A few minutes later, Abram and Terry get called up to the stage. They’re already right there in front of it, hunting through the prop box that sits atop one of the speakers. Terry selects the Steve Martin–inspired cap-with-arrow-sticking-through-it, which doesn’t get any funnier when he slaps it on his head. Abram looks over at me and points to his stuffed-frog hat like, This okay? I smile supportively and give him a thumbs-down.

The music starts. As soon as the boys begin dancing, bending their knees to the rhythm, I’m laughing. Abram takes on the first part of the Righteous Brother with the lower register, blowing a kiss toward me when he sings the “kiss your lips” line. And then Terry really goes for the gusto, in a musical styling that’s more spoken-word staccato than singing, reaching out to Linda when he belts “your fingertips.” Abram has that roadkill-in-headlights look on his face where he’s realizing his partner sucks and he wasn’t really prepared to carry the entire performance load on his own shoulders. Linda’s about to feel the same way. They make it through with a lot of help from the forgiving crowd, and when Abram bounds off the stage toward me, I can’t stop myself from kissing him. Just a peck, but it’s enough to draw a few whistles from Terry the One-Man Peanut Gallery that I barely notice.

“Angela Buckley going once, going twice … okay, I need Juliette and Linda up to the stage, please,” the DJ says in a voice that’s trying to be more excited than it really is. “Juliette and Lindaaaaaaa.”

Linda takes my hand in a defiant display of girl power, reminding me to hold my head high and pretend whatever happens is intentional. We go forth into the fog billowing up from the smoke machine, the boys hooting and hollering about what’s in store for the room.

I wrap my hand around the smooth throat of my mic stand like I’m about to strangle it. Linda walks behind hers and starts adjusting it like she’s <insert dark-haired songstress in her age demographic>. Linda Ronstadt? She could be the real Linda Ronstadt for all I know.

The music starts and the prompter reveals what the boys have chosen for us: “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).” Um, that isn’t even a duet. Linda was right; we should’ve falsetto’d them over with the Bee Gees.

Linda has an in-tune voice with an abundance of vibrato that makes the line “up in da club” sound like it was borrowed from a religious education song. At least her shoes are cute. Mine? Louboutins, thanks for asking. Got them from the Salvation Army, of all places.

My turn. I’m singing. It’s weird. If I had to describe my voice in two words, I’d go with “mousegirl rasp.” Not “Kelly Clarkson,” which is what Linda compares it to during the instrumental break. I’m having too much fun to make fun of myself.

ABRAM

PEOPLE MIGHT NOT CHANGE very often, but they can still surprise you. Almost every rough edge in Juliette’s voice gets filed down when she’s singing. There’s a soul to her tone and nary a note goes flying off where it shouldn’t. She even manages to make Linda’s contributions sound like they’re supposed to be there.

“My wife has a lot of gifts,” Terry says, “but the gift of music ain’t one of ’em.”

The girls rush off the stage, and I’m so proud of Juliette I have to kiss her several times. I tell her how amazing she is, because she is, and that she should consider trying out for a reality show. She laughs it off, saying it’d be way too easy for the producers to give her the crazy-girl edit. I kiss her again, her options still very much open in my book, except when it comes to me. Not fair that anything would ever try to pass itself off as more important than us and this, but that’s life, I guess—a bunch of crap competing for your attention when the best things are right in front of your face.

“Get a timeshare, you two!” Terry calls out from the sidelines, but he says it after we’re finished having our own-little-world moment.

38

Juliette

BACK AT OUR TABLE, Terry just gave the Best Performance Award to Abram and himself. Linda’s arguing about it, and I’m confused by why she’s chosen this exact moment to start taking him seriously. If it makes her feel any better, she’s a shoo-in for the Drunkest Person Award.

“Gulls’ room?” I ask Linda, and Abram’s impressed by my using the restaurant’s bathroom terminology. She nods, shooting her Buoy, Terry, one last glare. He acts like he’s scared, but not really, and her cheeks turn Scarlett O’Hara with fury again. She starts heading in the direction opposite the bathrooms, almost falls headfirst over the Poop Deck, so I hold her hand and guide her the rest of the way. She should definitely take one of the silver food buckets home and place it next to her bedside.

“Jesus God, I really have to pee,” she tells me with a desperate look on her face. I hold the door for her. Inside, Linda can’t decide if she can stomach the idea of doing her lady biz in a public stall, so she tries to distract herself by fixing her makeup. Seconds later, she’s sprinting for the toilet. Deep down, we’re all four years old. She begins the process of taking forever, during which I enjoy the rest of my karaoke adrenaline rush and look forward to holding Abram’s strangely magnetic hand underneath the table upon our return. I’m staring at myself in the mirror when Linda emerges, feeling dirty about herself. She washes her hands several times before removing a tube of lipstick from her purse.

“Juliette, I owe you an apology,” she says, as I hand her a blotting tissue.

“Not even, you hit some incredible notes out there.”

“You’re sweet, but I mean for the other day. I got to talking about Suzy and your parents and your loss—and the whole thing was so me-me-me—I hope I didn’t make you feel bad.”

I can’t convince Linda there’s no need to be sorry, so it’s easier to just accept her third apology, which is also made straight from the bottom of her heart-shaped face. Every time I think we’re heading back, she starts talking again.

“I just can’t get over that y’all, you and Abram, are … together.”

“Yes, it’s pretty messed-up.”

“No, it’s greaaaat. It’s so great. For crying out loud, you know where Terry and I met? In the bathroom of a Piggly Wiggly. I was debating whether to use their facilities when he barged in saying the ‘men’s shitter is out of service.’ His exact words, of course.”

Of course.

Linda hesitates, muttering something about Terry being mad at her for saying this, then brings it up anyway. “It’s crazy how your mother … she just knew Abram was the right guy.”

I blink once, twice, confused. “You mean Ian?”

“No, Abram,” Linda says, smiling. “Sharon told me she thought he’d be perfect for you.”

ABRAM

“JULIETTE JUST STEPPED OUT to get some air,” Linda says, sitting down.

“Honey, it’s raining,” Terry points out.

“Well, yes, but she said she’d stand underneath the awning. I’m afraid I might’ve talked her ear off back there.”

Terry shoots me a look like he knows how painful that is. Linda throws a small piece of cheese-biscuit at his face; he tries to catch it with his mouth, almost does. A minute or two later, I call Juliette’s cell. It rings a million times, which is how I know something’s not right. She usually sends her calls straight to voice mail.

“I shouldn’t have brought up her mom,” Linda says. “I thought she might want to … never mind, I should go check on her.”

“That’s okay.” I stand up. “Please don’t take this personally, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’s already gone.”

Terry insists I take his golf-cart keys, in case I can’t find Juliette outside. “Lady Chatterley here and I were planning on closin’ down this joint, anyway,” he says, putting his arm around Linda. I thank the two of them for dinner and rush outside, find the golf cart parked beside a BMW like a regular car. The rain pounds onto the canvas roof above me. And Juliette’s out there somewhere, without me to hold the umbrella for her, alone with her darkest thoughts.