Page 45 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“But possible.”

“Evan’s not gonna get an eyeful of my super-amazing, super-dedicated new boyfriend if we go to the Italian place,” I say, and draw a deep breath. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I don’t mind repeating I am not going to sing with you about five hundred times and drinking my weight in gin and tonics.”

Silas is giving me an odd, sideways look as he undoes his seatbelt, letting it zip and knock back into place. It’s been days since we kissed on the desk in my office and I’ve mostly talked myself into forgetting about it, but that look makes me… less forgetful.

“As long as you’re sure,” he says.

At last, something occurs to me.

“Right. As long as you’re sure,” I say, remembering that I should at least ask about the man’s opinions and boundaries. “You don’t hate karaoke, do you?”

That gets a laugh and a grin as he opens his car door, takes his hand from mine, and I’m oddly conscious of letting the outside world in.

“Fuck no,” he says, grin still on his mouth, halfway out of the car. “Kat, I love karaoke.”

* * *

“Come on!”shouts Melissa, leaning across the table between us as she flips through the worn, stained book of available karaoke songs. “Dinesh and Lucas and Steve are gonna sing Lady Gaga! Ooh, they have Dixie Chicks! You could do Goodbye Earl.”

I tighten my grip around the empty gin and tonic glass, the condensation dripping over my fingers. It was my third of the night, and it didn’t help nearly as much as I wanted it to.

“No thanks!” I say, leaning in so she can hear me. “I don’t want to sing!”

“How about some oldies? They’ve got Destiny’s Child!”

“No thanks,” I manage. Destiny’s Child? Oldies?

“Okay, okay,” she goes on. I hold my glass up to my mouth, desperate for the last few drops of gin, because while Melissa nervously sits up straighter at her desk every time she sees me in the office, I can’t make her stop talking about songs I should sing.

“Lizzo?” she offers. “What about—”

“I got you another one,” Silas says, sliding into the seat next to me.

“Thank you,” I say, and I give him a look that I can only hope isn’t desperate as I push up my glasses. Then I grab the new drink and gulp.

“Stevie Nicks?” Melissa asks me.

“I don’t sing!” I practically shout, and Melissa gives me a look that she probably thinks is conspiratorial.

Silas leans in, elbows on the wooden table.

“How about you?” he asks. “You know what you’re gonna sing next?”

Melissa moves a curl off her forehead with one graceless hand—I’m not the only one who’s had a couple—and keeps flipping through the book.

“I can’t decide,” she tells Silas. “Is it better to sing something classic, that everyone will know, or something really fun and new? Do I want a song song that I’ll really have to sing or a song that I can just get away with?”

Silas nods thoughtfully as though he understands the nuances of the question.

“How’s your voice?” he asks. “Are you a good singer, or do you rely more on enthusiasm?”

Melissa considers this very seriously.

“About fifty-fifty,” she says. “I can carry a tune, but I’m no Beyoncé.”

“Probably err on the side of caution, then,” he says.

They keep talking karaoke, but I stop listening. I focus on the far wall, trying to get my heart to beat less. My skin feels heated. I’m positive my face is bright red—thanks, Asian glow—but it doesn’t matter tonight because I’m sitting in the back of a bar, watching other people sing, and that is all.