“I wrote a song about you,” I say, running my fingertip across her belly.
“Really?”
“It’s not a masterpiece or anything. Just a silly little ditty. But I like it.”
“Sing it!”
“I was just fooling around.”
“Sing it!”
“Okay. Don’t judge it too harshly. I was just—”
“Sing. It!”
“Okay, okay.” I get up excitedly and grab an acoustic guitar from the other room, and then settle into a chair in the corner of my bedroom. As I tune the guitar, I say, “This song will never see the light of day on an album or at a public performance. It’s just for you. My Little Lioness.”
She sits up onto her forearms, getting into prime listening position.
“In a shocking twist,” I say. “The song is called ‘Alessandra the Lioness.’”
She giggles.
“Like I said, don’t judge it too harshly.”
“Stop. I’ll love it.”
I take a deep breath, strum for a moment to collect myself, and begin to sing:
I’m a Goat called Fish
Would love to say
I’m hung like a bull
But I’d be lyin’
I’m just an ordinary guy
You’re a Leo in purple
With the voice of an angel
Would love to say
You’re mine
’Cuz, baby, I’d do anything for ya
Roar, baby
Aless-andra the Lion-ess
Roar, baby
Hold your mane up high
Aless-andra the Lion-ess
I’m so lucky to be your guy
I’m a Goat Called Fish
And I love you like the ocean is blue
Roar, baby
Aless-andra the Lion-ess
I promise, baby
I’ll always love you
When I finish the song, Alessandra walks over to me in the chair, removes my guitar from my lap, and takes its place. “I loved it.” She kisses me gently. “Best. Little ditty. Ever. On the best day ever. Sung by the best boyfriend ever.”
“It’s silly, I know.”
“It’s adorable.” She kisses my cheek. “One small note?” She grimaces. “Honey, female lions don’t have manes.”
I laugh and throw my head back. “Oh, fuck. I’m such a dumbass.” I straighten up and beam a huge smile at her. “See? That’s why I need you as a co-writer. I can’t do this alone.”
She strokes my stubble. “This is gonna be so much fun.”
“It is. We’re gonna write the best songs.”
“No, I meant this.” She gestures to the bedroom. To the place we’re hopefully going to wake up every morning to the sight of each other’s faces for the rest of our lives. “Me and you. A tribe of two. Forever.”
I kiss her cheek. “That’s for damned sure, Alessandra the Lioness. Forever.”
Thirty-Seven
Alessandra
Two years later
“I want a rematch!” I shout dramatically across the ping-pong table, where Zander and Aloha—Zaloha to our friend group—has just soundly trounced Fish and me. Alfi. That’s what our friends and fans call Fish and me these days. Although, at the present moment, I’m living up to my other nickname among my friends. Diva.
We’re at Reed and Georgie’s house for a late-afternoon birthday party for Violet and me. Violet’s birthday is in four days, while today is mine. My twenty-second. And, lucky us, everyone we love the most is here to celebrate. Apparently, though, just because it’s my birthday today, doesn’t mean Zaloha is willing to let me win in a game of ping-pong.
In dramatic, diva-like fashion, I toss my paddle onto the table and scrunch up my face into a scowl, the same way Keane and Maddy’s high-spirited toddler, Billie, always does when she’s pissed off. Which happens a lot. And everyone laughs in response to my shenanigans.
“You’re heartless!” Fish yells across the table, after wrapping me in a protective hug. “You can’t even let this girl win a game on her frickin’ birthday?”
“No mercy,” Zander deadpans in his low baritone. But, of course, he flashes me one of his megawatt smiles after saying it.
Aloha lays down her paddle next to her husband’s with a sniff. “I think Diva knows by now it’s my cosmic destiny to beat her, in every game we play.”
Fucking hell. She’s right. Aloha’s winning streak against me is nothing short of supernatural at this point. It started last year during our tour and has continued ever since. Whether we’re playing ping-pong or cornhole or HORSE at Reed and Georgie’s, like today, or Cards Against Humanity or drinking games during one of our regular game nights at our friends’ houses, Aloha always beats me. And I can’t figure out why. All I can think is that, despite the close friendship Aloha and I have formed at this point, I’ve still got some sort of residual mental block about her being my childhood idol.
I wag my finger at Aloha. “Watch yourself, Disney. You’re pissing me off now. I’m coming for you.”
Aloha laughs uproariously, and so do Zander and Fish. It’s the same way they always react when I try to act menacing. During our tour, I was able to bring my friends to literal tears, on occasion, with my “diva” act. And it was a source of pride every time I did it.
“Cake time!” Georgina’s amplified voice sings out from a distant area of the party. “Violet and Ally! Come to the patio to blow out your caaaaandles!”