whileyou’re here. Part of being a good employee and collaborator is listening. Prioritizing details. Now you’ll get the chance now to prove how well you’ve done at that, without knowing you were supposed to.”
From across the room, Sayla grins at me. “I told you,” she mouths, pumping her fist, anticipating victory. She looks so excited and proud of herself, I can’t do anything but enjoy the moment for her.
Hildy moves around the room, handing each couple a blank answer sheet and a pencil, then she proceeds to emcee the trivia game. It’s basically a whole list of very specific questions about all thirty of the retreat guests. Stuff like where we’re originally from. Who we work for. What our “interesting fact” was. Tori and I remember only about half the answers. But Sayla and Hogan crush it.
And by that, I mean Sayla crushes it.
I’ve witnessed her memory and I saw the notes she took. I highly doubt Hogan was that prepared. Either way, their team scores a perfect one hundred percent. Bob dubs them the king and queen of trivia, then he sends everyone to the mess hall for dinner. As the winners, Sayla and Hogan get first dibs at the buffet. Caroline and Chad came in second place, so they go next.
Tori and I end up toward the end of the line.
After dinner, our final activity of the night is karaoke, and we don’t even have to leave the dining hall. The kitchen crew makes quick work of clearing out one half of the room to accommodate a temporary stage. Bob dims the regular lights, and a disco ball descends from the ceiling, splashing a chaotic show on every surface. Flanking the stage are a couple of speakers. In the center is a podium with a screen with scrolling lyrics and three different microphones. For group singing in public.
Shudder.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m used to putting myself out there in front of a crowd, giving every athletic performance my all. But singing? No way. Nope. My voice is nothing short of tragic. I couldn’t carry a tune if you gave me handles.
I might almost rather go horseback riding.
Even as an audience member, I sometimes get secondhand embarrassment when a person tries too hard at karaoke. If they’re vocally talented, that’s one thing. But when their voice cracks or they can’t hit a high note, or they’re just extremely sincere with a corny song, I die a little on their behalf. So I hang in the back of the room, away from the group. I don’t want to be coerced onto the stage. And I definitely don’t want anyone to catch me cringing.
Fortunately, the first to go up on the stage are the pharmaceutical guys, and they aren’t taking this seriously. They screech “I Gotta Feeling” by Black Eyed Peas with plenty of missed cues, wrong words, and feedback from the microphone. This paves the way for everyone else tonothave to be good.
Sayla and the nurses sing “Firework” by Katie Perry. Half of them are off-key, but they’re also awesome. And yes, fun.
Tori and Caroline hit the stage to sing—you guessed it— “Sweet Caroline.” Pretty much everyone joins in with the BOM BOM BOMs. Even I get caught up because you have to be heartless not to enjoy “Sweet Caroline.”
Bob and Hildy step up next to perform a duet of “Summer Lovin” fromGrease. They cast moony eyes at each other, and sway back and forth, almost like they’re flirting. Their performance is … amusing. And I get the feeling there might be more going on with those two than they’ve let on. Not that it’s any of my business.
Hogan hops onto the stage after them, and grabs a mic. I kick back in my chair, one leg crossed over my knee, waitingfor what song he’s chosen. I’m laying mental bets on him being one of those serious crooners who bellows something by John Legend or Ed Sheeran. But when the music starts, he hops off the stage and drags his mic over to Sayla.
She’s seated on a nearby bench. He takes her hand, pulls her to her feet, and launches into “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling.” I saw Tom Cruise do this exact thing in the oldTop Gunmovie once. And I gotta be honest. I’ve lost all my love for this, too.
Hogan sings to her like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment, and she gives her head a little shake. She might be laughing, but I can’t tell for sure. Either way, she’s got her free palm pressed to her cheek, which is something I’ve noticed she does when she’s blushing.
This could mean she’s enjoying the attention. Or maybe she’s nervous and uncomfortable, but unsure how to react. Midway through the song, she breaks eye contact, her gaze searching the room. Is she looking for me?
What do you want me to do, Sayla?
That’s when Hogan reaches the part that has him claiming he’ll get down on his knees for her. And he does. By that, I mean Hogan literally takes a knee. On the floor of the mess hall.
