We’re at karaoke for some team-building event. I like to sing but not in front of people. It’s kind of my worst nightmare to be up on stage with people staring at me. I was ready to use my kid as an excuse to duck out early, but then Charles smiles at me and asks if I want a drink, his treat.
He doesn’t strike me as the karaoke type, but he is a team player so he gets up on stage and picks that R.E.M. song about the end of the world that is too fast to keep up with. I laugh as he stumbles over the words. If I’d chosen a song, it would have been the other one that was a hit when I was in high school, the one about Michael Stipe having a crush. I told myself what I felt for Charles was just a crush, but it’s been a year and it’s something more than a temporary distraction to fill my days at work.
Charles hops off the stage and puts his hand on my shoulder.
“You’re up, Lilly.”
“I don’t sing.”
“I heard you sing that time we drove together to that fundraiser. You sound great.”
Now he’s got both hands on my shoulders, like a coach offering a pep talk.
“Fine,” I say, and I flip through the binder with the list of songs.
I find one I know well, a slow, mellow tune, something obscure that most people won’t know.
The first notes to the “Ends of the Earth” by Lord Huron start to play and Charles smiles up at me like he might be willing to follow me there.
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