Weekend Friend

16.

IT DOESN'T FAZE me that Tatum Wolff is an effortlessly good singer. In fact, I bet he's one of those people who are infuriatingly good at everything under the sun – much like Ryley Lawson.

However, it's one thing to be good at singing when you're in the shower or in the car with the windows rolled down, but it's a completely different thing when you're on stage with people watching and judging you with phones in their hands. And by the time we're at the first verse of Lady Gaga's Bad Romance, he's already charmed the crowd. They're staring up at him with the kind of adoration and appreciation that makes my cheeks prickle.

At first, I try to avoid looking at Tatum. It feels easier to sing to a crowd than to him. And so I pretend I'm an up-and-coming popstar, ideally serving a cute but casual look in my pleated white skirt and purple Claremont crop top, and focus on the people in front of us.

Our friends are easy to spot, having forced their way to the front of the cluster that's formed around the stage. Unsurprisingly, Sydney and Corinne are both filming us. When my eyes land on Parker, I do my best to glare daggers as I sing. I'm still reeling from her Oscar worthy performance that resulted in Tatum and I on this stage.

You know that I want you

And you know that I need you

I want it bad, your bad romance

Parker returns my eye-daggers and jerks her head to where Tatum's standing, at the edge of my periphery. Evidently, it's not lost on her that I'm avoiding Tatum even when he's literally right next to me, and her awareness is what prompts me to finally embrace my fate. Because at this point, what do I have to lose? I'm already singing Bad Romance with him in the most popular bar on campus.

So I turn towards Tatum just as the chorus picks up, and reach out an arm like I'm actually longing for him.

I want your love, and I want your revenge

You and me could write a bad romance (oh-oh-oh-oh-oh)

I want your love and all your lover's revenge

You and me could write a bad romance

The lights in the bar are dim, so the voltage of Tatum's smile is nearly blinding. We're in this now. There's no half-assing to be had.

This is my Troy and Gabriella moment, without all the snow and naiveté.

Tatum and I sing to each other for the remainder of the song, fully embracing the dramatic lyrics. While I'm grateful that I've had a few drinks, I want to remember every second of our silly little duet because this is pure, uninhibited fun. And even though we're far from the only two people in this room, there's something unreservedly intimate about the way we're holding each other's gaze.

When the song ends, and our friends are giving the Claremont cheer squad a run for their scholarship money, Tatum delicately takes my hand and we sink into an exaggerated bow. His touch is unsurprisingly soft and the contact sends an electric current up my arm. But then he lets go, and I try to remember how to breathe as I follow him down the little staircase.

Sydney is the first to greet us, mussing Tatum's blond hair the way a proud father would after his kid's youth soccer game. "You guys were fucking fantastic! Now who wants to sing with me?"

"I'm sure you could talk Corinne into it," I manage to say, albeit breathlessly. My heart is racing alongside my mind. I can't believe I just sang Bad Romance with Tatum Wolff...and enjoyed it.

Tatum ducks out from under Sydney's embrace and extends a hand. "Give me your phone. Give me phone right fucking now."

Sydney's eyes widen, but any trace of surprise vanishes when he flashes us a diabolical grin. "Never!" He shouts as he turns on his heel and charges into the crowd.