Friends Don't Fall in Love(44)

“My cabin. Maybe I’ll show you sometime. It’s pretty rustic, though,” I warn her.

“Bed?”

“Yes.”

“Shower?”

“Lake?” I answer her question with another question.

Her eyes spark with interest. “A Harley and a cabin in the woods. Any other secrets you hiding in there?”

“I mean, you already know the dirt on my poetry account.”

“Oh, I know alllll the dirt.” She fans herself. “Okay, I need to get home. I have an interview with a radio station in the morning and a public apology to issue.”



* * *



It’s the middle of the night. I can’t sleep and I’m in my studio. Not my studio studio, but my office studio, in my loft.

The one no one knows about. Turns out I’ve been keeping a lot of things to myself. I don’t know why I haven’t told people about the cabin or my bike or even this small one-room office recording booth.

Why so secretive?

Maybe I was just waiting to share myself with the right person. Or maybe I’m a coward.

I’ve been thinking about what Drake is asking and how Lorelai reacted. The way she said, “It’s your song, obviously. Like ‘Jonesin’.’”

It’s not just that Colter released my words and made money off them. Or that he continues to use it again and again to publicly court Lorelai. That’s all obnoxious, of course, but the worst thing is, it’s not even the real fucking song.

Drake never had the entire song. How could he? He didn’t write it, and after he released what he had, I didn’t want to correct him because the bridge was personal and there was a reason I didn’t share it. It was my confession. I was in love with my partner’s ex. My best friend. My soulmate. And I couldn’t tell her.

But she has a way of seeing all the things I don’t say and knowing all the things I don’t know, and maybe it’s time I claim “Jonesin’.” It’s too late to actually get credit. The song released years ago.

But I’d know. And she’d know. And Drake would know.

And maybe he’d see the threat for what it is and stop stealing credit for my other songs. Because if I wrote “Jonesin’,” there’s a good chance people will want to know what else I wrote for Drake.

I don’t need words or even the music. When I write a song, it glues itself inside of my brain forever. A creative muscle memory, of sorts. I’m not an awesome guitar player, but this song was meant to be acoustic. You’re supposed to hear every slide of the strings and feel the space between every resting sigh.

I hit record, close my eyes, and sing for her, the way it was always meant to be done, and when I get to where he stopped, I keep going.

So I’m here, my door unlocked

My bed unmade, my heart unblocked

I’m right here, begging you to come back

To reach across, to be my one

And only then, will I find peace

My soul can rest, I’ll breathe with ease

Until that day, here I’ll remain,

Craving her, I’m jonesin’



And it’s time for me to show her I mean it.





18

LORELAI




9 TO 5

Jen has another client meeting in Memphis this morning that conflicts with the kickoff of my apology tour, so instead I’m stuck listening to her on the phone as she preps me from the back seat of her Uber on the way to the airport. She keeps giving the driver directions in between instructing me.

I cross my legs, one foot bouncing, careful not to meet the eye of anyone listening to my half of the conversation in this shiny lobby.

“If Drake or the summer tour comes up, I want you to play it off like it’s all still under wraps. Okay, Lorelai? I know you’re a bit rusty at the PR, but…”

“I told you I’m not interested in the tour.”

“Right, but—”

“And before that, I made it clear to Drake.” I say his name in a whisper, my hand dancing in front of my mouth, blocking it from sight, like I’m a defensive coordinator in the Orange Bowl. “That’s why I’m here, playing nice.”

“I know that,” Jen responds tersely. “No, not this exit. The next one. I’m not paying you one hot cent more for your delays. Take the next exit and get me out of this car. Sorry, sugar.” Jen’s tone artificially sweetens as she switches her attention back to me. “I know that,” she repeats. “But all that hinges on how well you play your part. Until then, let’s avoid burning bridges. Drake’s ready and willing. Let’s not look a gift horse and all that.”

“These people are like vultures,” I insist. “Give them an inch to speculate over and they’ll have us reengaged and pursuing shotgun nuptials faster than you can say JLo.”

Jen gives a pleased hum in the back of her throat and I scowl at the fresh-faced receptionist, clearly eavesdropping. “That’s all I’m asking for, Lore. An inch. Do not confirm or deny. Just apologize, and dammit, be sincere about it. You’re too fucking smart for your own good. The industry doesn’t favor smart women. It favors respectful women who know their place, and I’m not saying I agree with it, but for the love of Pete, leave the intelligence and forward thinking for your songs.”