Friends Don't Fall in Love(28)

I shower, change into jeans and an old Hootie & the Blowfish tee (because I liked Darius Rucker before he was country music cool), and make myself two toasted sandwiches on tiny gluten-free slices of bread. Then I pick up my guitar and get to work. I’m not as exceptional a songwriter as Craig, but I’m good in my own right. And occasionally, I’m even brilliant.

A few hours later, I’ve got a decent start on a new song. Only this one will never see the inside of a booth. This is just for him, and it’s not finished yet, but as it is, it should get his blood pumping. Praying that I’m not making a huge mistake, I hit record on my laptop, strum the opening chords, and sing.

The words you said

echo softly ’round my head

Whisper sparks along my skin and

I can’t help

Tracing patterns from the lines

Fingertips drawing where your eyes

Set me on fire

You breathed me in

Stealing air and sense away

And planted longing deep inside

I can’t stop

Imagining your lips

Kissing every inch of me

Burning for you



It records in one take, and I don’t even bother listening back. I’m not aiming for perfection. Frankly, I’m aiming for his cock.

I save the file and send myself a copy so that I can access it on my phone. I don’t want to send this through our emails like a business transaction.

I open my text app and tap on his name.

LORELAI: I worked on a little something today. It’s not finished yet, but I wanted you to hear it first. <<< File.ForYou.zip>>> He doesn’t respond right away. In fact, he doesn’t respond all day. To the point that I end up turning my phone off and on again to make sure it’s working. But I get texts from Shelby asking for an update while I’m eating a comfort dinner of boxed gluten-free vegan mac and cheese, so I know everything is operational.

I’m halfway through a draft of a text where I tell him it was an accident, and I wasn’t ready to send that song and to please disregard, when I see the gray dots of his reply pop up. I sit back on my heels, my heart in my throat. Oh god. What if he was grossed out? Okay, probably not grossed out. We’re adults. And he was definitely into it that one time. But he could be trying to figure out how to let me down easy? To be professional. Holy fuck he owns his own recording studio. What was I thinking?

I panic, flipping the phone facedown on the table and jumping to my feet. For a second, I stand in indecision. I have to go somewhere. Do something. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the small stack of dishes from dinner and so I methodically make my way through them, hand washing and drying and putting them away. Then I move on to laundry … I need to keep on top of my sweaty running clothes, after all. When I’ve exhausted the too-short list of housekeeping chores, I turn to my phone, my lips pressed together. It’s only a text, Lorelai. Fuck’s sake.

I reach for my phone and on the count of three, I flip it, revealing the empty lock screen.

No notifications.

He didn’t respond. He saw the text and started to respond … I saw it. I know I didn’t imagine it.

But then he just didn’t respond. He’s never not responded to me before.

Oh my god. What have I done?





11

LORELAI




MAYDAY

It’s been five hours since I made it back from Denver—my tour officially canceled, my future officially fucked—and my fiancé still hasn’t called me back. Someone else in my position might worry he’s giving me the cold shoulder, but I know better than to panic. Well, panic about that, anyway. This is standard Drake. He’s notorious for holing up in the studio and turning off his phone, shutting out the world so he can become one with his process or whatever. Case in point: his grandmother had a terrible stroke last fall and it took me flying in from D.C. and literally pounding down the studio door to notify him she was gone. Even then, I got to him only because Huck answered the door.

So his silence isn’t that unusual. But hell if it’s not aggravating as heck and a tiny bit hurtful. On the surface, I’m pretty independent, and we’ve never had one of those clingy relationships (the man is deathly allergic to PDA), but for just once in our lives, I could use a hug and some fucking reassurance from the man I’m marrying. If ever there was a time to be needy …

I try his cell again. And again, nothing. By the time he checks, he’s gonna have seventy missed calls and probably freak out.

Which, well. Considering I just crashed and burned my entire career with one four-and-a-half-minute protest performance, maybe it would help. I would love to not be the only one freaking out.

I nearly smile to myself. Yeah, right. Famous Drake Colter lose control of his careful facade? Not a chance. One of the things that first drew me to him was his calming presence. Nothing rattles him. I could use a voice of reason. Encouragement. Logic.

I call again. “Pick up, pick up, pick up … Hello? Dra—”

“Shit. No, I’m sorry, Lore, it’s Huck.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and double-check the name on the screen and bring it back to my ear in time to catch Huck still speaking.

“I should have used my phone, but I have just a minute and I saw your name flash on the screen and—”