Friends Don't Fall in Love
Erin Hahn
For everyone who was told they couldn’t:
Just because they wouldn’t doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.
Which is why I just did.
NOTE TO READER
Some of the thematic content in Friends Don’t Fall in Love contains discussions of school shootings and gun violence. Neither event occurs on the page.
For more information, please visit the author’s website.
JONESIN’
(as sung by Drake Colter)
Asleep, she’s mine
Eyes closed, lips chase and pin me Pin me down
I’m overcome and trembling, searing alive Heart open, unspoken words chase and pin me Pin me down
When I wake, she’s gone
I reach and I’ll keep reaching I wish and I’ll keep wishing Wrestle with my inconstancies
Worthless and regretting
I miss and I’ll keep missing Craving her, I’m jonesin’
Intoxicated, she’s mine Fists closed, memories chase and pin me Pin me down
I’m spinning and breathless, burning alive Regrets open, opportunities wasted chase me and pin me Pin me down
Sober, she’s gone
I reach and I’ll keep reaching I wish and I’ll keep wishing Wrestle with my inconstancies
Worthless and regretting
I’ll miss and I’ll keep missing Craving her, I’m jonesin’
So many things I should have said (I’m jonesin’)
The times I should have begged you to stay (I’m jonesin’)
The empty half of my bed (I’m jonesin’)
Why did I push you away?
(I’m jonesin’)
I reach and I’ll keep reaching I wish and I’ll keep wishing Wrestle with my own inconstancies
Worthless and regretting
I miss you and I’ll keep missing Craving her, I’m jonesin’
1
CRAIG
TAKE YOUR TIME
(SIX YEARS EARLIER)
It takes me approximately five minutes to find Lorelai Jones, recently spurned country music princess, let loose in Nashville. She’s perched effortlessly at the end of a shiny bar top and appears to be up to her gorgeous eyeballs in tequila and righteous fury. As expected. And as the Good Lord intended, really. Nothing will make a man take a full step back, clutching his chest, like the sight of a stunning woman, indignant, haughty, hot as hell, and ready to throat-punch the next asshole who has the nerve to tell her to shut up and sing.
She’s a goddamn vision.
I pause at the entrance to Georgie’s, the seediest of seedy dive bars off Broadway, to give my eyes time to adjust. The contrast inside to the glowing neon outside is almost poetic, if not most certainly ironic as fuck. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is looking for Lorelai: her cowardly sycophant agent, her second-rate bandmates, every country music news outlet from CMT to Square to Sirius to TMZ … everyone except the one fucker who ought to be hunting her down on his hands and knees, her ex-fiancé, Drake Colter.
But since my partner is off being a supreme dickhead, rejecting his almost-wife as publicly and soundly as possible in the barely eighteen hours since she bravely played Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young’s “Ohio” to a sold-out stadium crowd, calling out legislators to challenge the Second Amendment after yet another devastating mass shooting … well. Since all that happened, I’m here. At Georgie’s.
I rub my hand against my face, catching on stubble, and grimace. I’m not the one who should be here, but somehow I always am. Can’t help it. It’s what friends do, and if there’s anything I am, it’s one hell of a friend.
Lorelai still hasn’t noticed me, so I take a deep breath, straighten my shoulders, and wipe the exhaustion from my features, replacing it with good old-fashioned shit-eating charm. Because that’s me. Irreverent goofball. Backup bass player. Best-friend trope in the flesh.
(What? I’ve read romance. Well, I’ve read the “aliens fucking” ones, anyway.)
Lorelai’s head is thrown back in a loud cackle, her long slender throat exposed and the Jose Cuervo fumes rolling off her smooth skin in those wavy little heat waves. She’s shimmying to some Halsey, which is the first clue that something’s really wrong (as if I needed confirmation). Halsey is for bottles of overpriced Cabernet on my loft balcony while the stars wink overhead; she’s for deep conversations and sarcastic avoidance.
She’s not for bar-top shimmying and forced hilarity in a dingy dive where the clientele is ninety percent bikers.
I make my way to the electronic jukebox and swipe my debit card, picking Tom Petty’s “Mary Jane’s Last Dance” as well as loading a bunch of Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, and George Strait in case we’re here for a while. The familiar opening guitar riff kicks in and it’s as if Lorelai’s been struck by lightning. She freezes in place comically, spinning her head around, searching, until she locks eyes with who she’s looking for.
Me.
I ignore the sharp pang in the region of my long-dead heart and hitch a half-cocked grin before making my way to her side and, forgoing the stool, hopping straight onto the bar top next to her.
“Had to be ‘Ohio,’ huh? Should have just gone for the full-frontal assault and pulled out ‘Southern Man’ to really do the thing properly.”