that do we pull ourselves together and walk over to the sports bar. When Rickie and I stroll in holding hands, someone is just finishing up a Cindy Lauper song on the little stage, and everyone starts clapping.
Since it’s an August Wednesday, and this is a college bar, the place is only half full. It makes it easy to spot the public health crew at a large table along the wall. Jenn and Karim wave us over. They’re accompanied by two graduate students I've met at work.
“You made it!” Jenn says, clearly surprised.
“Sorry we’re late, we had a few things to take care of.” Rickie says this with a straight face, and I hope I’m not blushing. My fingers find the daphnia pendant at my neck and worry it.
Maybe all the clichés are true, but I feel like a new person after spending an hour or so in Rickie’s bed. It’s not just that I am more relaxed than I’ve been in a long time. Maybe ever.
But I also feel like we’re a team. And I’ve never had that before—this sense that I’m building a strong bond with someone. Rickie and I know each other’s secrets. We’ve seen each other’s pain.
Until now, I didn’t understand why that was sexy. I would have thought the opposite was true. Who wants to share pain and misfortune?
Me, apparently. When Rickie got angry today, I just wanted to soothe him. Because I’ve been angry, too. And he deserves better. So I told him—with my body. And he listened.
Now he pulls out a chair for me, and his hand on my lower back is more than just a caress. It’s an acknowledgment. Of us.
“Here guys,” Karim says, pushing slips of paper toward us. “Write down what you're singing.”
Rickie grabs a menu. “This requires some thought. And probably some french fries.”
“Yeah, okay. But if you need a partner for a duet, I'm your man,” Karim says to Rickie.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rickie says, grinning. His hand slides onto my knee. “What are you singing?”
“Nothing.”
“Hey,” Karim complains. “Everybody sings.”
He’s winding up to say more when the DJ interrupts with an announcement. “The next singer is Karim. And Jenn is on deck.”
Karim slides out of his chair. “Pick a song,” he insists as he goes.
“I’ll help you pick,” Jenn says. She slides a stack of laminated lists toward us. It’s held together by a metal ring. “I’m working my way through Whitney Houston’s repertoire.”
“You probably have a great voice.”
“Nope!” she says gleefully. “Whitney is probably turning over in her grave. But it’s fun.” She turns her attention to Karim, and the first bars of his song play as he grips the mic.
“I don't sing,” I whisper to Rickie. “At least not in front of coworkers.”
“Daphne,” he says, his rich voice right in my ear. “You’re not supposed to sound amazing. It's a bonding experience. The point is to show your soft, off-key underbelly to your colleagues, so they know you’re human.”
I know he's right, but I still don't want to.
“What if we did a duet?” Rickie offers. “You can pick the song.”
“Really?”
“Sure.” He pulls one of the paper slips toward himself. “I’ll do one by myself, too. What the hell.”
On the stage, Karim starts to sing. The song is “Father Figure” by George Michael. It starts off kind of low and whispery. And he sounds competent enough.
But then it rises in pitch and tension, and he nails every note. Rickie leans forward in his chair. “Wow, right?”
“Wow,” I agree.
“He’s our ringer,” Jenn says. “And he has a thing for George Michael. If you don’t know what to pick, just put him down for a duet on ‘Freedom’ and be done with it. Everything sounds good with Karim.”
Rickie nudges me under the table. “I want to sing with you.”
“You do?”
“Totally. Although I suppose we could have a threesome.”
I actually giggle. “Just the two of us is plenty. I’ll pick something.”
“Anything,” he says, kissing my cheek as Karim croons into the mic.
“What if you don’t know the song?”
“I’ll fake it.” He shrugs. “Want a four-cheese bacon burger and fries? That’s what I’m getting.”
“Yes, please.”
He flags down the waitress while I scan the karaoke list like there will be a test later. What would Rickie sing with me?
My eye stops on a particular song. It’s one that I know he knows.
Hmm.
Karim finishes the song with a flourish, and we all cheer loudly.
“Come on, Shipley,” Karim says when he returns to the table, flushed with victory. “Pick a song.”