Page 153 of Nash
The room goes quiet.
Candace can sing. This is not a secret anymore, not since the first karaoke night over a year ago when she opened her mouth and every person in this clubhouse stopped breathing. But hearing it again, every time, is the same experience. The silence that falls is the kind that only happens when a voice that good fills a room that rough.
She sings something slow. An older song, the kind that lives in the chest. The kind that makes grown men look at their hands. Her voice fills the corners of the room, the high ceilings, the spaces between the tables. Malachi's hand stops moving on the arm of his chair. James sets his beer down.
I watch Candace sing, and my throat tightens. The woman who used to hum under her breath and stop when anyone noticed. The woman who hid her music in notebooks and sang in her car alone. She's standing in front of a room full of people she loves,singing with her whole chest, her eyes finding Malachi halfway through the chorus.
Nash's hand is still on my hip. I put my hand on his thigh. High. My fingers pressing into the denim, my pinkie tracing the inseam. His grip on my waist tightens. I slide my hand higher. His jaw clenches. I feel the muscle jump under my palm.
Two can play, Nashville.
I press my mouth to his neck and leave it there through the rest of the chorus, breathing against his skin. My hand is still on his thigh, and his hand is gripping my hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.
The song ends. The room exhales. Applause loud enough to wake both babies. Darla reaches for the bottles while East produces a pacifier from his back pocket with tactical precision.
"Ruby." Candace points at me. "You're up."
"I am absolutely up. I have been waiting for this moment since the group chat text. Which I saw while I was in the middle of something I am not going to describe in mixed company." I glance at Nash. "I'm going to need a duet partner." Nash doesn't move. "Nash."
"No."
"Nash, I need you to come up here and sing with me."
"I don't sing."
"You don't have to sing. You just have to stand next to me, hold the microphone, and look intimidating while I sing, which is basically what you do all day anyway, except this time there's music."
"No."
I walk over to him. Stand directly in front of him. Tilt my chin up. "Please," I murmur. Just for him. "For me."
His jaw works. His eyes hold mine. The room watches. Every person in this clubhouse watching the Sergeant-at-Arms processa request from the woman who has been dismantling his defenses for months.
He stands.
The room loses its mind. East whoops. Kyle slams his hand on the bar. Darla grabs Sloane's arm. Candace covers her mouth.
Nash walks to the jukebox and stands beside me with his arms at his sides. There's an expression on his face that clearly communicates he is doing this under protest so everyone in this room should be grateful and also afraid.
I pick the song. "Livin' on a Prayer." The only acceptable choice for a woman with zero vocal talent and maximum commitment.
The music starts. I sing. Badly, loudly, with my entire body, pointing at people during the verses. I dance with the microphone, climb onto a chair during the key change before being quietly removed from the chair by Nash's hand on my waist.
Nash holds the microphone. He does not sing. He stands beside me holding the microphone approximately four inches from his mouth, moving it no closer, participating through proximity and the sheer force of standing next to a woman who is singing badly enough for both of them.
At the chorus, he mouths one word. One. The room catches it. The eruption is louder than Darla's Cool Rider spin.
"HE MOUTHED A WORD!" East screams. "THE MAN MOUTHED A WORD! THIS IS HISTORIC! SOMEONE DOCUMENT THIS!"
Frankie slow-claps from the back of the room, her beer raised in Nash's direction.
"My name is still not Greg," East adds, to no one in particular.
The song ends. I take a bow. Nash catches my waist before I can walk away, pulls me against him, and kisses me in front ofthe entire room. His hand is on the back of my neck, his mouth firm, tasting like beer. When he pulls back, he's fully smiling.
"That was singing," I say. Breathless.
"That was standing."
