“I’ve got a craving for a little something ‘Fancy.’” “Let’s take it back to some classic Reba!” Holly yells. She grabs the microphone from the stand and calls out, “How about one more?” “I think we should save that discussion for when you’re sober.” “That’s not your call,” she says, her words slurring. It appears my wife has had plenty of shots tonight.Ĭonscious of all the cameras flashing, I make an executive decision and step up to the stage. “Another shot, Holly?” someone yells over the now cheering crowd, but Holly is bent over at the waist, trying to catch her breath-something I’ve never seen her do onstage. My being here should send a message all of its own. I have no idea what I’m going to say, but I don’t think it really matters. When the last note fades away, I move through the crowd, making my way to the stage. These people, who she probably claims as her people, are in awe of her talent. She’s fucking magnificent, and I’m far from the only person in the crowd to think so. I stand at the back of the crowd in the karaoke bar of the bowling alley and get my first look at Holly on the stage where she found the courage to chase her dream. Listening to her sing, however, will never get old. But these detective missions to find out where my wife has run off to are getting a little old. Luckily, my ego is big enough to handle it. You know what plays havoc with a man’s ego? Having a wife who has walked out on him twice.
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