Friends Don't Fall in Love(75)
“She is,” he admits, proudly. “But we’ve always known our girl was meant for the national stage.”
And suddenly I’m just so fucking over hiding everything. Keeping things locked up so long I’m just asking someone to swoop in and steal her out from underneath me. “I wrote ‘Jonesin’’ about Lorelai. Years ago. After we hooked up the first and only time—well, until recently,” I tell him.
To his credit, he stops rocking, but doesn’t look judgmental or even surprised. “How long has it really been?” he asks softly.
I grab a hank of my hair, making a face. “Since the first time she called me Huckleberry, probably. I don’t know.”
Arlo nods to himself, rising from his chair and leading me to it, placing his hands on my shoulders to sit me down. He looks me square in the eye. Communicating a hell of a lot of unsaid things that likely start with “it’s about time you manned up” and ends somewhere around “get your head out of your ass and focus.”
Out loud, however, he says, “She’s gonna perform after the commercial. You should watch.”
And so I do. I’m expecting her to play “What They Have,” since Amy brought it up earlier and it’s the song most familiar to her newer fans. It’s also got that fantastic tie-in with Cameron and Shelby Riggs, who are still the media’s darlings since HomeMade wrapped on their second season. If I was Trina, it’s what I would have her do in lieu of the duet sans Coolidge.
But she doesn’t play “What They Have” or any of the other songs from her album. Instead, she looks right at the camera—right at me—and says in the most beautiful voice I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing, “This is about a man, but at the end of the day, it ain’t about Drake Colter.”
It’s the song from the other night. The one she played on the balcony, and my stomach turns, uncomfortably. This is exactly what I’d imagined would happen. I don’t want to listen, but I know I need to. She said it herself. This isn’t about Drake. It’s about me and what I did. I owe her this.
She finishes the first stanza and despite the sinking feeling in my gut, I’m proud of her. Proud to know her and be whatever it is I get to be for her from here on out. To do better than the man from this song.
She’s still singing, and I’m mesmerized.
You told me no
More like you told me “screw your dreams, mine mean more”
And ripped away your hand
Wiping it clear of mine
And canceling all our plans
Her voice is a breathless near whisper, but the words pierce me and I shut my eyes, taking them to heart.
Of a wedding
My eyes shoot open. What? We never—
Of a band
Of a family
What is she talking …
Of some land
With our names on it—side by side You let me go
And he was there instead
Bet you wish he wasn’t now.
I can barely hear her over the thrumming of my heartbeat in my ears, but I swallow hard and focus as she presses forward toward the mic with a smile.
He held me close
Touching knees and half-drunk smiles, magic words passed between us like breaths He picked up the phone
And opened his door
And cherished my dreams as his own Of singing
Of sharing
Of loving
Of home
With our names in it—side by side— I let you go
And found someone better
And I
Bet you wish I didn’t.
* * *
As soon as the song wraps, I sprint out of my office to locate Arlo and end up practically tripping over him in the hallway, where he’s been waiting, giving me space.
“This was prerecorded?” I ask, sounding more strangled than I would like, but that’s something I can fix on my way to wherever Lorelai is.
“Three days ago. She was taking her friend Maren to the airport this morning but should be on her way back by…”—he looks at his wrist, completely absent of any watch—“now.”
“I have to go.”
“You have to go,” he agrees.
“I won’t be back in today.”
“Thank you Lord sweet baby Jesus for that.”
33
CRAIG
MY FAVORITE MEMORY
It’s raining, because of course it fucking is. Therefore, by the time I’m pulling up in front of the duplex and hopping off my bike, I’m soaked through. The downpour doesn’t let up as I jog up the front walk, and it doesn’t occur to me I haven’t had the chance to calm down one bit before I’m knocking on that absurd lavender front door. Which is the only explanation I have for the projectile word vomit after she opens the door and takes in my sopping-wet appearance.
“I took my bike to work,” I say, the words stumbling over one another to get out. “I’ve taken it every day ever since you told me how much you like it. Because maybe you’ll want to ride on the back of it again. In short, I’m pathetic,” I finish.
Lorelai tugs me in by the collar of my jacket.
“I saw your song,” I say, following her in. Still purging. “That was for me, right? You said a man, but not Drake.”