Page 8 of Holding Hope

I shook my head. “It’s okay.” It wasn’t. But the moment was too raw to replicate. “Come on,” she said, pulling two ivory chess pieces from her pocket. “Let’s finish the night.”

I laughed. “Have you had those the whole time?”

“Maybe.”

“Isn’t that cheating?”

“Only if you tell. You’re not a snitch, are you?”

“Scout’s honor.”

She held out her hand. I took it—eagerly.

“What else do you have planned?” I asked.

A mischievous smile curved her lips. “Aunt Brie has a dirty old karaoke machine behind the DJ booth. I think it’s time we put it to good use.”

Okay, maybe I exaggerated when I said the karaoke machine was old. It wasn’t old—just well-loved in the year and a half Aunt Brie had owned it.

“Good lord almighty, Avalon, this is beautiful.” Clarke looked genuinely awestruck as she ran her hand over the sleek black-and-silver frame, tracing the Pit’s logo like it was something sacred.

“Aunt Brie had it custom-made by some guy in Italy or France. Cost her half a fortune, and then she just let it sit here.” I rolled the dolly onto the stage.

Clarke followed, microphones in hand, her heeled cowboy boots clicking against the wood. I’d grown used to that sound over the weekend—it meant she was near. It meant my nerves would start sparking like faulty wiring. It meant my curiosity sharpened like a cat’s. She was an enigma—a puzzle begging to be solved.

“Avalon Kennedy, that better not be my seventeen-thousand-dollar karaoke machine,” Aunt Brie called. I didn’t turn, but I could hear the smile in her voice.

“You’ve got to put this thing to use, Aunt Brie.”

“It is in use. As a seventeen-thousand-dollar decoration. Possibly a family heirloom.”

“If you can find anyone to put up with your antics,” I muttered.

“What was that?”

“I love you!” I shouted, earning fist bumps and shouts from a group of frat boys. One yelled, “Take your top off during the chorus!”

And people wondered why I punched paparazzi.

As I plugged in the machine, I heard Aunt Brie and Clarke whispering behind me—again. Hushed. Intent. Important. And absolutely impossible for Aunt Brie to keep secret for long. I remembered my eighth birthday, when my cousins planned a surprise party where everyone dressed as an “iconic” version of me. Aunt Brie spoiled it by asking which version she should be.

Needless to say, I showed up dressed as Mick Jagger.

“Okay, which song should we do first?” Clarke bounced up to me, hair springing around her face.

“We?” I took one microphone and set it in the stand. “Oh no. This is all you, Texas.” She scowled—adorably—and bit her lip. My eyes dropped to her mouth before I could stop them. I thought about brushing my thumb over her lip, about kissing her again, about— Nope. Not happening.

“If I sing one alone, will you sing one with me after?” she asked.

I pretended to consider. “What’s in it for me?”

She stepped closer, the microphone the only thing between us. “I can think of a few things you might like.” Her voice dipped, her breath brushing my cheek. “Some of which require a lot less clothing.”

I leaned in—and she stepped back.

I would’ve face-planted if she hadn’t grabbed my jacket.

“Don’t believe everything you hear about Texas sweethearts,” she teased. “Just because I like pink doesn’t mean I’m a pillow princess.”