♫ Blue jeans, white shirt
Walked into the room you know you made my eyes burn ♪
(Lana Del Rey—Blue Jeans)

"Not that one," said Delilah, wagging her finger at Coralie's list of song options. "You need something that'll wow them, not put them to sleep."

Coralie rolled her eyes. "But 'Mercy' isn't slow, it's—"

"—it was your first ever performed karaoke song and it holds a special spot in your heart, I know." Delilah grabbed a red marker and crossed it off the list. "It's cute, but not for this. Gotta have something more powerful."

As they sat on the carpet, in shorts and tank tops, barefooted and sipping on White Claws with "Friends" on in the background, Coralie realized they'd narrowed down her options for the open-mic night. She'd browsed her entire array of songs and had one hundred to start. But Delilah, critical as she was, had helped her cut that list in half.

"You only get one song, so you have to make it count." Delilah handed Coralie the marker and leaned into the pillow she'd propped up against the coffee table. "Who are the judges?"

"Some other bar-owners or bartenders from places that have live music." Coralie huffed as she drew a line through "Your body is a wonderland" by John Mayer. "Rog claimed they would be the most experienced to decide who gets to put on a show on Friday nights."

She still hadn't come to terms with the fact that Roger had agreed to move his much-loved DJ Nights to make room for real music. For so long she'd urged him to rethink his desire to attract drunk patrons that threw money everywhere and jammed to the sick beats. There was a better clientele out there—classier, live-performance enjoying adults who would spend just as much money to get away from the bar-hopping bros.

"So... a bunch of hippies?" Delilah's coral-colored nails tapped on the surface of her canned beverage. "Hmm, then I'd say something by Lana or Billie. Those are crowd pleasers, and you sing them both well." With a gasp, she sat up straight, spilling a few drops of her drink onto her feet. "'Chasing Cars'! Your voice is so good with that one, and it's not even on the list! Add it!"

"Are you sure?" Coralie's eyes widened. "It's a bit of a slow one, no?"

Delilah flicked her wrist. "Yeah, but a classic. Everyone will sing along."

Though she frowned, Coralie scribbled the song suggestions. "Lana and Billie are hard. And 'Chasing Cars'... oof, I'll need a lot of practice. The open-mic is in three days!"

Delilah drained her booze, then tossed it towards the trash can behind Coralie—and scored. "Yes," she cheered, "and three days is plenty of time for you to become the next San Fran superstar, kiddo. I have complete faith in you."

***

Delilah's complete faith didn't encourage Coralie—it stressed her out.

While practicing, she tried a combination of melodies she usually had no trouble belting out, but when listening to her recordings, she cringed. She was either off-key, or fumbled with lyrics she'd known for years, or her voice scratched in ways it never had.

Nerves—it's all nerves.

The more she rehearsed, the more desperate she became to message Ryan. She craved his praise, his compliments, his encouragement. When she'd mentioned her difficulties to him, in their past conversations, he'd always managed to find a comforting word, a silly phrase for her to repeat as a mantra that would keep her energized and positive. He never failed to infuse her with confidence and convince her that whatever it was she wanted to achieve, she would.

His alluring tone whizzed into her mind as she worked on "Blue Jeans" by Lana Del Rey, causing her to miss an entire chorus and choke on a passage she usually nailed.

"Walked into the room you know you made my eyes burn," she repeated, slow and steady, through gritted teeth. She then groaned at how she blocked on every word, and how she pictured herself serenading Ryan at that very moment, with those same lyrics. "Fuck. Why can't he leave me alone?"

He hadn't spoken to her since her last message asking him to not talk to her. Yet it was like he was there, haunting her, his presence like a specter invading her everyday life. She could smell him, hear him, almost feel him by her at all times. She could have sworn on a few occasions that he'd left his handprint on her thigh, from where he'd pressed his palm before their near-kiss. She saw that imprint whenever she showered, and it always warranted a double-take from her.

Whenever he popped into her thoughts, she pinched herself. Her arm was red and sore from the constant pain; so if that didn't get her to stop, what would? Putting money into a no-Ryan-thoughts jar? Taking a shot of vodka every time he manifested in her mind, and learning to forget about him so she wouldn't be constantly drunk?

It didn't help that he'd liked the post about the upcoming open-mic, and that he'd liked a recent picture she'd posted of herself, wearing a new top she'd bought for the occasion. He didn't comment, didn't compliment—but to see his thumbs up and his name in the list of others who'd appreciated the photo chilled her to the core.

He'd left her dreams, thank goodness, but she thought of him when getting under her covers, and when she woke in the late morning.

Did she have to block him on all her social media to get over him? Or would that only make things worse?

The only instances when he didn't bother her were during her conversations with Michael. He messaged her daily, called her every few days, and sent funny memes and random shots of town as he rode his skateboard after work. Whenever they chatted, she was finally free of Ryan, focused on Michael's soothing timbre and his innovative topics that never bored her.

On the morning of the open-mic, she received a flower delivery from Michael, prompting her to gush as she sniffed at the scent of the roses and tulips—her favorites.

Good luck for tonight! I'll be there, but I figured you deserved something special to boost your ego.

