by Julie Olivia
“Come on.” She swings her arm around my waist. “Let’s go watch some bad karaoke.”
35
Ian
Eight months ago
What have I completed on my last day of work at Treasures Inc.? Let me think: I played air hockey in the warehouse, I stole freezer food from an anonymous employee because the fish sticks were too tempting (and who cares if I take a two-hour lunch?), I annoyed Grace in her office until she kicked me out, and I scoured the building looking for Nia until I realized she wasn’t here.
It felt odd that she conducted my exit interview yesterday. Generally, she’s very active on an employee’s last day, but not today. Not with me.
I sit in the break room later, surrounded by co-workers; I can’t recall half of their names. I’ve been here almost nine years, and the staff has drastically changed with our spike in growth the past year. Veterans left for bigger and better things, and the only people I really know anymore are Grace and Nia.
Grace carries a small cake to the round table, nine candles lit to signify my years here. They all sing a rendition of “Happy Birthday,” except they’ve replaced it with “Happy Last Day.” I laugh as they all expect from me, but it’s all wrong. None of it feels like a proper exit. Not without Nia.
We pass out the cake, with Grace cutting the pieces. A scowl rests on her face. I’m sure she has work to do, but she’s trying her best to be a good sport, just like me.
“Hey, so where is Nia?” I ask. I force a chuckle, like it doesn’t really matter and isn’t driving me insane, but with her raised eyebrow and smirk lifting the corner of her mouth, I can tell she knows me better than that.
“She took the day off,” she says, shoveling another piece onto a paper plate. “Gary, this is your last piece.” She hands it to the plump man in the corner who looks like a child being denied his lollipop.
“Weird,” I say, just low enough so people can’t eavesdrop. “She normally makes a big deal out of last days.”
“For real.” Grace’s eyes grow wide, letting out an exhalation. “If she were here, I wouldn’t be doing this stupid cake-cutting job.”
“Hey, it’s my party.”
“Yeah, and you’re fully capable of using a knife too.”
“Did she say why she isn’t here?” I ask, trying to maintain a nonchalant manner, but it’s not working. I feel betrayed. Even with our ups and downs, she’s been my constant at this company. If only she knew she was the reason I’m leaving in the first place.
“Nah, just needed a day, I guess.”
I can see through Grace, or maybe I’m just projecting my own insecurities that Nia is definitely absent because it’s my last day and she’s finally done with my shit.
“Don’t feel too bad,” Grace says, walking to the sink to wash the knife as people slowly leave.
“No, I feel absolutely stellar,” I comment flatly. My tone is laced with sarcasm, but I can’t help it. Today was going to be the day I filled her in on my not-so-secret secret. Nia needs to know I’m leaving for her. We argue, sure, but I want to finally try for something more. I’d argue with her forever if I could. She’s the only woman I want, and now we’re no longer co-workers. The barriers are gone. We’re free, able to do whatever we like.
Whatever we like… If only she knew. If only she would have me.
“Well, she’ll be a bridesmaid in my wedding, you know.”
“That’s eight months away,” I say.
“Okay, grumpy Gus, I’m just saying. You’ll at least see her again.”
“Well, there’s that.”
She waves the dripping knife at me. “Hey, my wedding gift to you is a second chance.”
“Shouldn’t I be gifting you something?”
“Nah, I’m good.” She winks and wipes the knife down before putting it back in drawer.
Grace and Cameron’s wedding.
I’ll see Nia then, and I will let her know.
Because she has to know.
I won’t stop until it’s crystal clear.
36
Ian
Present day
I’ve heard every song under the sun tonight.
“Don’t Stop Believing.” Classic. “Sweet Caroline.” Sure, I can join in with that. “Livin’ la Vida Loca.” Totally on board.
I would generally jump in with karaoke, but I’m a bit drained from the week.
Wes is singing “Ring of Fire” and pointing to various people in the crowd as if signaling that the song is dedicated solely to them. I’m wondering if he really understands the meaning of the song when I smell the familiar scent of lavender.
