After a few seconds of shuffling, my sister’s familiar voice comes over the speaker. “Did D invite you to brunch?”
“He did. What time and what do I need to bring?”
“No earlier than eleven and why don’t you bring Lorelai with you? I’ve been dying to try out this gluten-free biscuits and gravy recipe I found, and I need to get her thoughts on this new chalkboard paint I picked up for that one wall in the kitchen.”
“You do realize Lorelai doesn’t work on HomeMade, and aside from being best friends with Shelby, has no special skills in home decor?”
I can practically feel my big sister’s eye roll. She likes to pretend her kids get their sass from her ex, Randy, and we all like to pretend she’s right. “I do know that, thank you very much. But she happens to have exceptional taste and I like having her around. She balances out all the testosterone. Ever since she’s moved in, you’re always hogging her to yourself.”
This time I’m rolling my eyes when I notice a missed drop of coffee rapidly drying on the board. Hell. I dig around in the trash for an unused napkin. “Well, I’m sorry to say she’s out of town at Shelby’s wedding, so you’re stuck with me and all my unchallenged testosterone. You can save your recipe for another time.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Oh, did you have to come back early?”
I pause my dabbing, mentally cussing out Arlo and his obsessive cleanliness. “From where?”
My sister huffs into the phone. “From the wedding? Tell me you didn’t leave the wedding early to come back to Nashville to work? Oh, wait. Are you still there? I just assumed you were home.”
“I’m home. Well, I’m in the studio, anyway. But I’ve been home. I didn’t go to the wedding.”
“Why not?”
I sigh at her incredulous tone. Big sisters. “Um, because, Mel, I wasn’t invited.”
“Oh.”
I scrub my hand down my face, grimacing at the soggy napkin, forgotten in my hand, and toss it in the trash. “Yeah. Oh. Listen, I’m not sure what you think is going on, but Lorelai and I just work together. And she doesn’t actually live with me, she rents the other half of my duplex.” I don’t mention it’s at a premium and that I can hear when she sings in the shower, because that’s not relevant information and my sister is on a strictly need-to-know basis. “We’re friends. Nothing more.”
Another loaded pause. “Huh. Well … so eleven tomorrow. Just bring yourself, then. And apparently your own Xbox controller.”
“Any food or drink?” I offer for no other reason than I get the feeling I’ve let my sister down somehow and it’s making me feel weirdly guilty.
“No. I’ve got it all under control.” I bite back a groan at the obvious resignation in my sister’s voice. She gets this way every other month or so. She thinks she’s being casual about her over-interest in the way things are between me and Lorelai, but she’s not. It’s almost enough to make me long for the days on the road when it was clear to my family I wasn’t gonna settle down.
I don’t think the words casual and big sister go well together, even when you’re a grown-ass man running your own successful business. Especially then.
“Okay,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Sounds good. I need to get going, Mel. I have an appointment with a new client soon.”
“On a Saturday night?”
“The music biz never sleeps. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I end the call before she can ask me any more questions. Obviously, I would have gone to the wedding if Lorelai asked, but she didn’t. And Lore isn’t known for being shy, so if she didn’t ask, she didn’t want me there. The only saving grace to the whole thing is she didn’t want Drake there, either. I smirk to myself, leaning back in my chair again, recalling the way his eyes bugged out when he saw me carrying off Lorelai’s luggage.
No, she didn’t invite me, either, but at least he doesn’t know that.
And anyway, I don’t even know if disappointed is the right word for how I feel. It never even occurred to me to be invited until I saw my former bandmate all packed up and ready to go on our porch. As far as I know, she’s barely spoken to him since she returned to town. If he had the stones to expect an invite, maybe I should have?
But I didn’t. That probably says a lot about the fundamental difference between Drake and me.
I think of Melissa’s asking me to bring Lorelai tomorrow. As if it was some foregone conclusion we’d come together. Weddings and family brunch dates. Am I missing something? I mean, aside from my massively inappropriate and doomed-to-be-unrequited crush on my tenant-friend?
There’s a tapping on the door and Arlo comes in. We don’t make a habit of working Saturday evenings, but sometimes it can’t be helped, and since I took yesterday off to drive Lorelai to the airport and help execute an ax-throwing baby-gender-reveal party, tonight is as good as any.
Arlo takes in my stretched-out form, my feet propped purposefully on the edge of the soundboard, along with the empty coffee cup and bag from my late lunch crumpled on the floor a foot short of the wastebasket, and a frown creases his pale freckled forehead.
“Been here a while? I thought Coolidge couldn’t meet us until after eight?”
Jefferson Clay Coolidge is a former country wunderkind who burned bright and fast and burned out even faster. As a teen, he was picked up straight out of high school by the major labels and was fed all the best stuff, topping the charts and capturing a few Grammys his first year out. By the second year, he was slipping, however, and ended up shocking everyone by dropping off the face of the earth after a seemingly successful summer tour with a then-up-and-coming, now-unchallenged starlet, Annie Mathers. I don’t know the entire epic story, but I know enough to make a guess based off his enduring sobriety and plans to reinvent himself.
The guy is still young. Maybe twenty-three? Twenty-four? But he has the chops. His songwriting is solid and classic, and he has this soulful voice that brings life to any lyric. Which means I’m super stoked for the opportunity to work with him. Does it help that Drake has always been jealous of the kid?
It doesn’t hurt any, that’s for sure.
“He’s not,” I tell Arlo. “I just had some things to do and wanted to take advantage of the quiet space.”
“Right,” he says, clearly dubious. Arlo agrees with Melissa when it comes to how much time I spend in the studio. I sometimes wonder if either of them realize how much work it is to start a record company from ground zero. If I’m not here, work isn’t getting done and money isn’t being made and bills won’t get paid.
Don’t get me wrong. This is exactly what I’ve always wanted to do, and I know I’m good at it. But it’s not like I can pass the buck to someone else when things go sideways. I’m the end of the line. It’s awesome and scary as fuck for a guy who spent the first thirty-something years of his life coasting on the fringes of other people’s career moves.
“There’s nothing wrong with being professional and prepared for a new client. I’ve been listening to Coolidge’s earlier work and making some notes. I’ve placed a few phone calls out for collabs so we’re ready to run if things go well tonight.”