~Michael

"Aw, he's so cheesy," said Delilah, yawning as she glimpsed the note. "It's cute. He's cute. I'm glad you chose to move from under Ryan to under him—"

"—hey! No one said anything about getting under Michael," Coralie clicked her tongue, "and I'm not over Ryan, anyway."

Delilah nudged her. "You need to be. Stick to what you told him, Cora. Don't go changing your mind all the time, or you'll give him the impression he can persuade you."

With a snort, Coralie helped herself to her second cup of coffee. "But he can, girl. And he knows it. I'm sure he read that message and chortled. I explained to him the effect he had on me, and he's aware I don't just flip a switch and get over people."

"Then all the more reason to keep your distance, hun. Show one sign of weakness, and he'll use it. Guaranteed." Delilah kissed her cheek and sauntered off to the bathroom to shower.

What Coralie wouldn't tell Delilah, wouldn't tell anyone, wouldn't even admit to herself... was that she had shown weakness. She'd liked one of his pictures and reacted to one of the stories he'd posted to his Instagram feed. He hadn't replied, but he saw her heart-eyed emoji at the video of him taking a walk with his daughters.

She'd been biting her nails since—tormented and troubled and wondering if she should have said something else, tried to maintain their friendship, tried to salvage their twelve-plus years of being in one another's lives.

If she'd told Delilah about this, she would have confiscated her phone until further notice.

A little later, Coralie sauntered over to her room to relax.

"So... what did you settle on, then?" Delilah, freshly showered, came in and lounged on the messy bed. "I heard you rehearsing a few different songs yesterday. Lana sounded good, but I honestly want to stick with my 'Chasing Cars' idea."

Coralie shrugged. "I'm keeping it a surprise," she batted her lashes and pouted her lips, "and also, I haven't really chosen."

"Wait—" Delilah sat up so fast she almost spilled her drink, "—you're being spontaneous? You're going to choose at the last minute, when the band asks you what you want them to play? You're going to go up onto that stage without a full-blown plan?" She smirked. "Well, I'll be damned."

Blushing, Coralie lowered beside her friend. "I have no idea what's come over me, but yes."

Delilah's squeak was so high-pitched, Coralie shoved her off the mattress and threw a pillow at her.

"These boys, assholes as they are, have done something to you!" Delilah heaved to her feet and snapped at Coralie. "Okay, now model out your outfit for me, then. If I can't approve of the song, I can at least approve of how much cleavage you plan to display."

***

The day went by so slowly, Coralie had a hunch the universe was testing her patience. She glowered at her watch, at the clock above the TV, at the flashing numbers on the microwave, desperately waiting for eight-thirty, when her Lyft was supposed to pick her up. Delilah would arrive at the bar later, and Michael had promised to meet her there around ten p.m.

Alone, twirling in front of her mirror, she fought the urge to leave early, to go for a walk, to put her mind at ease. Were her jeans too tight, hugging her figure too much, revealing the curves of her body in suggestive ways that might be considered as seducing the judges? She didn't want that; she wanted them to judge her voice, not her looks.

But she felt dizzy, sweaty, her bra too constricting and her top too low-cut and her heels too high. Delilah had insisted that presentation was important, and she had to show her best self.

Was this her best self?

She hated seeking approval for anything other than her songs, and yet she had to be sure. So she snapped a quick picture and posted it on her Instagram and Facebook, captioned "Is this too much? Help me. I'm leaving in thirty minutes, and I don't want a wardrobe faux pas for my first open-mic."

She hurled her phone onto her bed and inspected her make-up. It was sophisticated, smoky, just sexy enough, her lashes not too heavily coated and her lip-stain a subtle but dark burgundy that matched her top.

Thank goodness for Delilah's skills.

Her phone went off once, twice, three times before she decided to check it. Comments were pouring in, several from out-of-town acquaintances and a handful from family members—all responding to her picture.

"You look hot, stay like that!"

"It's appropriate for a bar, I'd say."

"Should keep their attention, even if you stutter!"

"Don't change a thing!"

Only somewhat reassured, she sighed. As she was about to shove the phone into her purse and pace in the living room while she waited, the cell buzzed with one last comment. She brought the device up closer and blinked.

It wasn't a comment, but a message.

Ryan Bennett: Never doubt yourself, Cora. You look like a superstar.

Her heart lurched, begging to break out of her chest. "Shit."

Ryan Bennett: I'm sorry, I heard you. Message received loud and clear. I'm not trying to bother you, but good luck for tonight. You'll stun them. I wanted to send flowers, but they would have wilted by the time they reached you.

Against every voice screaming inside her head—including Delilah's—and against every impulse control failsafe she'd put in place to stop herself from making terrible mistakes, she permitted her fingers to glide over the keyboard.

How could she not reply to something so sweet? How could she ignore the only man who seemed to have the key to her heart?

Coralie Amber Watson: ♥ I appreciate you. Thank you.

With that, she stuffed thephone into her sparkly purse and shimmied out of her apartment, yearning for freshair and some means to quiet her overwhelmed, suffering soul.

♥♥♥