Page 54 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

Stevie and Morgan both made themselves as tiny as possible, something Stevie was significantly better at than Morgan.

Emilia took the candlestick. Morgan groaned.

“‘I Want It That Way,’” Emilia said.

“Classic,” said Stormy.

“Springsteen’s classic,” Ivy said. “Backstreet Boys are peak millennial culture.”

“Hate to break it to you,” Lilian said, apparently recovered from Ivy’s onslaught of sex appeal, “but we’re about to be classics. We’re getting old.”

“Ancient,” Stevie added. “Too old to sing, certainly. Vocal cords all rusted.”

“Shut up, Stevie,” several people fondly said at once.

Emilia had also clearly watched music videos as a teen. Stevie leaned back and enjoyed her rendition as Emilia got into her boy band days.

“Who do you think she had a poster of?” Stevie whispered to Angie.

“The one who looks like a lesbian.”

“Does that narrow it down?”

After Emilia Stormy brought down the house with DNCE’s “Cake by the Ocean,” which she dedicated to the newly engaged couple, Lilian sweetly but predictably sang ‘Ivy’ by Taylor Swift, and then Angie was up. Stevie suddenly had a rush of sympathy for Morgan and Lilian.

“Whatcha singing, darling?” Stormy asked.

Angie stood and winked at Stevie, which was never a good sign, and accepted the mic from Lilian with a kiss to the cheek.

“’Pussy Is God.’”

“Come again?” Ivy asked.

“That’s what she said,” said Angie. “King Princess. It’s a song. You’ll see.”

Meanwhile, Stevie perished. This was not survivable.

Angie took a look at Stevie’s face and burst into laughter. “I’m kidding. I’ll sing that for you privately.”

Stevie impersonated a supernova. “Good news, folks. We can roast marshmallows on my cheeks now.”

“‘Dirty Little Secret,’” Angie said, taking the stand. “All- American Rejects.”

Stevie didn’t stop laughing the whole time Angie performed, her hair flying, her air guitar on point, her dignity a distant memory. When she finished, out of breath and a little sweaty, Stevie gave her a high five.

“You must have been an adorably angsty teen.” Stevie lifted the hair off Angie’s neck to help cool her.

“And you, my dirty little secret, have to sing now.”

Stevie dragged Morgan by the arm up to the fireplace.

“May I suggest,” she began, hoping against hope they would take pity on the group members incapable of carrying a tune, “‘How You Remind Me’ by Nickelback?”

“So that we beg you to stop?” Angie was far too sharp for Stevie’s own good. “I just want you to know that my vote was for ‘My Heart Will Go On’ but I was overruled.”

“It’s not a duet,” said Ivy. “For what it’s worth, I wanted *NSYNC but was also overruled.”

“Why?” Stevie let the whine enter her voice full force. “We like *NSYNC. We could do *NSYNC. It keeps with the basic millennial vibe. Please?”

“We were good to you. We chose two songs.” Stormy looked up from the laptop screen, though didn’t turn it around yet to reveal the songs in question. “One for your vocal range, and the other for us. You can choose which to start with.”

“Wait a minute. You mean we have to sing twice ?” Morgan said, horrified.

The others stared at them, unrelenting.

“Your options are ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy’ for which you will change cowboy to cowgirl and ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight’ in honor of the ridiculous amount of sapphic love I have found myself surrounded by.”

Stevie groaned, turning pleading eyes on Stormy.

“If you’re getting laid, you don’t get to argue with me as the only single member of this party. I call single privilege.”

“Is that a thing?” Stevie asked.

“You’re procrastinating,” said Angie. “Choose.”

“Morgan?” Stevie turned to her. “Your pick.”

“Fuck it. Lion King . But I get to be Simba.”

“Asshole.” Simba had a lower vocal range, which meant Stevie would have to sing the higher range and make a fool of herself.

“Let’s get this over with,” Morgan said with a glare at their rapt audience. Their friends beamed back, unperturbed.

Stevie clutched her stupid candlestick and prepared to lose her dignity.

The music started. She felt unaccountably nervous.

She’d hated singing in public ever since she’d been made fun of for it in the second grade, and while these people had all heard her belting tunes more times than any of them could count, this was different.

Her eyes sought Angie’s instinctively. Angie nodded encouragingly, her expression gentle.

This will be fun if you trust me that look said.

“Just like singing to the radio,” she murmured to Morgan.

“Minus the part where we could drive away. Do you want the warthog or the meerkat?”

“Warthog,” Stevie said quickly. Fewer lines. “Retribution for stealing Simba.”

Morgan’s first measures were more croak than song, but she cleared her throat, gave the group another withering glare and got into character. Stevie laughed in delight. Morgan put on a nasal accent that seemed to give her more courage, something Stevie took note of for her own performance.

Morgan’s Simba was as atrocious as predicted. Stevie tried to keep from cracking up, succeeding on the grounds that her Nala was destined to be ten times worse.

And it was. Oh, dear god, it was. The only thing worse was their harmony, which rivaled nails on a chalkboard. She put on her most serious face and leaned into the fake microphone to croon. When she made eye contact with the group, she waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

The lyrics, however, momentarily arrested her. A ridiculous Disney song but nonetheless a song about two lovers, one of whom feared his past would ruin his chances for a future with the person—lion?—he loved. A little close to home.

Pride flooded her suddenly as she looked at Angie. The music might be dumb, but Angie had overcome real obstacles to give Stevie what she wanted. What they both wanted.

What had Stevie had to overcome? Jealousy about Lana? Hardly comparable. Yes, she’d been as patient as she knew how to be, and she’d listened and tried to learn how to be a good partner to Angie, but she hadn’t had to wade through a painful past to get there.

Angie was laughing with the rest of their friends, but when Stevie caught her eye she smiled. It was a flashing, brilliant thing that dazzled Stevie’s eyes and threw her off her lyric.

She recovered; the smile, though, like most things about Angie, was fatal.

Was it enough to be there for another person even if you hadn’t suffered the same way? Did suffering demand an equal understanding or was Angie grateful that Stevie didn’t know what she’d been through beyond what Stevie’s imagination could conjure? Was it really enough to listen?

The last chorus popped up on the computer screen. Stevie and Morgan leaned toward each other, voices tangling instead of harmonizing, but Stevie thought she spied a flicker of a smile on Morgan’s lips.

“. . . is doomed.” The last word dragged.

Stevie added in a falsetto twist, eliciting winces and laughter from the audience.

She bowed as the note faded, then mimed a mic drop, which she did not follow through with as the candlestick seemed more than capable of denting the floor.

“Think twice before letting us up here again, motherfuckers.”

“Your dulcet tones are a delight.” Stormy jumped up to kiss each of them on the cheek. She smelled pleasantly of perfume and wine, and Stevie pretended to ward off her effusive praise.

“Be good to her,” Stormy whispered in her ear as she pulled away. “She loves you even if she’s an idiot about it.”

Stevie nodded, meeting Stormy’s sober eyes.

She forgot sometimes that other people put on fronts as well.

Stevie had her jokes, Angie used sex, Morgan hid behind stoicism, Ivy had her culture, Lilian used her bossiness, and Stormy wrapped her bustling need to feed and care for people around herself like a protective blanket.

Beneath, however, was a biting emotional intelligence that saw right through all their walls.

“I’ll take care of her,” she murmured.

“And let her take care of you .” Stormy tapped Stevie on the chest then turned to Ivy. “None of you are ready for my Marvin Gaye.”