Unbreak My Heart(41)

And it’s not only the Phil Collins song that I sing.

It’s the clothes Holland is wearing.

Usually, she likes jeans and short skirts. Tank tops and bright tees. She’s always been casual California girl.

Tonight though? She’s decked out in an emerald-green dress, with one of those swirly skirts that makes me want to take her out on a dance floor and twirl her around.

Except we’re not at a club.

And I suck at dancing.

But I’m incredibly adept at reading lyrics on a screen and staring at the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. I do that when the Phil Collins song ends and again when Sam Smith begins, then it’s her turn again.

She shimmies her hips as she belts out a Katy Perry tune, crooning about fireworks as that little green dress swishes around her thighs.

Those soft thighs . . .

I know how they feel under my hands.

I know how they feel beneath my lips.

My skin sizzles as I picture kissing her legs.

When Holland finishes, someone else takes the mic, a couple of Japanese girls who tackle Arcade Fire and Adele.

A couple of hipsters wanders in, decked out in plaid pants and bowler hats. They join our patchwork crew, belting Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing,” then switching to a Bruno Mars number.

We don’t exchange names, but we become a temporary karaoke crew. We laugh and toast and hold our vodka tonic glasses high and say kampai for cheers then sing more songs.

At some point, it becomes guys versus girls, and I’m not entirely sure who’s keeping score or how, but someone is, and the women are winning.

Holland takes to the stage to blast out a fantastic “We Are Young” from Fun, and when it ends, they shout at her to “Do Ed!”

She thrusts her arms in the air. “The one and only Ed Sheeran,” she says, smiling so wide it reaches the sky, I swear.

I hoot and holler, because I’ve no problem rooting for the competition when the competition is her. But midway through “Photograph,” my cheers die down as she locks eyes with me. The moment slows, and everyone else fades to black.

Jesus Christ, I’m a lovesick fool, because when she pins me with her gaze, singing about how love can heal and how it can mend your soul, all I see, all I feel is her and me, falling back into each other again.

My heart thumps hard against my chest, wrestling to break free. It squeezes, then kicks wildly, and it’s not a new sensation when it comes to her, but it’s a different one. It’s deeper, more intense, and terribly insistent.

There isn’t enough space in this karaoke booth for both me and the way I feel for her. It’s too big, too strong.

When she finishes, she purses her lips and blows a kiss my way.

I can’t take it anymore. I’m not going to play the strong one anymore. I’m going to be the strong one. The strong one is going to speak his mind and tell the girl how he feels. No more holding back. I’ve done that long enough. I’m ready to let go and see where we fall.

I stand, ready to head over to her, grab her hand, and take her out of here when one of the guys thrusts the mic at me. “You go next.”

“Do Rick, do Rick,” the other guy shouts, and maybe they mean Rick Springsteen’s “Jesse’s Girl,” but when they punch up the number, I laugh since I’m dead wrong.

It’s a good thing you can’t mess up Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up.”

As I sing the simple tune, it feels more fitting than I imagined a song that’s become an internet prank would be.

It’s an anthem to how I feel for this woman. The one who took this journey with me across an ocean. To be my sidekick.

To be my safety net.

I didn’t need her to catch me, though, and I’m glad of that.

But I want her desperately. Inexorably. In a way that defies logic and reason but makes all the sense in the world—she gives so much more than I deserve, but she never keeps score.

The cheesy lyrics take on a whole new meaning as I sing to her and only her, letting her know I don’t want to give her up or let her go.

When the song ends, I toss the mic to one of the guys. He catches it deftly as I walk to Holland, extend my hand, and tug her up from the couch.

“Come back to me,” I whisper.

“I’m already there.”





26





Andrew



We don’t talk the entire cab ride home, our tightly locked fingers the only communication we need.

She knows.

I know.

I shove the door to my apartment closed.

My lips slant to hers, and I kiss her like the whole night hangs in the balance.

Her hands race up my chest, and we kiss, and we kiss, and we kiss.

I twine my hands in her hair, pulling her blonde waves away from her face. She tilts her head a bit, my cue to kiss her neck, then the hollow of her throat, then behind her ear in a way that makes her gasp. She says my name in a low and husky voice.

The time for slow and tender vanishes, and she doesn’t seem to mind. We kiss harder, deeper. She melts into my touch and angles her body closer and closer still.

I can’t get enough.

My mind blurs, and my skin crackles, and everything feels different now than it did the last few times we kissed—at the vending machines and at my house in Los Angeles.