If Ever(90)

"Which is why he's going to sing. What would be a good song?" I say, getting them off the topic of my birthday.

Paige smirks at Tom and laughs. "Oh, this is going to be fun. How about "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story?"

He rolls his eyes.

"Or "MmmBop" by Hanson," I say.

Tom drains his drink. "I'll let you two have your fun." He escapes to the bar.

I scoot closer to Paige and we skim through the book hunting for the perfect song, laughing as we consider everything from "Love Shack," to "Muskrat Love," and "Achy Breaky Heart." At the bar he's chatting with his friend Max from the show and tips his head my direction when I grin at him and giggle.

The singer on stage finishes her number and the audience applauds. Suddenly the perfect song pops into my head. I grab a slip of paper and jot it down. I deliver it to the DJ along with a ten-dollar bill so he'll get Tom up there before he can weasel out.

When I return, Tom is carrying a tray filled with shot glasses. He puts a glass in my hand, and the rest of our group all take one. Paige starts Happy Birthday and everyone joins in. I want to duck my head, but Tom catches my eye and winks, he's beaming as his friends sing to me, their spectacular voices blending perfectly and resounding through the room like a world-class choir. They end the song breaking into gorgeous harmonies that take my breath away.

"That is the most beautiful thing I've ever heard. Thank you."

They raise their glasses. "To Chelsea," Tom says.

"To Chelsea," the rest resound.

He clinks his glass to mine. "Happy Birthday, love."

I throw back the drink. The strong liquor curls my tongue, a second later an intense heat rises from my throat as I strain to draw breath to soothe my airways, reminding me of Hank's bourbon.

"Good stuff." Tom laughs as my eyes water. Around us everyone is high fiving and clapping.

The DJ calls up the next singer, a skinny girl in stiletto heels with kinky dark curls that reach her shoulders. She sings Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" in a breathy voice that doesn't quite reach every note.

Tom slides his arm around the back of my chair. I gaze into his eyes, dark in the low light of the bar. He curls his head down, his lips touch mine in a tender kiss tasting strongly of liquor, but I'm already drunk on love. I slide my hand along his jaw and neck. His skin is soft under the light scruff and he smells so good.

"Cut that shit out!" Max bellows over the sound of the kinky-haired girl's painful droning of the Titanic hit. Tom and I pull apart as he plops a drink in front of me. The contents slosh over the side and puddle on the table. "Happy Birthday, and thanks for turning this moody son of a bitch into a lovesick fool."

"Thanks." I turn to Tom. "So you're a love sick fool?"

"Never. I barely like you." He's winding his fingers through my hair.

I snuggle into the crook of his arm content with the touch of his side against mine. When the song ends and the girl leaves the stage to weak pity applause, the DJ says, "Next up is Tom Oliver."

He groans beside me as his friends cheer. I pat his leg with excitement. He reluctantly stands, chugs half my drink, smacks his lips, and gives me a final shake of his head that he can't believe he's doing this.

As he makes his way to the stage, his friends hoot and holler at this unexpected performance. Paige slips into his seat next to me and clinks her glass to mine. "Way to go!" She takes out her phone and focuses it at the stage, as do a couple of others. I cringe hoping he isn't too mad at me later.

Up on the tiny stage, the DJ hands Tom the mic. He takes his place and we're all quiet. I'm on the edge of my seat.

Tom looks out at us and nods with a tight grimace. "You can thank my girlfriend for getting me up here. Chelsea, this song is for you." Then he pauses and turns to the DJ. "Wait a sec. What am I singing?"

He looks back at the audience and gives us an exaggerated expression of stage fright. We all laugh. The DJ hands him my slip of blue paper with the song title. He reads the paper and bursts out laughing. His eyes find me across the room. I cock my head and grin. He shakes his head in disbelief.

"Come on, baby, you've got this," I call.

Tom slips the paper into his back pocket and returns to center stage, this time focused as if he's getting into character. My pulse is speeding with nervous excitement. Just when I think he's ready to start, he bursts out laughing again, and doubles over with his hands on his knees, which gives me fits of giggles.

Max hollers out. "What's the matter, Oliver? Can't you sing without a spotlight and a twenty-piece orchestra?" His friends crack up as Tom, the perfectionist, struggles to get his composure back.

He shakes off his infectious grin and takes his place once more, this time he's thoughtful and it's as if I can see the wheels turning in his head. He takes a deep breath and nods to the DJ.

The intro begins to "Don't Stop Believin'," the theme song from Rock of Ages, his dream show. We all cheer for the rock anthem. Tom slides the mic in the stand, and with the intensity of a seasoned rocker, belts out the lyrics.

Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world.

His voice is strong and he cranks it out just like the original singer from Journey. We burst into applause. The DJ nods his approval and amps up the volume.