♫ And I don't want you all inside my head
And I can feel you running through my veins ♪
(Charlotte Lawrence—Keep Me Up)

It took a few days of pillows over her face and cringeworthy music before Coralie was able to resume life as she knew it.

She ignored her social media—despite the impulse to stalk Ryan's page and respond to his message—and poured all her depression and anxiety into song-writing. Her sorrow-riddled, angst-inducing lyrics returned, and though her fans would praise her, she hated the events that brought her negative inspiration back.

Three days had passed since her return, and she busied about getting ready for her first night at work when her phone pinged.

She gritted her teeth when she checked the notification, but relief washed over her at the vision of Michael's name—not Ryan's.

Michael Mills: How does it feel to be home?

She sensed the corners of her lips inching up at the sight of his profile picture—him holding a camera and smirking, his sleeveless t-shirt exposing his tanned skin and well-defined biceps. There was a sensual but sweet air to him that she'd almost forgotten about while navigating the streets of London. Now that she'd returned to San Francisco, it came back to her.

Coralie Amber Watson: Weird, I think my English accent is resurfacing.

She meandered to the kitchen and finished preparing her dinners—oven-roasted chicken and cauliflower rice. It was her go-to and kept her filled for her extenuating shifts at work.

As she sprinkled spices over each meal in their Tupperware, her phone buzzed again.

Michael Mills: I'd like to hear that. But tell me—you didn't find a husband? Do I still have a chance? :)

Though she smiled, something pricked her heart. There it was again; that word that drew her mind to Ryan.

Will I never be able to say "husband" without thinking of him?

She flung her meals into the freezer and slammed the door a little harder than she'd intended, rattling the entire refrigerator. A few of the cereal boxes on top of it collapsed, as did a magnet, falling onto her bare foot.

"Fuck," she bent over to retrieve the magnet, "that hurt."

As she lifted the thing, she realized it was a London magnet—Big Ben and a typical red phone-booth, with Greetings from London written at the bottom. Of all the magnets to tumble onto her foot—Delilah collected them, and there were at least fifty—it had to be the one that would further prompt Coralie's brain to rehash every detail of her trip.

She'd had enough rehashing since she got home. Every night she waited for her eyes to dry out as she watched TV. In the mornings she drank her weight in coffee and stuffed her nose in her notebook, spitting out rhymes that were so truthful, so painful, that she had a stomachache for the rest of the day. And every evening, as she nursed a glass of wine, she did her damndest to not open up that recent message from Ryan, to not stutter out some vague retort to reestablish contact. She'd promised herself to stay away, for her safety; but it was her sanity that took a toll, and she worried she'd never be the same. She worried that abandoning Ryan in Scarfes was the last time she'd see him, the last time they'd ever talk.

It didn't sit well with her.

***

A few hours into her shift, Roger sauntered over and snuck her off to the back-room.

"Good vacation?" he said, leaning against the wall and fingering his salt-and-pepper beard. He'd complained during most of her trip, the other girls had claimed; now, he appeared less stressed, less in everyone's face.

Coralie squinted at him as she wiped her hands with the towel she'd been holding when he tugged her out of the bar area. When he convened with her away from customers, it was usually bad—and yet here, he didn't look upset. His nostrils weren't flaring and there were no wrinkles scattered across his forehead.

"Yes, you saw my pictures. You commented on them and begged me to return. What's up?"

He flashed an almost fake grin and peered at the tips of his worn sneakers. "Right. Okay, well I'll get straight to the point then. You remember that idea you had? The open-mic night?"

Coralie scoffed and nearly threw her dish rag at him. "The one you told me was ridiculous and would never work, and in any case you'd never let me try out for it because you didn't want me to win? Sure, of course I do."

She crossed her arms, still remembering when he'd shot down the suggestion, telling her they weren't that kind of bar; they didn't do karaoke. No matter how she'd insisted that an open-mic night wasn't karaoke, he'd yelled at her and made her promise to never bring it up again.

She snarled, realizing he'd preferred the DJ night and Thirsty Thursday evenings over her proposition.

"Yes, well... I changed my mind." He flinched, as if bracing for her to slap him, and stood up straight, averting his gray gaze. "Before you scream at me, listen, okay?"

Her fists were clenched so tight she could no longer feel them. "Fine. Talk. Explain yourself."

"It's hip, or so I'm told. A few patrons have asked about it, so I did my research. If we did it once a month, it wouldn't cramp my style—"

"—you mean it wouldn't interfere with your bro nights?" She bit her tongue, but couldn't help her interference.

"Criticize all you want, those bros leave good tips. But I've concluded... they'll leave even better tips if a handful of talented ladies were on a stage singing beautiful ballads as they drink." He pursed his lips and tipped forward. "You included. I want you to participate in our first night."

Coralie froze. "M-me?"

Roger had blocked her every attempt at singing for a live audience, at his bar, at least. Not because she didn't have talent—but because the second the customers discovered her, the instant someone filmed her and put her performance on YouTube, he was certain her songs would hit millions of views and she'd quit.

"I can't lose my most loyal and hardest working bartender," he'd said more than once, when she reminded him her goal was to become a legitimate singer.

She'd performed for an audience before, but not at an open-mic. Not without a prompt and background music and a few drunk friends encouraging her. Though she filmed herself for her YouTube channel, this would be different. It wouldn't be in the comfort of her home, stringing the chords of her guitar, glimpsing the scribbled words that she'd smacked together and called a song.

