Friends Don't Fall in Love(31)

I know what Craig would say. He’d tell me to trust in the duet. But that seems even less likely a scenario than the tours. I’m not saying I won’t do it, and I know if Craig writes it, it will be a hit. No question. I’m all in, I just don’t see how one song is going to fix the mess I’ve made.

And really, it’s easy for Craig to say. He’s not the one bumming a living off his friend’s generosity. He’s not the one shutting the door in his ex’s face and he’s not the one watching his meager teaching savings slip away month after month.

I don’t begrudge my friend’s success. He’s worked his ass off and he deserves every bit of happiness. But at the end of the day, I don’t have an eccentric wealthy uncle who died and left me the ability to take career risks.

And of course, that’s not all that’s bothering me. Right this moment, when I’m feeling all tender and decidedly not my usual bad bitch self, I’m worried that I’ve misread things with my best friend/professional partner by sending him (half) a dirty song.

And if I’m being honest, that feels worse than the rest of it put together.

Emotions are weird motherfuckers.

In no time, hot tears are pricking in the corners of my eyes. What a fucking disaster. It takes me a minute to realize my phone actually is ringing from my bedroom. With a loud sniff, I scrub at my mostly dry face and scramble to my feet. By the time I make it to my phone, I’ve missed a call from Jen. I imagine she wants to fill me in on her “huge move” in scooping a Drake Colter tour. Thanks for nothing on that one.

It really would be so much easier if I could wipe the slate clean with Drake and fall into his convenient (cold and largely calculating) arms. Even if it wasn’t real, I was happy enough while it lasted. And I would have my patched-up career to keep me warm at night when he’d inevitably be off changing his name to the Artist Formerly Known as Drake Colter or pretending to write his own songs or working out. Whatever the fuck Drake does when he’s busy avoiding meaningful relationships.

Except even the perceived happiness I found with Drake—the touring and screaming fans and gold records and award shows—stopped being enough the first time I sat on Craig’s balcony with a bottle of wine and a couple of guitars between us.

I sigh, picking up my phone and putting it to my ear, halfway listening to Jen’s voice mail and confirming her glee at having “the offer of a lifetime.” I go to delete when I notice another notification—a series of texts—and I quickly tap the icon and HUCK is lit up with messages.

HUCK: Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. I was in the studio late.

I chew my lip. I suppose he might not have listened until this morning. That’s reasonable. He is working, after all.

HUCK: I listened right away but was dog-tired and needed to let it marinate. It’s different from what I’ve heard from you before, but I think you know that.

Hell, is he critiquing this? Is he really that dense? I huff, swallowing a frustrated growl, and continue reading.

HUCK: Come to my place tonight? After eight?

I freeze, my phone clutched in my hand. Okay. That’s … good. He’s not so disgusted that he’s avoiding me. He’s not asking to see me in a neutral location like the studio. Holy fuck, the overthinking is going to murder me.

LORELAI: You provide the wine; I’ll bring the takeout.





12

CRAIG




SHOOT ME STRAIGHT

It’s not even lunch and I’m ready to call it. I slept for shit last night, getting tangled up in my sheets for hours before caving finally and throwing myself on the couch and cracking open a YA novel about teenage country music stars that my niece, Jenna, lent me, reading until the sun came up. I crawled into the studio before seven, guzzling so much caffeine, it feels like I’ve swallowed a pair of Lorelai’s running shoes and they’re completing a 5K in my gut.

Baker’s Dozen were back again bright and early (for them, anyway) to re-record a track they felt wasn’t vibing well with the rest of the album. Thankfully, they didn’t require my expertise as much as my equipment and Arlo was able to get it laid down, because I’ve been consumed with fielding legal calls from fucking Colter all fucking day.

Note to self: If some jackhole narcissist invites you to be his writing partner and tour with his self-named band, run in the opposite direction to avoid years of aggravation.

This could all be solved if Drake had (a) not used the songs I wrote years ago on his latest album or (b) just credited me as coauthor and paid me my due.

It’s a hundred percent my own fault I’m still in this mess years after the fact. I didn’t fight him on “Jonesin’” like I should have. I wanted a clean break and a clear conscience after hooking up with his ex on the down-low, then quitting his band on such short notice and starting my own indie label. So when I heard “Jonesin’” on the radio a year after I’d walked, I didn’t push for credit. Not hard, anyway. I figured, I’d give him one album and that would be that. My business had been taking off and I didn’t need to be greedy, and honestly, I didn’t want the hassle.

Though I wish it hadn’t been that song. That one was personal. But how was I supposed to call him up and be like, “Hey, man, I wrote that song about your ex, whom I slept with that one time after you broke up and might’ve fallen a little bit more in love with her that night, and so it would be awesome if you’d fucking stop using it already.”