The Truth

Because it’s right on the tip of my tongue, and I’m fighting the instinct to blurt it out. Over the years, we’ve shared everything with each other. Even some things we probably shouldn’t have, like that time I dared Elle to get a tattoo, and she did . . . a ‘white line’ script of ‘Eat Me’ right above her happy trail.

I held her hand through the whole laser removal procedure and made sure to never tell Daniel about it. I won’t even tell him now. But on the flip side of that coin, I’m trying not to tell Elle about Mini-Me.

If my baby daddy were anyone other than Daniel, she would’ve been my first call to help me figure out what to say and do. But their relationship adds a whole different level of complexity and means I have to figure this out on my own.

Step one? Alleviating the shrewd look Elle is currently assessing me with.

“I’m still having flashbacks of that donut drink.” The shudder of nausea that works its way through me is real and strong. “Seriously, I haven’t had anything stronger than mouthwash in weeks.”

Luckily, Elle misreads the reaction as residual hangover memories and not morning sickness, which is woefully misnamed because it’s hitting me at all hours of the day. “I think I’d like to sample that stuff sometime . . . with proper supervision,” she quickly adds. “That must’ve really done a number on you.”

“You have no idea,” I reply. We turn our attention to the stage, where people are coming up to do their thing. Like most karaoke clubs, it’s a mixed bag. You’ve got the legit singers, folks who might be church soloists or maybe in a local theater group who are out to sing their hearts out in a direction they normally can’t.

Some are performers, like the guy in his thirties on stage right now doing Garth Brooks’s Low Places. He’s not a great singer by any stretch of the imagination, but he puts so much into his performance, it’s still a great time even if I’m wincing at a few of the notes. It helps that people are singing along with him, helping out with the vibe and the notes.

“This is fun!” Harper exclaims. “Is it always like this?”

“Except on Wednesdays,” Elle says with a shudder that I echo. “Remember Heartbreak Trevor?”

“Oh, God, Trevor!” I exclaim, laughing. “I haven’t thought about him in years. I wonder if he ever found a woman with some stickiness.” At Harper’s raised eyebrow, I explain. “We would only see this guy on Wednesdays, and he had exactly one genre in his repertoire. Girly heartbreak songs. And he wailed on them.”

“Un-break my hearrrt,” Elle mimics softly before cracking up. “He was this huge guy, maybe six foot three, 300-plus pounds, looked like a linebacker, but all he ever sang were these falsetto, emotional type songs. Not laughing was risking a hernia. He was awesome and had fun with it afterward, though.”

“Well, what about you guys?” Harper asks, and Elle whips her head over to me.

“Tiffany, I dare you to get up there and sing.”

I wince. I was slow on the trigger that time. Dammit, I’m out of practice.

“What is it with the dares, anyway?” Harper asks. “Just for fun?

“Sort of,” Elle answers carefully, obviously editing a little. “We’ve got three rules. One, we don’t do stuff designed to be hurtful, of ourselves or others. Two, no sex. Three, nothing majorly illegal.”

“Majorly?”

“I may have dared Elle to floor what’s now my Camaro,” I explain. “But in my defense, it was an open road without anyone on it.”

“And we’re more mature now,” Elle says seriously, though she’s nodding her head so hard I think her brain is likely rattling against her skull and her shit-eating smile makes it obvious she doesn’t mean what she’s saying. “So . . . Tiff, I dare you to—”

“I want in!” Harper says suddenly, grinning. “Come on, I’m gettin’ married.”

“She’s right, so I’m going to pull out my modify card,” I add, whipping an invisible card out of my imaginary back pocket. “We sing.”

Which is how we end up on stage, all three of us making damn fools of ourselves on stage as we shake, sing, and dance ourselves through Bootylicious, which is the only three-part song we could find that we all know most of the lyrics to. Besides, no one cares if you miss a line of lyrics when you roll your hips and shake your ass a bit.

Laughing, we stumble back to our table, Elle patting Harper on the back. “Damn, girl, I didn’t know kindergarten teachers could do that! Ace is going to have a happy honeymoon!”

“Oh, he’s got a very happy now!” Harper brags, grinning. “But shh . . . Tiffany thinks her brother’s an innocent virgin.”

“Psssh!” I protest. “If either of you is innocent, it’s you, Harper. Or at least I thought you were. You made those cheeks clap!”