The beat hits and I know what’s coming. I remember the first time I heard this song. I was laid over in Paris, in civilization for twenty-hour hours. Long enough to shower, eat hot food, and hear Lyle’s song about his breakup with Shelby played a hundred times. The one where he plays the victim and makes her out to be some devious cheater.

Marcella sang backup, if I recall. No one even knew she could sing. It launched her mediocre pop career.

“Sing your heart out, Shelby!” I glance to the right and Maren’s back from her table of guys. Her fan club cheers and whistles along with her.

“Fuck that fucker!” Lorelai shouts, and even though it’ll be cut, I’m grateful. Shelby holds her hands up to see through the lights and winks.

The first verse starts up and Marcella takes it. Swerving her hips, pouting her lips, and playing to the crowd. She’s not a great singer, but she makes up for it in showmanship. My hands squeeze at my sides and my shoulders tense. I lock eyes with Shelby, willing her to shine. Pointing to her and then my chest, I mouth, “Just you and me.”

She takes a deep breath and raises her mic, not bothering with the lyrics. Because of course she knows this fucking song. It’s probably tattooed on the jagged pieces of her heart.

Except she’s not broken anymore, and those jagged pieces are my responsibility now. Shelby pulls off her denim jacket, swinging it around and tossing it to Lorelai, revealing sexy shoulders, carved from all the heavy lifting and sanding she does. She’s dancing along to the lyrics like she’s memorized the choreography, better than any backup dancer. She shimmies, sways, and pops, all while belting vocals like the sunshine child star she was. Marcella tries to take back the spotlight, but if Shelby notices, she doesn’t show it. The crowd is losing their minds. She gets to the instrumental break before the final verse and she’s looking through the crowd. “Where’s Cameron Riggs? This song requires real vocals.”

The insinuation that Lyle’s original vocals weren’t that great isn’t lost on me or anyone else, if the tight expression on Lyle’s face is any indication.

Or maybe that’s the Botox.

I’ll be honest. I don’t care if they ever use this footage. All I want is Lyle to see me sing his stupid fucking song and sing it better.

I jump the steps and Marcella, knowing she’s beat, passes me her mic. Kevin whistles like a fangirl as I roll my sleeves up and stand next to Shelby.

I lean over, and in a low voice, I ask, “Remember that ‘Best Girl’ choreography?”

She snorts. “How could I forget?”