Page 131 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
The track kicks in and I immediately want to die. “Call Me Maybe.” Of course. All hearts and flowers, the thing I’d rather eat glass than sing.
“I hate you,” I tell Juliet as the opening notes play.
“Sing the damn song,” she mutters back.
We stumble through the first verse with nothing but sarcasm and rolled eyes, and I’m pretty sure we sound nothing like the original. But then something shifts. I lean closer, put my mouth to her mic so our voices blend, and suddenly it doesn’t feel so terrible.
The team’s going crazy, shouting encouragement and probably recording everything for future blackmail. But I’m not really paying attention to them anymore. I’m watching Juliet, the way she’s getting into it despite herself, the way her eyes light up when she hits a note just right.
I catch our reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar and see what everyone else sees. A real couple, touching, singing together, grinning like idiots. Is that really how we look to other people?
Juliet’s flushed red, biting her lip between lines. For once, I don’t bother hiding how much I’m enjoying myself. Because the truth is, I am enjoying myself. More than I had in a long time.
When the song ends, the room explodes in cheers and wolf whistles. Someone shouts “get a room!” from the back, which gets a round of laughter.
Without thinking, I pull Juliet close and kiss her, dipping her back like we’re in some cheesy movie. The crowd goes wild, and when I straighten us up, she’s staring at me with wide eyes and flushed cheeks.
“What was that for?” she asks as I guide her off the stage.
I lean close enough that only she can hear me. “Because you looked like you needed kissing.”
She stumbles slightly, her pulse kicking against her throat. I have to bite back a grin. Two can play this game.
Back at our table, the guys are still giving us shit, making exaggerated kissing noises and being as mature as a pack of twelve-year-olds. But I don’t care. I’m too busy watching Juliet try to compose herself. The way she keeps touching her lips like she can still feel my kiss is making my stomach knot up.
“Not bad, Huxley,” Thorne says, raising his beer. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
“Apparently so is your girl.”
There it is again.Your girl. I should correct him, remind him this is all fake, but the words stick in my throat.
Because sitting here, watching Juliet laugh at something Ivy’s saying, still flushed from our performance, I’m thinking maybe it doesn’t feel so fake anymore.
Maybe it hasn’t felt fake for a while.
“You’re staring,” Silas observes, appearing at my elbow.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re definitely staring. And smiling. It’s disturbing.”
“Shut up.”
He just shrugs and goes back to his beer, but I catch him watching me with that knowing look he gets when he thinks he’s figured something out.
The night continues with more performances, each one somehow worse and better than the last. Jett attempts rap and fails spectacularly. Three rookies do a group number that sounds like cats being murdered. Ivy forces Wren into a solo that actually makes people cry.
Through it all, Juliet stays close, taking pictures and videos, laughing at the worst performances and cheering for the good ones. She fits in with this group in a way that surprises me, like she’s always been part of it.
“Having fun yet?” she asks during a brief lull in the chaos.
“It’s tolerable.”
“High praise from Hunter Huxley.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
