Shy (11 page)

“Now we're up,” Granville says.

I try to swallow past what feels like a bowling ball in my throat. “Shit. I just can't do this, Granville.”

“Yes, you can.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the space where people sing karaoke, toward the side of the Old Grind's front counter. He tells the guy who operates the program what song we want to sing. The intro chords play, and Granville and I stand close together, facing the audience. He's holding the mic. He starts to sing the song. I open my mouth with every intention of joining in, but I catch the hard gazes of several people in the audience who are looking at me speculatively, skeptically. Hell. They've already pegged me for a shy loser. And they're right. God, they're right. Why did I let Granville talk me into this?

He puts his arm around me and continues to sing the song as it moves into the chorus. I've already missed the first verse, and people are smiling at Granville, enjoying his performance, while giving me glances as though to say,
What the hell is she doing up there with him?
He's doing a really great job. None of the guys in Fleetwood Mac could do any better. He gives me a sideways look, nothing but warmth and encouragement in his expression, as though to say,
You can do it. Go for it. Just sing with me.

Okay. It can't be worse than standing up here like a lump. I start singing the chorus along with him, softly, with my eyes closed. Granville's voice dominates over mine, but it's fine. It even sounds good. Then I think, maybe, since I'm singing so softly, I could add a harmony to what he's singing and it would sound cool. I start doing it, thinking, hey, this just might just work.

A loud stage whisper to my right reaches my ears. “What does that mousy little girl think she's doing?”

My eyes pop open, and I see, standing in front of Granville and me, a tall, slender, gorgeous girl, a bit older than me, with long, curly black hair down to her waist, heavy eyeliner around gorgeous black eyes, and bright red lipstick. She's wearing black from head to toe, although given the scant amount of skin covered up, it's generous to say
head to toe
. Her skin is almost ivory. She's beautiful, incredible-looking, even, except the look in her eyes, which is far from beautiful.

It's ugly. And mocking.

She thinks I suck. And she's doing her best to let me know it.

I stop singing while Granville continues. But he's looking at her, too. It isn't admiration in his gaze, though, but something strange—something that looks like dread. To my horror, she comes up to us, stands on Granville's other side, and joins him in the chorus after the second verse of the song. Holy hell, she has an amazing voice. Powerful. Rich. Gorgeous. She sounds like she could be somebody famous.

For all I know, she
is
somebody famous.

She blows me away. Even if I sang for a thousand years, she would always blow me away. In the pit of my stomach, I realize beyond any doubt the horrible truth: I don't have the personality to sing for audiences. I don't have sufficient singing talent or technique. And I don't have enough charisma to do it well. I don't have any of those necessities, not really. I've been kidding myself.

Screw this scene. I've got to get out of here. How, I don't know, because I came with Granville. I could call my mom, but I'd rather die than face her right now, following the most horrible humiliation I've endured in my life, and all because of my miserable, rotten shyness. No, I'll call a cab. It's worth the expense not to have to face Mom and to get the hell away from here before I'm humiliated even further.

The song finishes, and it's only the girl who's singing now. I don't know where Granville is, maybe he's trying to follow me or find me, but it doesn't matter because I've ducked into the ladies' room, where he won't follow. I call information to find the number for the local cab company, then I call for a cab. I stay in the restroom until I figure the cab will be waiting outside. When I leave the ladies' room, I don't see any sign of either Granville or the girl with the long, black hair. That's good. I don't know what's going on between them, and I don't want to know. Forget it.

When I get in the cab, I tell the driver to take me to UT. The campus isn't far away from the Old Grind, so it's a mercifully short ride. Soon, I'm back in my dorm room, all alone. No roommate—she goes home for the weekend. I don't know the other girls on the floor well enough to talk to even if I wanted to share my misery with them. My rotten shyness isolates me. No more Granville in my life after this, surely. I've let him down. I've disappointed him, after all the care, encouragement, and time he put into me.

God, I miss Jake.

He would call me Wildflower and hug me and tell me everything will be okay, to not let the bastards get me down.

But he isn't there for me anymore, either.

