He had an expression on his face she wasn’t sure she’d seen before, or knew how to read. The word that flashed through her mind was sad, but surely her singing wasn’t that terrible. Was it?
This was her issue with most Christmas movies, books, songs, whatever. Either they were depressing as hell—“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” for example, made her feel nostalgic and tender from the first line. Or they were ostensibly happy, about the importance of family and togetherness during the season, and that only made her feel more alone than ever.
“Blue Christmas,” in retrospect, had been a real mistake in this fragile mood she was in, and now she was supposed to sing the third verse. But instead she wanted to hug Asa so bad it was a physical ache. To hold him, and be held by him.
She started toward him before a burst of feedback from the microphone sent her stumbling back. John leaned over to her, still playing his guitar. “You okay?” he asked.
She tried to nod but had no idea if her head made the right movement. Suddenly, she felt so tired. She sat down cross-legged on the ground, bringing the microphone back up to her mouth. “Nobody drink the punch,” she said. “It is very, very strong. You’d be better off drinking antifreeze.”
Asa was above her from this vantage point, backlit by the overhead fluorescent lights, so she couldn’t see his expression anymore. Probably for the best, considering that last time she’d checked he’d been looking at her like she was the most tragic person he’d ever seen.
She gestured in his general direction, fumbling the microphone to her other hand. “Which I have now! Thanks, Asa. You never know when your car might overheat.”
John moved toward her again, and she waved him away, not wanting him to cut her off just yet. “This place is so special,” she said. “It really is. Let’s give it up for Dolores, everybody!”
At first, the applause was faint and uncertain, but eventually people were clapping in earnest, a few whoops and cheers coming from the back. Lauren felt oddly powerful, that she’d been able to summon a reaction like that all by herself. She joined in the clapping, the sound a dull thud reverberating through the microphone.
“And you’re all like a family,” she continued. “Like a big, caring family . . . that’s how it looks from down here, anyway. I’m not really good with families, so I wouldn’t know. There’s one of those things—what are they called, the I’m not a robot tests—and I keep clicking all the wrong pictures. What’s a traffic light? I can’t get in until I select every last one.”
A smattering of awkward laughter from the crowd, like they thought she was doing some kind of stand-up bit. She didn’t know what she was doing. She shielded her eyes against the lights, looking up at John.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m done. I mean, I’ll finish the song.”
To her relief, he didn’t make a big deal about her weird spoken-word interlude. Instead, he just played the vocal melody as a lead line on his guitar, giving her a nod to let her know to jump in. She sang the last two lines of the song still from her seated position on the floor, barely registering when someone took the microphone from her to pass it along to the next singer.
“Please drink responsibly,” Vance said into it. “And this should go without saying, but just in case—don’t drink antifreeze.”
The band started up the next tune, a much more upbeat version of “Santa Baby” that Sonia was attacking with off-key gusto. A hand reached down to Lauren, and she glanced up to see Asa, looking down at her with a grave expression.
“Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
Chapter
Twenty
For a second, Asa thought Lauren intended to stay on the floor for the rest of the night. But then she put her small, cold hand in his and let him pull her up, swaying slightly against his body as she found her balance. Even that incidental contact crackled up his spine, and he knew he had to be careful. His instincts wanted to gather her to him, to wrap his arms around her and not let go. But she was clearly in a vulnerable state, between the effects of that punch and whatever else was going on in her head.
He’d been surprised by what a good singing voice she had, low and husky and intimate. It had hit him right in the solar plexus, the raw yearning she’d given to a song he’d barely paid much attention to before. It felt like she’d ripped his heart out of his chest and shown it to him.
Or maybe it was her own heart. He’d been even more surprised by the things she’d said up there, in front of everyone. How Cold World was a family she felt left out of. How she would always fail the I’m not a robot tests. He hated that she felt that way, and he knew it was at least partly his fault, the way he’d always teased her.
“Why are we going to the Snow Globe?” she asked once he’d led her inside. He realized he hadn’t let go of her hand the entire time they’d been making their way to the enclosed space, but now that they were there, he had to drop it in order to hook up the machine. He’d been working on it all week, finding a way to attach it to the ceiling, a safer (and actually effective) way to plug it in. He’d tested it only briefly, but this would be the first time he’d see if it all worked the way it was supposed to.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
She shot him a dubious look, but then her eyelids fluttered closed. He switched on the machine, holding his breath until the first clusters of bubble snowflakes started falling from the ceiling.
Her face was upturned, her lashes dark on her pale cheeks, and he could see the moment she felt the first bubble hit her skin. She flinched a little, then opened her eyes, letting out a surprised laugh at the snow falling down on her.
“Oh my god,” she said. “Asa, you did it.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “You were right about the outlet,” he said. “That was why it didn’t work that night.”
“It’s so . . .” Her lashes were spiked with something that sparkled in the light, and at first he thought it was bits of the mixture that made up the snowflakes. He stepped closer to her, about to try to brush it away, to protect her against the sting of soap in her eyes. But then it tracked down her cheek, and he saw that they were tears.
“Lauren . . .” he said, and her face crumpled.
“I’m sorry,” she said, backing up when he stepped toward her. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Well, I have a few ideas. Nothing about tonight has gone the way I planned it, and I just—”
She shook her head, brushing her hand across her cheeks almost angrily, looking down as if any evidence of the tears on her skin would be a betrayal.
Asa wanted to reach for her, but he wasn’t sure if she’d welcome it, so he shoved his hands in his pockets instead. He didn’t know if she was referring to her date with Daniel, or something else. He’d noticed Daniel slip out of the party somewhere in the middle of Lauren’s song, and as much as it annoyed him to think of Daniel bailing on Lauren halfway through the night, he couldn’t deny that it had been a relief to see him go.
“I’m just tired,” she said, and something told Asa that hadn’t been her original idea for finishing that sentence. The fake snow was falling on her hair, glinting under the light for a second before dissolving into the dark strands. “Will you take me home?”
He switched off the snow machine, stalling long enough before answering that Lauren rushed to fill the silence.
“You can drive my car,” she said. “Unless you’ve also had too much to drink, but I thought . . .”
His hesitation had nothing to do with his level of inebriation—he’d had a single beer and hadn’t bothered to finish it, so he had no worries on that score. It hadn’t even been about the car situation. He was just trying to figure out where Lauren’s head was at.