Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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I'm in a karaoke bar. A freaking karaoke bar. On a Saturday night. It's wall-to-wall people—cocktails, shots, dark wooden booths bursting with patrons, high-tops crammed with couples and friend groups—and every single person is watching a curvy blonde writhe through "Buttons" by The Pussycat Dolls. I don't know what Greyson's plan is, but if he makes me get onstage and sing, I'll die.
"Which song should we choose?" he asks, flipping through a binder of laminated pages like it's a sacred text. "Don't Go Breaking My Heart? Endless Love? Nah. How about Start of Something New from High School Musical? I'm feeling that range. Oh! The one from the Fifty Shades movie—T-Swift and Zayn! I can totally hit the high notes." He sticks his finger in his ear and unleashes the highest falsetto I've ever heard from a grown man.
I snatch the book and snap it shut. "We don't need to pick a song because we're not singing."
"Of course we are." He plucks it back, already flipping again. "Help me pick a duet."
"No. I'm not going up there."
"Yes, you are."
"No, I'm not."
He closes the book with a thud, crossing his arms. "And pray tell, why not?"
"Because I'm not getting onstage in front of a room full of strangers to face complete humiliation. What if I pee my pants? And also—singing! I can't sing!" My stomach rolls as I picture it. "Social media exists, Greyson. I'll be the girl all over TikTok who can't sing and wet herself at karaoke. It'll be in the cloud forever—family, friends, future employers. I'll never get a job, I'll—"
"Okay. Breathe, you lunatic." He cups my face, squeezing my cheeks together until my words mush. "You're not going to pee yourself or go viral, and do you know why? Because I'm going up there with you. I'd never let you make a fool of yourself alone. That's way too much fun." His grin softens. "And honestly, I'd never pass up the chance to act like an idiot just to make you laugh. Look around. Do you know any of these people?"
I shake my head.
"Do their opinions matter?"
Another shake.
"When it's over, do you think you'll remember this as scary... or as fun?" he asks.
"Both," I mumble through pinched lips.
"I'll accept that." He lets go of my face and presses the binder back into my hands. "Now. Pick a song."
His eyes are bright and playful, cheeks flushed with excitement, that dimple carved deep. This isn't just something he wants to do; it's something he wants me to do. Face my fear. Carpe diem, or whatever. Alone I'd never consider it, but with Greyson beside me, maybe I can.
"Fine," I say, half-hearted. "But I'm going to need a few shots first."
One tequila, two Jamesons, and another pep talk later, he heads off to tell the DJ our choice while I shuffle toward the stage, each step like dragging ten-pound weights. My vision tunnels. The tiny platform might as well be the Microsoft Arena stage.