"Yes, you." Roger's cheeks flushed as he grinned. "With a band, too. If I promote it enough, it might bring in some people looking for talent—"

"—scouts?" She clamped a hand over her mouth. "No way. No fucking way. Not only are you allowing a monthly open-mic, with a band, but you'd allow scouts to come in and potentially recruit me?"

She couldn't believe what she was hearing; Roger had been so stubborn for years that this came as an absolute shock.

"Hey now, I didn't say I'd permit them to take you," he chuckled and winked, "but heck, why not? You're not the only singer in town, I'm positive others will show up. Oh, and one more thing."

Coralie used the rag as a fan. She envisioned herself on the dusty stage they never used, in the back, near the DJ booth. A genuine band would play behind her as she belted out tunes—maybe not her own, but ones she knew she could sing well—and she'd overcome her fear of sharing her voice with a large crowd. She'd then score a gig in some half-assed dive bar across town.

It wasn't her dream; but it might lead her there.

She blew out her cheeks. "What else are you going to stun me with tonight?"

"It'll be judged. Just this first one, I mean." He rubbed his hands together, a sly sparkle in his eyes. "The winner will receive the honor to perform every week on Fridays. I mean to switch DJ nights to Saturdays and make Fridays into a themed night I've yet to find a swanky title for... but featuring live music by the winner of our first open-mic."

Knees buckling, Coralie dropped the rag and pinched her forearm. "You're fucking kidding. A judged open-mic that might give one lucky singer or comedian the opportunity to display their talents here, once a week, for everyone to see and comment on? For real?"

He patted her shoulder before leaving the room. "You'd better win, Cora. I'd hate to have some hipster dumbass out there spouting his weed-induced spoken poetry."

***

Too excited for her own good, she blasted the news all over her Facebook—with Roger's permission, of course.

"Yo! The Swirled Lady is going to host its first open-mic on October fifth! And I'm thrilled to announce that I'll be participating! I'm super nervous, but I invite you all to come hang out, have some cocktails, and watch my debut on a stage—and not for karaoke!"

Her post received a multitude of replies, likes, and shares. So many of her friends had been pushing her to sing to a crowd in other bars in town, but she always talked herself out of it, too focused on her failures. At a younger age, she'd scored an open-mic spot—and bailed at the last minute, too spooked to belt out melodies in front of a horde of strangers. She'd since learned to tame that fear, and yet with this new opportunity surfacing, it reanimated.

She shared her concerns with Michael the next day, over the phone.

"You'll be great," he said, raising his voice over the sound of skateboards rolling by him. "You've grown since then, and you're not as shy, right?"

"Right." She was sprawled on the couch, with him on speakerphone as she did her nails. Delilah had already scurried off for the evening to meet up with her family, leaving Coralie alone at the apartment. "But still—"

"—stop." If he'd been in front of her, she was sure Michael would have narrowed his eyes at her. "I've listened to your stuff, and you're phenomenal. You'll wow everyone and you'll win!"

She set the nail-polish onto the coffee-table and stared at the screen. Michael's contact image stared back at her, the same as his Facebook profile picture.

How would she feel if he were in that crowd, admiring her as she performed?

"You're coming, right? Rog said I wouldn't be on until ten-thirty or eleven, but he assured me that's the prime spot."

Silence came from the other end, and when Michael spoke again, she could hear the grin in his voice. "Of course I'll be there, if you want me to be. I have to witness the gig that gets you started!"

They chatted for a little while longer before Coralie headed off to work, a foreign pep to her step as she prepared to handle the throng of inebriated patrons.

At the conclusion of her shift, as she checked her phone in the Lyft ride home, she choked and had to hold in a screech, a moan, a groan.

Ryan Bennett: Congratulations on the open-mic! I remember you telling me how your boss refused to let you perform. I'm sure you'll knock them dead—is that how Americans say it?

She chuckled at his comment, but immediately covered her amusement with a frown. "No, you're not allowed to talk to me."

She locked the phone and chucked it to the bottom of her purse, glaring out the window at the night lights and the passing cars. Sleepy San Francisco was beautiful, and she begged it to lull her away from another beautiful sight—Ryan.

But once in the empty apartment, she couldn't fight the urge to creep all over his profile, to check out his pictures, and to verify his message again. To her dismay, he'd added another one.

Ryan Bennett: Look, I'm not sure why you're ignoring me, but I can't stop thinking about you. I'm trying to return to normal, but... I can't. Please, Cora, talk to me."

She tossed her purse onto the couch and flopped onto the leather chair near Delilah's bedroom.

"Fuck. Delilah will kill me, but... I have to answer, right? If anything to tell him to leave me alone."

Sucking her lips between her teeth, she inhaled, exhaled, and her fingers danced over the keyboard.

Coralie Amber Watson: RyRy... I have deep feelings for you, but I can't do this. I can't put us in this position. Every time you message me, it destroys me. We can't continue this. I'm sorry.

When she looked up, she sensed a tear spiraling down her cheek.

Coralie Amber Watson: We had our chance twelve years ago, and we didn't take it. That's fate. Take care of yourself, Ryan.

As salty liquid streamed down her face and drizzled from her chin, she kicked her purse to her room, plugged in her phone, and shoved her nose into a cushion.

Difficult as it was, she knew she'd been correct in severing her ties with Ryan. They had a few hot and heavy weeks that she'd never forget, and if he were to ever divorce his wife,she'd welcome him into her life with wide open arms. But she couldn't be that woman; the other woman. The dangerous notion of it had aroused her at first, intrigued her, held her interest... but she wouldn't ruin a happy marriage for a question mark.

♥♥♥