Friends Don't Fall in Love(53)
I need to call Shelby.
Anyway, factory settings. Dinner was never part of the deal. So what if we fell asleep together on the couch first?
FACTORY SETTINGS. I used his bathroom and cleaned up, and by the time I was done, he was back in his clothes. Like a hookup. A really fucking solid hookup. Just friends. Really good friends who are really good at sex. Because even if I wanted more, and I don’t, I can’t. We can’t. I can’t fall in love with him. If I thought Drake destroyed me, Craig—Huck—well, I just don’t think I could handle losing him, too. Because eventually he’s gonna have to let me go. I’m still a cussword in this town, after all. But he won’t be taking my heart with him when he does. So no. That’s not this. This is best friends who have really hot sex and keep their hearts protected because they are smart.
I walk back down the stairs to my apartment and text him good night before stripping off my clothes and crawling into bed, still smelling like him. Still feeling his hands on my skin. Still tasting him on my tongue. Still hearing him in my dreams.
Greatest friends’ hookup ever.
23
LORELAI
MY TEARS RICOCHET
I woke up this morning feeling like the Queen of My Own Orgasmic Fate, but that was quickly overshadowed by how, similarly to my (happy) vag, my career is royally fucked. It’s been three days since the disaster of an apology tour wrapped with me salting, then gratuitously razing any ground I’d gained, all before firing my agent.
It’s probably too early to call my comeback a colossal dumpster fire, if only because that feels disrespectful to Huck and Coolidge after working on the duet together. If nothing else, I know I can be proud of that particular song. Even if it only boosts Jefferson’s career, I’ll be thrilled. The kid deserves everything good, and I’d be proud to be a part of that.
And Huck and Arlo are too talented at what they do for a connection to me to mess with the outcome of their work.
I might be persona non grata around country music, but my thirty-three-year-old vocals are like the finest vintage. Aged to perfection. I’m at my peak, baby.
Anyway, hell, I need to get some air. I need to get out of Nashville and away from everything that reminds me of what a mess my life is. I pack a day pack, including ropes, harnesses, chalk, and carabiners, as well as a couple of protein bars and two bottles of water, one to throw in my pack and the other for the car ride home.
Two hours and forty windy miles out of town later, my forearms burn and something warm is trickling down the back of my leg. I don’t know for sure if it’s sweat or blood, but I don’t care. The sun is blazing, but under this shallow rock shelf, there’s cool relief on top of the sweet release of being too busy keeping from falling and breaking my ass to care about anything else. I hold my position, shifting my foot from an outside to an inside hold, so that I can release the fingers of my right hand to shake them out. At first I feel the sting, but soon it’s calmed to a dull ache and I repeat with my other hand. Then I wipe at my forehead and lean back to think, relying on my harness, and peering over the shelf at what lies ahead.
It’s only five more feet to the top of this cliff, but the shelf makes those feet feel impossible. My shoulders are annoyingly stiff. I barely make it out on my own anymore, and while I run nearly every day, rock climbing challenges my muscles in a unique way. Between Shelby and Cam’s wedding and Jen’s apology tour and trying to find validation in a town that doesn’t want me …
Well, I’ve lost touch with me. Not the Nashville Darling version and not the Pissing Mad Woman version.
I’m missing the real Lorelai. She’s been fading in and out like a firefly dodging jars in June. A few months back here and I’m turning into the bullshit scared girl who let country music execs run her out of town. I’ve got Drake showing up at my doorstep, making gooey eyeballs like he’s the fucking hero, and strangers online judging my every move, getting in my brain and making me second-guess my own name. I remember last year when Shelby’s ex Lyle was fucking around with her in the press and creating drama for the sake of whatever gets narcissistic jackholes like him off. My best friend finally got fed up and made the ballsy move of taking control of the entire narrative. She and Cameron fought back, using happiness and a big old dose of refreshing honesty.
I stare off into the distance at the rolling green hills upon green hills upon rocky outcroppings like the one I’m climbing and close my eyes, letting the early autumn breeze cool my face and whip away my morose thoughts.
Nothing for it. I can’t hang here any longer. Every minute that passes has got my muscles seizing up, and I can’t afford to be shaky on the shelf or I might as well just belay back down. Up to this point, I’ve always climbed alone, taking every possible precaution and preventive measure, while also pushing myself. But I’m out of shape. I’ve been spoiled by gym rock wall climbing and meandering hikes.
I make a vow to return next weekend, mentally carving out time for myself, and work to wrap this up as safely as possible.
As I do so, it occurs to me that maybe I don’t have to do this alone. Climbing, yes, but in other ways, too. After “Ohio,” I left town by myself. It was me versus the world. I’d been abandoned by everyone who was supposed to care.
But now I wonder if maybe I hadn’t been. After all, Craig found me.