“Do you think she’ll come?”
Jason hasn’t taken his eyes off the door all night.
The Anchor is packed. Regulars. Doctors off shift. Fishers and seasoned boaters. I prefer this crowd over tourist season. They drink stouts, laugh heartily, and have that same sun-leather skin my dad had.
The Anchor is a haven for locals, which is why it’s my go-to spot. The walls are a dark, polished oak, decorated festively with mistletoe and pine. They’ve got booths, round tables, a pool table, and a couple of muted TVs with an eye on the Times Square ball drop. There’s also a stage, where they’re doing karaoke all night long. So far, it’s been a lot of Billy Joel and Jimmy Buffett.
I’ve been hanging out by the bar, where Maria is bartending. But it’s hard to enjoy my discounted cabernet and the fourth rendition of “Piano Man” when Jason keeps pacing, looking for Kenzi.
I haven’t seen him this glum in a while. He looks good tonight—he’s wearing a button-up that stretches across his biceps, top buttons released enough to show off a sliver of chest underneath. Black pants that rest snug on his hips.
He could have his pick of the litter for his New Year’s kiss. He’s already gotten lingering stares from every woman at the Anchor.
But he’s laser focused, eyes on the door. Waiting for her to walk in.
“She’ll come, right?” he says. “I mean, it’s New Year’s.”
“You need a fucking fidget spinner,” I tell him. “Settle down.”
He slumps against the bar. Looking like a kicked dog.
I sigh. “Enjoy yourself. Sing a song. That will make you feel better.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
And then the song changes—an instant rapid-fire drum solo—and the light turns back on in Jason’s eyes.
“Oh fuck! I love this song!”
Sometimes, he has the attention span of a toddler. Just need to distract him with a shiny set of keys to get him to perk up.
“Up next, Jason King with ‘One Week,’” the announcer says.
Jason blinks at me. “Did you put me on the set?”
I shrug, answering without answering. “Knock ’em dead.”
His grin lights up his whole face. “Love you, man.”
“Love you, too.”
I lean back against the bar and watch him take the stage.
It doesn’t matter that his heart is hurting. Jason King always comes alive for an audience. He takes the microphone, gets into a Michael-Jackson-esque pose, and immediately the Anchor gets noisy with whoops and claps.
I can’t help the grin that climbs my face as I watch him light up the crowd.
“Listen to him,” I hear a grumble behind me. “Sounds like a bag of cats getting choked to death.”
I turn. Nick is at the bar, along with two of his pug-faced cronies. Nick is one of the few locals. He and Jason used to be best friends growing up. Only Jason changed. Nick never did. He’s still the same bitter bully he’s always been. Only now he works as a waiter at the marina restaurant and shucks clams in the summer—a lifestyle that makes him rougher and constantly smelling like cigarette smoke. Currently, he’s hunched over his pint, cackling at Jason’s expense.
Jason might be an idiot. But he’s my idiot.
Only I get to insult him.
“Hey.” I flash Nick a razor-sharp smile. “Be like Bambi.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “What?”
“If you’ve got nothing nice to say, shut your mouth?”
“Or what?” His hand tightens around his pint.
Smoothly, I inform him, “I can break your fingers and reset the bones in thirty seconds as though nothing happened. Don’t test me.”
The color falls from Nick’s face. “Whatever,” he says. I relish in the scent in his fear as he sulks away.
“Since when did you become the one who threatens violence?”
To my left, Kenzi appears. As if out of nowhere. My heart kicks.
“You showed up.” I state the obvious, like an idiot.
She leans against the bar and lifts her eyebrows at me. “I thought beating people up was Jason’s schtick.”
“Yeah, well. He became a guru.”
“And you?”
“The student became the master.”
Her eyes following Jason’s performance across the stage. “He wasn’t lying about the karaoke. Is he…really going to take off his shirt?”
“Yeah. He’s a performer.”
God, she looks beautiful. The deep green of her dress brings out the color of her eyes. She pulled her dark hair back in a messy braid, like it was something she whipped together while running out the door. Something about the rawness of her look right now strikes a chord in me.
Maria comes over, and the two women greet each other. “Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year! Where is Diego?”
“With his aunt. What can I get you?”
“A pinot noir, please.”
“Put it on my tab,” I tell Maria.
“Thanks.” Kenzi’s gaze turns back to Jason. He’s in the grand finale, and he’s got half the bar on their feet, singing along with him. His charisma is infectious. Despite herself, a smile reaches her eyes. “God, he’s something, isn’t he?”
“He is that.” I side-eye her. “Are you going to sing one?”
She raises her eyebrows at me. “Me? No way. I still have the worst stage fright.”
“Do you still write?”
At that question, she looks at me blankly. “What?”
“Your music.”
She blinks and then says, “No one’s asked me about that in a while. Uh…no. Not really. I guess other things just…took precedence.”
“You should get back into it,” I say, and she scoffs, so I press, “It was really good.”
“For a teenager.”
“For anyone.”
There’s that smile, a little of Kenzi’s old mischief trickling back in. “Hey,” she says, “thank you for my present.”
“Good, huh?”
She smiles. A secret smile that makes my blood rush.
“Very,” she says.
“Good. Now I know what to get for White Elephant next year.”
She laughs at that. All at once, it hits me in the chest—Jason wasn’t the only one waiting on pins and needles for her to show up. I’m glad she’s here.
“Kenzi!” Jason finishes his set and practically barrels through the crowd to get to her. Her back goes stiff when he approaches, and he comes to a halt in front of her, hair slightly mussed from his performance, big, dopey grin on his mouth. He took off his shirt during the performance, and now it hangs in his hand. His muscles practically glisten with the light sweat. “Fuck, you look good,” he says, which is when I realize I wish I’d told her that.
“Thanks,” she says. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. I can tell she’s trying to look anywhere but his bare chest.
“Is Otto here?”
“He had a long day. Went to bed early.”
“What’s the saying? When the mice are asleep or something?” He waves over Maria. “Let me get you a drink.”
She taps her glass. “Already got one.”
“That’s cool. Maria! Shots! Please and thank you.”
He’s a ball of energy, a Labrador with a tennis ball. I’ve never seen him trip over his feet to impress a girl before. I rein him in when Maria pours all three of us tequila shots. Already, my liver hurts, but I take it anyway. “C’mon. Let’s toast.”
“What are we drinking to?” Kenzi asks. “The new year?”
“And the old years,” Jason responds.
“The return of the muskrats,” I say, and they both agree to that with a “hear, hear” as the three of us clink glasses.
