Chris Evans Imagines

Open Mic Night

Jerry's Coffee Shop was easily your favorite spot in town. You spent countless hours a week sat in a booth with schoolwork, though on weekends you came with novels stuffed in your bag instead. You stopped in so frequently, you became friendly with many of the servers there, including the owner himself. Jerry had no problem with your long and recurring drop-ins. In fact, he seemed to really enjoy having a frequent visitor to talk to, given that his only company at home was his border collie. Your friendship never extended beyond the confines of the coffee house, but inside was where the two of you shared all your best stories, making the location all the more homey. 

The night had begun to play out like any other. You were curled up in the corner of a booth, leaning against the window with your favorite book resting in your lap. You buried your nose in it a million times before, but each time felt like the first; always leaving you completely enthralled. You couldn't be bothered by the constant chatter of the cafe once your mind became lost, but you knew the peace wouldn't last long tonight. It was Friday, which meant it was open mic night at Jerry's.

Sure enough, by five o' clock, Jerry and a few others were setting up the sound equipment on the empty stage. You weren't sure if you were going to stick around this time, as you finally began to feel the impact of this week's classes take over. But the best part of living in New York City was all the talent that passed through the glass doors every weekend. You always enjoyed watching the performers lose themselves in their craft. Their infectious passion made you consider signing up several times, though you could never bring yourself to do it. You loved singing and playing your guitar in your free time, but just the idea of all those eyes watching you made your stomach turn.

You ultimately decided to stay and watch the volunteers. You recognized some of their faces from last week, though some were new. Each act was more impressive than the last, and you especially loved the cellist from New Jersey. You noticed closing time draw near, and you began to quietly gather your things when Jerry came up to the mic. You only half-listened as he announced the closing act, but your heart suddenly dropped to your stomach when you heard your name echo from the amps onstage.

You stood in the back, frozen with your bag in hand. The crowd began to collectively shift their gaze towards you as Jerry motioned for you to come forward. At this point, retreating back to your little corner was futile. You adjusted your sweater nervously as you headed toward the stage while shooting a glare at Jerry. You admitted to him a few weeks ago your passion for music, which now felt like a mistake on your part. You'd rather die than perform for a full house. 

Once you reached the front, Jerry grabbed your hand, pulling you forward. The smirk on his face made you tempted to punch him then and there.

"What are you doing? The music thing was supposed to be private!" You scolded the man. 

Several members of the audience chuckled at your comment. You were grateful that no one seemed to notice how truly nervous you were. 

"C'mon, (Y/n)! Let us hear something," He said, reaching for the guitar on the stand and holding it out to you, "Anything." 

The swarm of people began to cheer with encouragement. You felt a smile begin to form and you finally accepted the guitar from his hand. As you seated yourself atop of the stool, you felt your eyes skim through the audience. The majority seemed to be filled with young, excited faces, one standing out to you in particular. You seemed to catch the gentleman's eye as well, with the two of you sharing eye contact from across the room. He sat close to where you had been planted only moments ago, though somehow you failed to notice him until now.