Finding Mr. Brightside

“I think the first layer of T-shirt gives the outfit a dressier quality, don’t you?” he asks, catching my eye before several strands of damp hair fall into his. He blows them back, smiles at me when they don’t stay in place.

“Now that you mention it … not really,” I say, turning around to cut a string from one of his sleeves. “It works for you, though.”

“You look really good tonight,” he says. “Beautiful.”

“Thanks.” I turn back around and frown into the bathroom mirror, examining what’s gone wrong with my face since a few seconds ago. Good thing I’ll be attending college virtually. University of Phoenix Online, here I come! The anticipation is making me want to pluck something. I take a deep breath and try to focus on something positive, like Abram, instead. “Your facial stubble looks especially attractive tonight. And your tan.”

I’m sure it’ll look really good onstage when he’s filling the restaurant with his song.

I ask him to hold still for a second, acting concerned about seeing a foreign object in his eye. Then I reveal the tweezers and start plucking a few stray hairs between his eyebrows. He knows it’s what I really wanted to do all along, barely winces when I tug.

“I shouldn’t have signed you up for karaoke,” I say. “I’ll get you out of it.”

He shrugs. “The mood for a serenade might strike me.”

“I’ll throw a fork at it if I see it getting close.”

He laughs before his blue eyes turn serious. “You sure you’re okay being around Linda?”

“I’m sick of hiding from people,” I say, even though we both know I’m not quite there yet.

Abram suggests we create a safe word, just in case one of us wants to leave before the other. I like how he’s pretending the flight risk in that scenario could turn out to be him. And I love his idea, more excited about it than the di

If nothing else, we’ll always have Moscow, sort of.

37

Juliette

THE MCEVANSES BUZZ UP to the driveway in their gleaming golf cart. It might be nicer than Heidi’s car, Vulva the Volvo. Ha, Heidi. If girlfriend were here to embarrass me (from a place of love) right now, she’d sneak a glance at Terry’s salt-and-pepper mouth whiskers before asking if I’m excited about my mustache ride. In conclusion, I’m with the right person tonight: Abram.

As he and I hop into the back seat, Terry says something about how we “clean up real nice.” Must be hard to see my all-black, funereal ensemble, but Abram does look rather dashingly laid-back. Terry and Linda are dressed to the nines in a sea of khaki and island-friendly pinks and blues. Linda greets us warmly and apologizes to me for any future hair problems the golf cart’s windscreen doesn’t prevent. I point to one of my stray frizzlets like there’s already a problem in progress, and she does an admirable job of sounding empathetic despite her newscaster coif looking primed and ready for tonight’s top story. Meanwhile, Terry pretends he can’t find the golf-cart path at first, driving along the sidewalk instead—one of his better attempts at humor—and then we ride off into the sunset, toward the restaurant.

“Terry, this golf cart runs so smoothly,” I say, winking at Abram. I bet him ten dollars of our parents’ money I could make Terry say something about his golf cart “purring like a kitten.”

“Why, thank you,” Terry says, “just got ’er tuned up last week.”

So close.

“Does she have a name?” Abram asks, trying to throw him off.

“Barbaraaaaa Aaaaa

I flash Abram a wi

The restaurant is in line with the low expectations Linda set for it earlier: signage with crab-catching jokes, plastic fish entangled in faux netting, canoe paddles insisting the term “cabrewing” is clever, and so on. I do appreciate the darkness of the ambiance, how I can barely see the faces of our fellow diners.

Terry points out that the karaoke stage is in the back room and pats Abram on the shoulder, winking at me. It’s one of the only winks from an older man I’ve gotten that hasn’t made me want to exfoliate (Abram winking when he’s using his creepy grandpa voice doesn’t count). Linda chats with the maître d’ for a second before he tips his captain’s hat and escorts us to his “best table on the Poop Deck.” I’m assuming it’s a poop joke Terry’s whispering into Abram’s ear on the way.

The Poop Deck is outside on the covered patio, and our table really might be their best. I can hear the tide washing in.

“Hmm, I’m not sure who to give the Best-Looking Couple Award to tonight,” the maître d’ says, handing us each a menu. Terry replies that he’ll take the award along with the check at the end of the meal; Abram and I are completely fine with both claims.

When the maître d’ leaves, Terry inhabits the role of bartender and asks what we’d like to drink, laughing when we both answer water. “I meant alcoholic beverages.” Linda looks concerned but backs off when Terry says, “I think Abram and Juliette deserve a drink if they’d like one, don’t you, dear?” She ends up ordering two vodka cranberries; Terry two Jack & Sevens. The waiter doesn’t blink, just brings the cocktails a minute later. Thankfully, no one gives a toast.

ABRAM

I THOUGHT ABOUT GIVING A TOAST but couldn’t think of what to say. Cheers, to the dynamic not being as awkward as originally anticipated! In conclusion, weird things tempt me sometimes. Cheers, to weird temptations!

The food arrives fast, mostly in silver buckets. The second round of drinks arrives even quicker. Terry keeps looking over at the karaoke room to see if they’re starting soon. Eventually, he gets up and brings back a thick song catalog. He suggests a game of karaoke roulette—boys against girls—whereby we each choose a song for our competitors to perform and they have to sing it no matter what. I anticipate this being the first game Juliette refuses to play this vacation, but she’s kept quiet so far, just listening to Linda complain about Terry giving her “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” last week.

“The crowd just sat there and died,” Linda says, “while I thought about how I was going to kill Terry.” Then she puts her hand to her diamond starfish necklace and apologizes profusely.

Juliette explains there’s no need to apologize or avoid hypothetically killing people on our account. “I do it all the time,” she assures Linda. “Now let’s watch these boys commit musical suicide, shall we?”

Juliette

LINDA AND I are huddled together over the song catalog. She’s searching for a tune that would require the guys to sing almost their entire song in falsetto, keeps picking out hits by the Bee Gees as I shake my head.

“What about this one?” I say, pointing to “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’,” hoping maybe I’ll glean some tips from the lyrics.

“I am such a sucker for that song,” Linda whispers intensely. “Plus, Terry will sound terrible singing it.” Then she cackles, and, yes, it didn’t take her long to get wasted. One more drink and maybe she’ll forget we’re slated to perform, too. Scary, why am I putting myself so far out there again? I filled out the sign-up sheet with fake names a little while ago, but the DJ was giving me a suspicious look (I’ve never been less offended), so Angela Buckley’s no-show performance of “Love Shack” isn’t likely to delay the inevitable much longer.