Nia appears in front of me, and heat rises to my face as my body tenses. I don’t know what to think anymore.
“Hi, Nia,” Ramona says from beside me, but when I give her the side-eye, she turns around to order a drink—and probably to pretend she isn’t listening. At that, Corinne mimics the movement. It’s just me and Nia, facing each other like some cowboy showdown with two women hunched over the bar like two stone gargoyles.
“We need to talk,” she states, and it isn’t a question. It’s funny how she thinks she can just show up and demand to speak with me, as if I’m malleable enough to bend to her will. Normally, I would be, but I still don’t know what to think about any of this. Maybe I just need time. Maybe I still don’t believe her. Maybe I don’t want to take the risk either way.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Please,” she says. Her eyebrows tilt downward, concern plastered on her face. Sure, I want her—bad. I can’t just turn that switch off, but everything still feels so raw.
“No,” is all I get out, hoping to go back to bad karaoke but probably damning myself to more psychologist talk from Ramona. I don’t care. “I don’t want to listen. Sorry.”
Nia grits her teeth behind closed lips, and her jaw grinds from side to side before she finally nods. “Fine. Fine.” With one last look, she walks off, taking her cool, comforting scent with her.
“Well, that wasn’t awkward,” Ramona mumbles, turning back around with eyes wide, rolling her tongue to drag the tiny straw in her drink to her mouth.
Corinne turns back around and says nothing, which is probably smart on her part.
Wes’s rendition of Johnny Cash ends. He gives a low bow, pulling his arm into his chest and waving to the crowd as if he’s just waiting for a bouquet to be thrown to him. With the way Ramona suddenly bursts into clapping and whooping, I’m willing to bet she would do it if she had one on hand.
“Thinks he’s a rock star, huh?” Corinne chuckles.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cameron and Grace slide beside us.
“How’s your night going?” Grace asks, looking around a hollering Ramona to give me a smile.
“Couldn’t be better. Really happy for you guys.” The words are genuine, but they hurt. When I look at Grace and Cam or Wes and Ramona, I know they’re soul mates. It’s the way both couples look at each other, the smiles and gentle kisses they exchange—or, in Ramona and Wes’s case, the way they’re immediately eating each other’s faces the second they’re reunited. It’s the truest love, and for some reason, I feel cheated of that.
“Where’s Nia?” Grace asks, looking around then lifting an eyebrow at me.
“Why do I feel like you’re accusing me of something?” I ask, taking a small step away from her.
“Should I be?”
“Alright, alright, alright,” the DJ bellows from behind the tech booth, cutting off our conversation. “We all went down with that ring of fire!”
“Wait, is he insulting me?” Wes shouts.
“Ian, what did you say to her?” Grace asks, but we’re interrupted once more by the DJ’s voice crooning into the microphone.
“Next up, we have Nia Smith!”
What?!
Most people walk up skipping and filled with drunk abandon, but not Nia. Up she walks with her hands by her side and chin held high, forcing confidence from every p
ore.
Cameron laughs. “What?! This is great!” He bursts out in hoots and hollers, as do Wes and Ramona. I don’t join in. I’m too shocked to move.
What is she doing up there?
If I walk away now, maybe I can catch some late-night sitcom reruns or devour the cold cheeseburger still waiting for me in my room. Then again, why would I do that if I have a real-life sitcom right in front of me?
The karaoke accompaniment starts. It’s a light guitar, and the beat is bouncy and fun, almost like a mambo. It’s accompanied by staccato claps. Then, up on the screen flashes the name of the song: “Tequila” by The Champs.
“Is she seriously singing ‘Tequila’?’” Grace laughs.
“Hell yes,” Cameron says with a grin.
For the unacquainted, “Tequila” is a two-and-a-half-minute song filled with massive instrumental breaks and only one word, repeated three times: tequila.
