New York Billionaires Series

When we hang up, I’m tempted to call it a day. To go to bed with the memory of her words and voice in my ear. To let it soothe me like it has so many times before.

But there’s one more thing to do.

I don’t let myself consider what I’m doing as I make the call. The woman’s voice is surprised on the other side.

“Anthony Winter?” Layla asks.

“Yes, it’s me. Hello,” I say. “I understand if you’re surprised to hear from me.”

“I am,” she admits. “Not to mention curious. Something tells me you’re not calling about our date from two months ago.”

“No, I’m actually calling about something you said. Something you… well.” I clear my throat. “Do you have the time to take on a new patient?”

Her silence is stunned. But then a professional note bleeds through her voice. “You want to see me as a therapist.”

“I do, yes. If you’d be comfortable with that.”

“I would,” she says. “I have space.”

The last thing I do that night surprises even myself. But as I dig out the discarded notepad and find a pen, I sit down by my kitchen table and think of Summer. Of her words and her view on life, on the infectious optimism that colors her world. I stare at the blank piece of paper and let it all wash over me.

And then I write the heading.

Bucket list.

My mind is absolutely blank, and beneath my blouse, cold sweat coats my skin. It’s a wonder if I’ll remember any of the lyrics.

Posie leans against my shoulder. “He’s really good,” she whispers.

He is, I think, though I haven’t paid much attention to the singer on the makeshift stage. He’s playing an acoustic guitar, and while his voice sounds like he’s had four whiskeys too many, it gives more gravitas to his words. The entire bar is rocking along.

“Your voices would sound great together,” Posie murmurs.

I nod and force out a thoughtful hmm. On my other side, Brittany is whispering to Ella, and if I had to guess, they’re wondering if the singer is single. It’s all normal. This is a situation Posie and I put ourselves in often, once. Sometimes on a weekly basis. We couldn’t get enough of performing.

The voice of doubt in my head isn’t my own. It’s Robin’s manipulative, derisive comments.

And they need to be drowned out.

Posie must sense my nerves, because the next I know, there’s a giant glass of water in front of me. I drain half of it and clear my throat.

We’d spent an evening practicing, the two of us in her apartment like old times. Only, once upon a time I would have been in flip-flops, the couch would’ve been secondhand, and her guitar case had been covered in band stickers.

We’ve grown up since then.

Whiskey-Voice finishes to an applause that brings down the house. He looks stunned by the response, but bows his head, half-smiling, and steps off the stage.Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

This is it.

Nerves feel like a ball in my throat, choking me. I won’t get a single sound out.

“This is us,” Posie whispers.

My muscles move without conscious thought from me, disconnected, taking me up the stage amidst scattered, encouraging applause. I have to lower the mic from Whiskey-Voice, and focusing on that instead of the crowd is good. So is clearing my throat and looking at Posie. I don’t need to sing to all of these people. I just need to sing to her and the tune of her guitar.

But as I scan the crowd, looking for that one face I hope is here, I know they’re waiting for more.

They want an introduction.

“Hi,” I croak. The silence stretches on and laughs spread, as if I’m doing this on purpose. I crack a smile and the laughs increase. They fortify me. “Come on, guys. I’m not here to do stand-up.”

The lights are dimmed, and as the terror inside me locks itself into a tiny ball, memories take over. I’ve done this before. This is my thing.

“Well, we’ve got a tough act to follow,” I say, looking at Whiskey-Voice. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

He pretends to take a bow amidst chuckles. I smile, finding my footing. “But we’ll give it our best shot. My name is Summer, and this is Posie.”

She gives a little wave.

“What’s better than the radio hits of today?” I ask. “The answer? All of them. Played at the same time. Why don’t you see how many you can recognize?”

I nod to Posie, and she starts to play, her hand moving over the strings of her guitar. Familiar notes drift out. I open my mouth and close my eyes, and the words come.

They sneak their way past the fear, and they don’t sound any worse for it. I sing, watching the reactions of the crowd, until we’re one. Me singing, them listening, all of us in the moment together.

They take notice when I shift into another song, picking out the chorus of a dancehall hit. A sharp chord change and we shift again, drifting effortlessly into a popular ballad.

Laughs ring out when we include two sentences from a well-known rap song. The harmonies from that drift into the chorus of the summer’s hottest hit, and I sing, my heel tapping along to the beat. I’m made up of energy, so much of it, seeing the delight in their eyes and becoming one with the song.

That’s when I spot him.

He’s in the back, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are on me. I look at his dear face and feel my voice take on a life of its own, the words effortless, and it’s him I’m singing to now. He smiles, like he hears it too.

The performance ends sooner than I’m prepared for. The last note rings out and people erupt into applause, some scattered laughs and a high-pitched bravo! tossed our way.

Posie and I give identical, theatrical bows. Grin at each other as we step off the stage on giddy legs. She pulls me in for a hug, and I grip her back. “That was so much fun!”

Her nod against my shoulder is vigorous, and she’s grinning when she leans back. “They loved it.”

They did, it seems. Two guys give us a great job on the way back to our seats and the bartender is already there, setting down a complimentary tray of shots for us and our friends.

My friends stand for hugs. I reciprocate, but my eyes are on the tall shadow in the back.

“Summer?” Posie asks. “Do you want your shot?”

“I’ll be right back,” I say, already moving through the throngs of people. Someone murmurs that I have a great voice, and I beam at them in thanks.

Finally, there’s no one between us.