I lay down on my bed and sob. There isn't anything else to do.

Rowan is standing next to me, singing the chorus of “Dreams.” What a nightmare! I sure didn't expect this. But if Rowan had been sneaking around while Frannie and I were making plans, she would have overheard. I didn't think about Rowan when I asked Frannie to do this.

I guess I underestimated her willingness and her ability to make trouble.

Stupid thing to do, when it comes to a girl who thrives on stirring the pot.

She keeps singing, but I move away to follow Frannie. Rowan grabs my arm to keep me beside her, but I shake it off. There are too many people between Frannie and me, though, and I lose sight of her. No, there she is. She's going into the women's bathroom. To hide from me, I guess.

I won't ambush her when she comes out. Not a good idea to try to talk to her here. She's already overwhelmed. I'll wait an hour or so, let her calm down, then I'll call. If she doesn't answer her phone, then I'll text. But I must contact her, somehow, tonight. I'll never forget the expression she had on her face when Rowan came onto the scene. She looked absolutely crushed.

I can't imagine why Rowan would do such a thing unless she just can't stand that I'm interested in someone else. Maybe her ego just can't handle the idea of me being interested in a girl who is her polar opposite. Regardless, I'm devastated for Frannie. It's horrible for someone like her to be publicly humiliated in such an ugly way. Rowan called her
mousy
. That's probably another word Frannie hates, up there with
shy
, except anyone who would think of her as mousy would have to be blind and have no more sensitivity than a rock. She's luminous, lovely, almost otherworldly. I've never known anyone like her. She's already a musical powerhouse inside, and with love and encouragement in the right ways, she could let it out, let it fly, and light up the world.

But now, she's gone.

The song ends and now it's someone else's turn. Doesn't matter. I wish I'd never suggested this. I guess it was too soon. I got swept up in the glow of how Frannie was warming to my encouragement. But singing for a friend and singing for an audience are two very different things. It's hard for me to relate to, personally, since I'm nowhere near shy. I know something about shyness from my sister Hetty's struggles. I think she and Frannie would get along very well.

But they won't ever meet unless I can patch things up with Frannie. That's number one priority for me tonight. After I give her a chance to cool her jets.

I sit down at a corner table in the Old Grind, only to groan when I see Rowan headed my way. She smiles at me in what I'm sure she thinks is a sexy way and sits down next to me. After what she did to Frannie, there's no way I'd ever find anything about Rowan sexy ever again.

“That was a disgusting thing you did,” I tell her.

“She was making an idiot out of herself. I did the right thing and put her out of her misery. She doesn't need to be singing for an audience. She's not the type.”

“It's not up to you to determine anybody else's choices.”

“It's a merciful end to a hopeless situation,” she says, utterly merciless.

“Why are you doing this, anyway? It's just crazy.” Then I remember who I'm talking to. Rowan, while mega-talented, doesn't exactly have a reputation for sanity and groundedness. “But I also know you're better than this,” I tell her, hoping it's so. “You're a very talented person with a lot going for you, and you don't have to act like you did tonight. It's cruel and it's hateful.”

She leans closer to me. “You know I didn't want us to split. We were so good together, you know? Sex. Music. All of it. We were unbeatable. Unstoppable. We could have been huge. A music legend. But you let it go.”

“You did a lot to make me want to let it go,” I say, remembering the screaming fights, the histrionics, the drama and trauma and how she couldn't be relied on for the simplest thing. And yes, I recall, too, her wild talent. She's amazing, yes. But no more amazing than Frannie, and a lot more high maintenance. And the longer we stayed together and tried to make it all work, the more it fell apart. The more
she
fell apart.

“I got with Raw Reefer to make you jealous,” she says. “But they're not a very good band, and they're starting to bore me. I always figured you'd come back to me. We're too good together for you not to come back.”

She's right, we were good together, musically and sexually. But her instability threw everything to the winds. If she'd been grounded, solid, things might have been magnificent.

If she'd been more like Frannie.

“And then you hook up with this little mousy, shy nothing,” she says viciously. “I could pour salt on her and eat her anytime I wanted, whether as a musician or a woman.”

