tone insistent. “I’ll do anything you need. Anything.”
“I know.” I reached behind her and grabbed a broom, trying to sweep up the dried sidewalk ice melt and sand that had migrated into our shop from the day before. “Mia?”
“Yes?”
“Can we pretend like everything’s normal?” I asked, my voice breaking. “That would really help me, I think.”
Mia’s eyes glinted with bittersweet hope, and she nodded. “Anything you want, Soph.”
JAMISON
The wind howled and whipped my plaid scarf in fifty different directions. A late night New York blizzard was making for a formidable ten o’clock walk, but I needed it after pulling a twelve-hour shift at work. I glanced up at Sophie’s apartment. Pitch black. Trudging forward, my eyes watered from the cold and my cheeks froze solid with impending windburn. Given the sub-zero temperatures, it had been a dumb idea to go for a walk.
The normally less-than-busy sidewalks were completely desolate. Everyone with half a brain was nestled warm in their apartment. A neon sign flashed the words “GREAT DUETS” in pink and yellow against near-whiteout conditions. The neighborhood karaoke bar I’d passed by a thousand times before and never thought twice about was going to soon become my refuge from the storm.
Using all my strength, I pulled the door open, fighting the wind that blew against it. Dark warmth and the jingling of the bells hanging from the door hinges greeted me as my eyes adjusted. A handful of folks situated at the bar and couple of girls seated at a table by the stage were the only patrons.
Eyes still adjusting, a small figure with long, dark hair brushed past the front of the stage, hopping up and taking the microphone as music began to play and lyrics flashed across the screen behind her.
Sophie?
Her big brown eyes closed and her delicate hands wrapped around the microphone, her lips parted and out came the sweetest, softest voice I’d ever heard. Perfect notes, one after another, floated from her pretty lips. She was in her own little world, the way I imagined she was when she painted.
I headed toward the bar, pulling off my hat and scarf and ordering a Glenlivet 18 on the rocks, unable to keep my eyes off her for long.
“She’s got a great voice, don’t she?” the bartender asked in his thick, Brooklyn accent. “Sophie Salinger. Comes in here every Thursday night.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, my eardrums flooded with the kind of richness and talent that only could only come naturally.
Each night that week I’d walked the neighborhood hoping to run into her again, and each night I had to settle for watching her from afar as she painted up a storm in her loft. I shook my head, realizing she’d completely disregarded my orders to stay off her ankle.
The bartender placed my Glenlivet on a thin paper napkin, and I wiped a rogue trickle of the golden liquid off the clean glass with my thumb.
The song finished and Sophie climbed off the stage, retreating to a small table where she sat across from a blonde who resembled the girl from the art supply store.
“You wanna sing somethin’?” the bartender asked.
My head whipped around, and I about choked on my drink. “No, no. Definitely not.”
My gaze honed in on the girls again, Sophie specifically, as I nursed my drink. I didn’t intend to stay long. I had to get up at five the next morning for work. I turned back toward the bar, hunched over my drink, and tried to finish it so I could head back home.
“Vinny! We need another round!” a girl’s voice said, sounding more than buzzed.
“No, no,” another girl’s voice argued. “I have to go home. I’m done, Vinny. No more for me. Cut her off, too.”
“Hey,” the first girl said. I ducked my face down, hoping they wouldn’t notice me. “Aren’t you that guy from the other night? Oh, my God. You are. Sophie, it’s that guy!”
Sophie looked past her, instantly recognizing my face and looking
“I know.” I reached behind her and grabbed a broom, trying to sweep up the dried sidewalk ice melt and sand that had migrated into our shop from the day before. “Mia?”
“Yes?”
“Can we pretend like everything’s normal?” I asked, my voice breaking. “That would really help me, I think.”
Mia’s eyes glinted with bittersweet hope, and she nodded. “Anything you want, Soph.”
JAMISON
The wind howled and whipped my plaid scarf in fifty different directions. A late night New York blizzard was making for a formidable ten o’clock walk, but I needed it after pulling a twelve-hour shift at work. I glanced up at Sophie’s apartment. Pitch black. Trudging forward, my eyes watered from the cold and my cheeks froze solid with impending windburn. Given the sub-zero temperatures, it had been a dumb idea to go for a walk.
The normally less-than-busy sidewalks were completely desolate. Everyone with half a brain was nestled warm in their apartment. A neon sign flashed the words “GREAT DUETS” in pink and yellow against near-whiteout conditions. The neighborhood karaoke bar I’d passed by a thousand times before and never thought twice about was going to soon become my refuge from the storm.
Using all my strength, I pulled the door open, fighting the wind that blew against it. Dark warmth and the jingling of the bells hanging from the door hinges greeted me as my eyes adjusted. A handful of folks situated at the bar and couple of girls seated at a table by the stage were the only patrons.
Eyes still adjusting, a small figure with long, dark hair brushed past the front of the stage, hopping up and taking the microphone as music began to play and lyrics flashed across the screen behind her.
Sophie?
Her big brown eyes closed and her delicate hands wrapped around the microphone, her lips parted and out came the sweetest, softest voice I’d ever heard. Perfect notes, one after another, floated from her pretty lips. She was in her own little world, the way I imagined she was when she painted.
I headed toward the bar, pulling off my hat and scarf and ordering a Glenlivet 18 on the rocks, unable to keep my eyes off her for long.
“She’s got a great voice, don’t she?” the bartender asked in his thick, Brooklyn accent. “Sophie Salinger. Comes in here every Thursday night.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said, my eardrums flooded with the kind of richness and talent that only could only come naturally.
Each night that week I’d walked the neighborhood hoping to run into her again, and each night I had to settle for watching her from afar as she painted up a storm in her loft. I shook my head, realizing she’d completely disregarded my orders to stay off her ankle.
The bartender placed my Glenlivet on a thin paper napkin, and I wiped a rogue trickle of the golden liquid off the clean glass with my thumb.
The song finished and Sophie climbed off the stage, retreating to a small table where she sat across from a blonde who resembled the girl from the art supply store.
“You wanna sing somethin’?” the bartender asked.
My head whipped around, and I about choked on my drink. “No, no. Definitely not.”
My gaze honed in on the girls again, Sophie specifically, as I nursed my drink. I didn’t intend to stay long. I had to get up at five the next morning for work. I turned back toward the bar, hunched over my drink, and tried to finish it so I could head back home.
“Vinny! We need another round!” a girl’s voice said, sounding more than buzzed.
“No, no,” another girl’s voice argued. “I have to go home. I’m done, Vinny. No more for me. Cut her off, too.”
“Hey,” the first girl said. I ducked my face down, hoping they wouldn’t notice me. “Aren’t you that guy from the other night? Oh, my God. You are. Sophie, it’s that guy!”
Sophie looked past her, instantly recognizing my face and looking
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