Nia holds the microphone in her hand, bending her knees up and down to the beat, trying to seem like she’s enjoying it, but I can see her eyes darting around. She’s scared shitless. A few people laugh.
Then she speaks.
“This song is dedicated to Ian Chambers.” She scans the crowd, spots me, and shakily extends a finger. “That’s right, lawyer man.”
“I’ll be outside,” I say to Ramona, pushing myself away from the bar.
“Oh, come on, Ian—” She reaches out to grab my elbow, but we both halt at the voice speaking through the sound system.
“No.” Nia’s demand reverberates. The whole bar quiets, and the only sound is the inappropriately exciting karaoke music. “You’re going to sit your handsome ass down, Ian. I have a microphone. I have the stage. Now you have to listen.”
The guitar in the background is now accompanied by the song’s signature saxophone. The karaoke screen counts down the bars until the first singing section—just a very slow bar filling up with color.
I back up and sit down on the edge of a stool.
With all the glances pointed in my direction, I’m surprised there isn’t a spotlight shining on me.
“Now listen up.” Nia’s voice booms through the sound system. “I’m sorry, Ian. I am so, so sorry. I know how much that…that thing hurt you.” She’s looking around, trying to stay vague while also getting her point across, but it’s just looking like maybe foul play was involved.
The tech guy steps out from behind the booth and reaches out for the microphone. “Ma’am, this highly is inappropriate.”
Nia jerks her head to him with a glare that could scare the pants off of any man. Her grip on the mic tightens, whitening her knuckles instantly.
“I selected this song,” she growls. My heart jerks back at the sound. Jesus. “And I will be performing it just like every other patron in this bar performed theirs.” Although Nia is small, the additional foot granted by the stage gives her a fairly imposing figure. The tech guy steps back with his hands lifted in surrender. Hell, if I were him, I would too. She looks like a madwoman with a gun, except she’s got a microphone and she isn’t afraid to use it.
“Now, as I was saying.” Nia’s head swivels back to me. “Ian, yesterday was a misunderstanding. Don’t misconstrue it as anything more. I was an idiot, but I would never want to hurt you. Never you. You’re smart. Hell, you’re the smartest man I know. You’re the only man who can put up with my shit and send it right back in—hang on—” The music pauses for a beat and she choruses, “Tequila” in the most monotone voice ever before continuing.
“Well at least she got the lyric,” Grace mumbles.
“So, anyway—”
“What in the hell?” I’m loudly interrupting her before I even register the words coming out of my mouth.
Nia blinks then gives me a smile. “Oh, so you’re talking to me now? Good.”
“No.” I shake my head, resting my fingers on my temples and taking a step toward the stage. “What the absolute hell? Get down from the stage, Nia.”
“Absolutely not,” she says. “I have a microphone, and you do not.”
The song is definitely mocking me. The sax rips louder, the guitar is upbeat, and the claps are enough to drive me insane.
“The rooms on this floor can probably hear everything you’re saying.” I sigh. “Get down.”
“Yeah, but we can hear each other, so what’s the problem?”
“Good lord.”
“Did you not hear me earlier? I’m sorry.” With her apologetic glance, it’s hard to find the words to reply.
I storm to the stage—audience be damned—and whisper to her under my breath, “This is not the time or place.” Unfortunately for me, whispering to her still echoes through the sound system. Right. She’s still holding a microphone.
“When will it be the right time?” she asks. “When else would you listen to me and have a—wait a second…” The song stops for a beat. “Tequila.”
“Who the hell is running this bar?!” I shout, twisting around and throwing my hands in the air. “How are you still singing?” The saxophone in the song is rolling like mad, hitting every high note. “Take away her mic. This is ridiculous.”
I shoot a glare to the tech guy, but he backs up again, muttering, “I’m not messing with this psycho.” Nia must look like some rabid dog, and this man is just trying to do his job.
“Very professional,” I sneer, hands on my hips. “And the woman is a little over five feet tall, man. She is not a psycho.”
