Kiki looked surprised, but shrugged. “Sure—everyone will probably thank you for it. What’s the song?”
John had looked up from tuning his guitar, taking an interest in the last-minute change. “Normally Vance over there is staunchly anti-Bieber, but I’m sure we could convince him to play ‘Mistletoe’ if you wanted.”
His smile was kind, letting her know that he was trying to make light of the incident earlier.
The guy who must be Vance handed her a microphone, which she took, and a lyric book, which she refused with a shake of her head. “？‘Blue Christmas’？” she said. “Do you guys know that one?”
John’s eyes sparked with something like amusement. “Elvis? Of course.”
He leaned back to tell the bassist and drummer the song, then played the first jangling notes of the melody. He looped them one more time, giving her a nod, and she realized she’d completely missed her cue.
When she finally started singing, the first couple lines came out shaky, the wobble in her voice horrifyingly loud through the microphone even though she knew she was barely above a whisper. This had been a terrible idea. She’d never done karaoke in her life, so what would make her decide to start now, with a live band behind her, all her coworkers in the audience?
From the sidelines, Kiki gave her a big, cheesy thumbs-up, tilting back another sip of punch. Well, that was certainly one answer. How much rum had Lauren consumed tonight? At least two hundred percent more than she normally would’ve.
The other answer was moving through the crowd, and the way her head was spinning, she couldn’t tell if he was headed toward her or away. Asa. She’d seen him about to leave, and she’d wanted to stop him. Lauren gripped the microphone tighter and closed her eyes, willing her voice to come out stronger.
She swayed side to side with the music, her eyes still squeezed shut. She knew she sang a couple too many blues at the end of the second part of the song, punctuating each one by hitting her clenched fist against her thigh. Then it was the instrumental part, and her eyes flew open, blinking against the sudden light and all the people staring at her.
Including Asa, right there in the front row.
He had an expression on his face she wasn’t sure she’d seen before, or knew how to read. The word that flashed through her mind was sad, but surely her singing wasn’t that terrible. Was it?
This was her issue with most Christmas movies, books, songs, whatever. Either they were depressing as hell—“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” for example, made her feel nostalgic and tender from the first line. Or they were ostensibly happy, about the importance of family and togetherness during the season, and that only made her feel more alone than ever.
“Blue Christmas,” in retrospect, had been a real mistake in this fragile mood she was in, and now she was supposed to sing the third verse. But instead she wanted to hug Asa so bad it was a physical ache. To hold him, and be held by him.
She started toward him before a burst of feedback from the microphone sent her stumbling back. John leaned over to her, still playing his guitar. “You okay?” he asked.
She tried to nod but had no idea if her head made the right movement. Suddenly, she felt so tired. She sat down cross-legged on the ground, bringing the microphone back up to her mouth. “Nobody drink the punch,” she said. “It is very, very strong. You’d be better off drinking antifreeze.”
Asa was above her from this vantage point, backlit by the overhead fluorescent lights, so she couldn’t see his expression anymore. Probably for the best, considering that last time she’d checked he’d been looking at her like she was the most tragic person he’d ever seen.
She gestured in his general direction, fumbling the microphone to her other hand. “Which I have now! Thanks, Asa. You never know when your car might overheat.”
John moved toward her again, and she waved him away, not wanting him to cut her off just yet. “This place is so special,” she said. “It really is. Let’s give it up for Dolores, everybody!”
At first, the applause was faint and uncertain, but eventually people were clapping in earnest, a few whoops and cheers coming from the back. Lauren felt oddly powerful, that she’d been able to summon a reaction like that all by herself. She joined in the clapping, the sound a dull thud reverberating through the microphone.
“And you’re all like a family,” she continued. “Like a big, caring family . . . that’s how it looks from down here, anyway. I’m not really good with families, so I wouldn’t know. There’s one of those things—what are they called, the I’m not a robot tests—and I keep clicking all the wrong pictures. What’s a traffic light? I can’t get in until I select every last one.”