Friends Don't Fall in Love(79)

We’re holding hands across the center console of Craig’s Outback when he asks to stop in the studio.

“No appointments,” he reassures me. “We purposely scheduled this month light because we knew Arlo might be called away at any moment.”

“Do you want kids?” I ask suddenly.

Craig lifts a shoulder. “I think so. One day, anyway. Not like … you said you have an IUD, right?”

I squeeze his hand. “Yeah. I do. We’re in no danger at the moment. Just one day? If you’d asked me before…”

Craig nods. “I know. Me too. I thought music was it for me. And then I thought the studio was it for me. And then you were it for me…”

“Your circle keeps getting bigger.”

“Yeah.”

“Mine too.”

We pull into the small alleyway parking lot behind the studio and Craig keys in the security code to let us in. The halls are cool and quiet, mostly dark but lit with small motion-sensored runners along the floor. We get to his office and he opens the door, flipping on the light, and jumps back, swinging wildly when he’s attacked by several floating helium balloons. I pull back his arm, stilling him before he pops one and sets off who knows what other kinds of alarms.

“What the? These must be for Arlo. Everyone knows I hate balloons.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, reading one. “This one says, ‘You did it!,’ which Arlo and Josh did not.”

“Maybe they were trying to be PC. ‘Good job ejaculating in a cup, it worked!’ is a lot to put on a balloon.”

“‘Comeback kid’?”

Craig’s eyes narrow and he pulls on one of the strings, reading the tag attached to a plastic weight.

“‘Congrats on debuting at number ten on the country charts! Love, Annie Mathers.’” Craig’s head slowly raises, shock evident on his face. “What?”

All the blood slips from my face. “What?”

“Holy shit, Lorelai,” he mutters, beating against the balloons and shoving his way to his chair. “Holy shit.” His phone beeps with a notification and mine does, too. And another and another. I swipe the screen and open the first text from Arlo.

ARLO: I know you hate balloons, boss, but it’s hard to say no to Annie Mathers. Congrats, you two! Coolidge’s been in touch, but he knew you needed some space, so give him a call back if you’re done sexing it up all over town.

I snort, tapping out a response in the group chat.

LORELAI: Just need to hit up your soundboard and we should be all set.

Craig laughs next to me, reading over my shoulder. “Serves him right. Remind me to tell you about the time they found out about my poetry account.”

We call up Jefferson and make plans to meet at a nice bar downtown. Despite living close, we’re the last to arrive because hello, celebratory “we debuted at number ten on the country charts” sex.

Yeah, we’ve been number one everywhere else and that’s a big freaking deal, but we knew that. We celebrated that.

This, though? Country music has let us back in. Maybe begrudgingly, and it’s very unlikely to be universal, but there’s no taking it back now.

Craig pulls a record producer move, covering the entire tab for the evening, and seeing him acting the professional turns me on way more than I dreamed, which leads to me giving him a surprise blow job in the far less dingy and far more tucked-away employees-only bathroom.

I know what you might be thinking: Look at Lorelai climbing industry ladders by dropping to her knees in dimly lit bathrooms. To which I might say, “Fuck you, I got my record deal way before he let me ride his face.”

The scoop, according to Trina, is that country radio was being predictably stubborn about playing the duet, but whether it’s due to my national appearance last week or the very public support of Annie Mathers and our “Toxic” performance, or maybe that Jefferson is so damn good-looking and everyone loves a good comeback story, not to mention that our song is being played everywhere else Top 40 hits are being played—well, some of them gave in. Spotify wants to do an artist highlight on both of us, which would extend to our upcoming solo albums, and Cameron Riggs is on deck to make a music video.

And Arlo just texted Craig that he refuses to come back into the studio until they hire a receptionist to answer the phone that’s been ringing off the hook with agents and managers looking to get their clients in to work with the duo.

We close down the bar, which I haven’t done in at least five years, but that’s what you get for hanging out with twenty-somethings. Trina left hours ago, and Kacey and Fitz snuck out, very possibly to the same employee bathroom we used earlier, and then texted Jefferson that Kacey was starving and wanted waffles.

“Want to join us for breakfast?” Jefferson asks, Annie on his back piggyback style, her arms wrapped tight around his neck. He loosens her grip with a patient grimace followed by an apologetic kiss to her forearm.

“I’m good,” I say, squeezing Huck’s hand. He squeezes back, his expression relieved.

“Me too. Another time, maybe.”

We say goodbye and I tilt my head onto Huck’s shoulder. “Wanna walk? I’m exhausted but still a little wired.”

“Sure.”

We walk intertwined like that, up and down neon block after neon block, people still spilling out into the streets from late-night diners and music filling the air.