I seriously doubt that, but I don't say it out loud. It would only rile her further, and I don't want to sit here for another hour listening to Rowan's delusions. I want to find Frannie. Talk to her. Make things okay again. Make her believe in me again and, most importantly, make her believe in herself.

“Rowan, I've got to go.” Before she can offer another protest or say anything else at all, I'm up, away from the table, and heading out the door. I'll go to my apartment and wait a little while, then try to call Frannie and hook up with her at a more private place to talk things out.

No, scratch that. After I give her a little more time to cool down, I'll go to her dorm to see if she'd like to go somewhere quiet with me. Hopefully, she'll say yes and we can straighten things out.

My cell phone goes off. It's got to be Granville. Question is, do I want to talk to him?

Lying on my bed, I grab my phone from my desk and check the display. My eyes widen in surprise.

It's Jake.

My heart beats double-time. “Hello?”

“Wildflower.”

What a joy to hear his deep voice again! It touches me like a warm, sweet breeze following an arctic blast. “Oh, Jake.” My voice trails off in a sob.

“I've missed you, Wildflower.” His voice enfolds me in warmth, comfort, and solidity. Always Jake, always him. He's been there for me for so many years, and despite everything, he still is. “What's the matter, babe?”

He called me
babe
. Sobs burst from me. “It's been an awful night. Please. Come and get me. I need to be with you.”

“Right away,” he says without even asking what's wrong. He doesn't need to. He'll find out when we talk.

I lay on my bed, sobbing into my pillow, partly in anger and humiliation over what happened tonight, and partly in relief that Jake is coming. He'll soon be here and I'll soon be in his arms. It's all going to be okay. I might be a loser in most people's eyes and even in my own eyes, but never in Jake's.

Ever.

He doesn't live far away. He, Ty, and Kelsey share an apartment in downtown Knoxville, not far from campus. There's nothing in the world I want more than to feel Jake's arms around me, feel his cheek nuzzling mine, and maybe feel his lips on mine.

Oh, I need him so badly.

He probably had a gig tonight, but it's late enough for it to be over and done with. As far as I'm concerned, he can take me to his apartment and never bring me back. I'm worn out, heartbroken, and I need to be with someone who makes me feel like a worthwhile human being again. Granville did for a while, to be sure, and he was becoming a good friend and maybe more than that, but now, when I think of him, all I can see is the Girl in Black, ultra-talented, ultra-sexy, and ultra-disdainful of me. How can he possibly be interested in me when he has a girl like that in his life?

He'll probably call, though. He's been too good to me to just walk away after what happened. I won't answer his call while I'm with Jake, though. I could use some space from Granville for a while, though I'm certainly still open to being his friend. He's been kind to me, and he's a wonderful guy. It's not his fault that the Girl in Black pulled what she did, though I'm sure it showed him how hopeless I am.

It isn't long until my phone plays Beethoven, announcing a text. Jake is here to pick me up. I go out the side door, and there's the Hickory Hollow Mobile, parked in front of my dorm building. I climb in and scoot straight across the bench seat into the circle of his arms. He holds me close, rubbing my back gently. I can't help it. I cry. Loudly. I can't hold back. His caring touch opens my floodgates, my frustration at failing so badly tonight and at being shown up by a girl who, though spiteful and cruel, has more singing talent in her little finger than I could if you cloned me a million times. I'll never amount to anything more than sad, sorry little Frannie who's never noticed, never commended, and who never makes waves in any appreciable or notable way.

He strokes my long hair and his big fingers linger at the small of my waist, tracing gentle little circles. “Sweet Wildflower. I'm here. I'm not going away.”

I cuddle closer to him. Oh, how I love bench seats! Granville's spiffy BMW just can't compete with Jake's old truck in cuddle capability. Jake brushes his lips across my forehead, then he pulls back a bit, enough to look in my eyes. The streetlights highlight the rugged angles and planes of his face. “You want to go to my place?” He pauses just a moment, then adds, “Ty and Kelsey are out for the night.”