“So you do believe me,” Nia says.
“No. Yes. I don’t know,” I say. My hands drop to my sides. I’m close to stepping off the stage before I hear a small, pleading tone come through the speakers.
“Please. Ian,” she says, slowly, calmly, desperately. “Please hear me out.”
Her brows pull inward and her shoulders slump. The microphone is dropped to her side, limp in her hand as she tilts her head. I can tell she’s at the end of her rope. So am I.
The saxophone stops. The guitar solos. Then a chorus of “TEQUILA!” sounds from the entire crowd followed by immediate cheers. Nia does not join in on the final lyric.
Amongst the excited hums coming from satisfied, entertained bar folk, I can still hear Grace at the back of the bar yelling, “Best. Rehearsal dinner. Ever.”
37
Nia
“Nia,” Ian calls after me. His steps echo across the wooden patio.
I lean against the fence separating the resort pool from the ocean sand. I needed to feel the cool air and listen to the rush of the tide. I needed to get away from the stifling bar, but Ian followed me.
His steps slow as he gets closer. I turn away from the ocean. Ian is walking apprehensively, most likely testing how close he can get before I break down in tears.
“Say what you need to say, I guess,” he says.
I cross my arms over my chest, and a smile stretches from one side of his mouth then spreads across his entire face, a slow shift from concern to genuine satisfaction. “What?” I ask.
“This feels wrong.” He chuckles. “You should be mad at me.”
“But I’m not.” This only makes him laugh more.
“But, that’s us, right?” he says, moving closer, feet away from me. “I’m irritating and you get angry because you know you’re too good for me.”
“I’m not too good for you,” I say through gritted teeth.
“But you are. You definitely are, and it’s an absolute privilege to be near you.” Following his words, he places a hand on the fence, caging me in on one side.
“You’re just putting me on a pedestal,” I say. “I’m sorry. I’ll say it a million times. I’m sorry. I know things are rough. I know that was a hard thing for you to go through—to still go through—but you’ve got to believe me.”
He tilts his head to the side. “You’re hard-working, beautiful, so smart…” He trails off. “I’m sorry, Nia. You do deserve better than me. I was so quick to judge—”
“You have your reasons,” I inter
rupt. I tighten my grip on my own elbows as I pull my arms into my chest. If I don’t, I might be letting him pull me into an embrace.
“You like me.”
“Maybe,” I say, rolling my eyes. “It’s ridiculous, really.”
And it is ridiculous. Because it’s true.
I like Ian. I have for years.
“Sometimes life is ridiculous.” He chuckles. I look up, not having realized just how close he’s gotten. His lips hover near my nose. I try to keep my head down, but he takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting my face to meet his.
Our lips touch, and all the tension running through my shoulders and spine releases. His mouth is soft, warm, and right. He tilts my chin higher, allowing himself to take more of me, and I let him. I lift onto my toes and deepen it. I can’t uncross my arms. They’re stuck, petrified into place, but I’m not mad. I’m not even irritated.
Still, with every passing second, my nerves struggle to stay contained. They’re bouncing from point to point—my fingers, my shoulders, my chest, and into my throat, where I let out a small hum.
One kiss. That’s all I can take.
I pull away, lowering back down on my heels. His eyes open, and there they are: the beautiful blues. I wonder if they could be mine forever.
“Let’s just get through the wedding tomorrow,” he says. I smile and slump against the fence. It’s hard to maintain any form of resolve when he looks at me like that. He removes his hand from the fence and pockets it.
“Sure,” I say.
“I believe you, Polly.”
Out of habit, I respond, “Don’t call me that.” But the nickname doesn’t spark the usual hatred or catapult my blood pressure through the roof. It’s almost a comfort, and the word spears through my chest, warming my body.
His hand reaches up to caresses my cheek, my jaw, then my neck.
“How about Apollo, then?”
“Maybe,” I whisper. “Just maybe.”
38
