Throwing my hands wide, I give myself to the song, selling it for all it’s worth. I add in jazz hands because every performance is that much better with a little shimmy.

Blue Eyes begins to clap and egg me on, while the young woman—who quickly hurried to the other end of the room—laughs into her hands.

By the time I’m standing on the chair, doing some weird version of the bump and belting out how I will survive, Karen is in the room, red faced and huffing. From the doorway comes enthusiastic clapping, and I find North and another man watching. North gives me a thumbs-up, which earns him a glare from Karen.

Given that I’m standing on the world’s narrowest chair, my curtsy isn’t as grand as it could be.

Karen steps forward, flailing as if she’s torn between pulling at her hair or me. “What are you doing?” It comes out in a loud hiss of sound.

Sweating and panting, I jump down from my perch. “Warming up the pipes,” I tell her. “However, I’m much better with an accompanist.”

“You are not amusing, Baker.”

“That’s Ms. Baker to you. And neither is waiting for endless hours just so you can try to put me in my place.” I take a drink from my bottled water. “Now, give me the damn scripts before I start in on show tunes, and believe me, I know them all.”

I have a stack of scripts in my hands in ten seconds flat.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Macon

SweetTot: I’m looking through your social media pages.

Delilah left with North about an hour ago. I welcomed the reprieve, knowing she was still pissed at me yet having no idea how to fix it. I take it as a good sign that she’s actually texting. Then again, she might just be bored.

Miss me already?

Yeah, I’m counting the seconds until I see you again. [Insert eye roll here]

Laughing lightly, I respond.

Hide behind eye rolls all you like. I know the truth, Tot.

Uh-huh. Seriously, though, Macon, your accounts are a disaster.

What’s wrong with them?

Personally, I thought they were okay given that I hate maintaining them and feel like a fool every time I post.

They’re so wooden and stilted. And OLD. You never update!

What did you expect? I AM wooden and stilted. And I hate updating.

You forgot old. You’re old too.

A snort echoes in the silence of my living room. I sit back in my chair and get more comfortable.

I’m a few months older than you so . . .

In spirit, Macon. You’re old in spirit.

It’s not the years, it’s the mileage.

She responds with an eye-roll emoji. Don’t quote Indy. You are no Professor Jones.

I bite back a grin like she might see me, even though she’s far away.