Page 136 of The Flirty Vet

By the time we get to the second round of "We talk about love, love, love," every single person in the audience is singing along with us. The euphoria in the air is palpable. The music is vibrating through my body, and through it all, Wilby never lets go of me.

And then the power dies.

The music stops.

Everything goes dark.

The suddenness of the silence is deafening.

A few seconds pass, and then people start reaching for their phones, turning on the flashlights, as a quiet murmur fills the air.

Wilby lets go of my hand, drops his mic to the ground, and starts clapping his hands overhead.

"We talk about love, love, love…" he starts singing.

One by one, people join in. Those who aren't holding up their phones clap their hands, those who are stomp their feet.

I don't know how long this goes on for, but I have goosebumps the entire time as we sing the same words over and over. Our voices as one. Loud. Raw. Together. It's one of the most electric, unforgettable moments of my life.

And then the power comes on. Full lights, but no music. We all squint, eyes adjusting to the brightness. Wilby fiddles with the karaoke machine. It comes to life, picking up exactly where we got cut off.

The crowd erupts in cheers, singing along with us right until the very end. When the song finishes, the standing ovation we receive is the loudest sound I've ever heard in my life. We both take our bows and do a congratulatory lap where people come up to us, gushing over how fantastic we were.

"That's one for the record books."

"Youse were bloody brilliant, mate."

"If that doesn't break the drought, nothing fucking will."

We both revel in the moment.

"That was fucking brilliant," Wilby says into my ear.

"Well, I don't want to do anything to come between you and your meat pies."

He laughs. "Enough basking in our glory, let's go find Fitz and Muir."

I nod my agreement, but despite looking high and low for them, we can't find them anywhere. "They must've gone homealready." Wilby glances down at his watch. "S'pose we should make a move, too."

"I hate that you have to drive three hours because of me. Wait. How can you drive? Haven't you been drinking?"

"Nope. I had two beers then switched over to water after that."

"So that wasn't vodka in your glass?"

He laughs again. "No. It wasn't. And I don't mind driving. I want to spend as much time as I can with you before you go."

We walk to his Land Rover—the same one that saw us getting attacked by aggressive kangaroos—in silence, hop in, and take off. I meet Wilby's hand resting over the center console and tug on his fingers.

He smiles, but sadness fills my chest. I turn and look out the window at the dark sky.

Tomorrow, I'm going to have to tell the guy I'm falling in love with, and who's falling in love with me, that I need to leave in two days.

I'm so sad that I don't notice the first flash of lightning illuminating the sky behind us.

30

Wilby