First of all, fuck you and the horse you rode in on, and second, I know. I know, okay?
But I would like to offer this as exhibit A:
carefully uncork
her all-consuming bouquet
sipping
holding
soaking
swallowing
savoring sweetly, so lush upon my tongue this insatiable thirst
only ever quenched by her
Holy … wait just one damn minute. Something clicks in my brain and I tap on the icon containing my own avatar, scrolling through my pictures. There it is: the wedding. Oh hell, I forgot I posted that champagne toast picture. I’m so obvious. But there’s no response from him. Not there, anyway. I skip back to the poetry and look at the time stamp. Same night, hours apart. He’s talking about champagne, right?
Well, no. He’s absolutely talking about oral sex. But he’s definitely using a champagne euphemism. How could that be a coincidence?
Blergh. I smack my forehead with my palm and cringe at my own embarrassing leaps. Huck isn’t exactly shy. He’s historically straightforward in his interactions with women, and here I am, basically that GIF with the guy and all the red string trying to connect the convoluted dots. He didn’t even respond to my post. I （admittedly, drunkenly） made it so clear I wanted him, and he didn’t comment or even text. And for all I know he schedules his poetry. For all I know, it’s not even about champagne! I might write songs, but I barely passed college-level English. All that looking for symbolism made me want to scoop my own brains out with a spoon. I’m all about direct and to the point.
I imagine presenting my argument to Maren later tonight and the pitying look she’d give me. This is such a reach. I know it is. I’m seeing things where they aren’t.
Just like I did with Drake. Years of imagining loyalty and love when it was all just a case of sexual attraction and career convenience. I need to stop this. I don’t have time for any of it and I am nowhere near emotionally available right now. This is because of the wedding. Shelby’s backyard was doused in lovesick happy sex pheromones all day yesterday and I’m still drunk off the what-ifs.
I’m thinking about this way too much for someone who isn’t willing to act on it. He’s my sort-of boss. And landlord. And one of my oldest, dearest friends.
Maren takes that moment to burst hurriedly through the front door. “Sorry, sorry, there was this family from Wisconsin that was trying to go ‘off the grid’ all weekend, which was so cute, but they insisted on using one of those fold-up paper maps and none of them knew how to read one. What a mess. Adorable. God, I hope they stay in a hotel tonight…” She trails off at the look on my face. “You okay?”
I quickly school my features. “Totally. Just an email from Jen. I’ll explain over drinks. Why don’t you shower and change, and I’ll take Rogers for a short walk?”
Maren considers me for a long moment, and I can tell she can tell something’s up, but Maren is also the most patient of the three of us. If Shelby had been here, I’d never hear the end of it, but Maren’s good at waiting for the right time. And now isn’t it.
Which has always been my problem.
* * *
In the late August sun on the shore of sparkling Lake Michigan, I explain my Jen-dilemma to Maren over margaritas, who hisses some uncharacteristically sharp words into the balmy freshwater breezes. Tequila brings out the fierceness in my best friend, and it’s easy to imagine her beating off the less-than-kind side effects that come out of being born stunning. I settle back in my chair, letting her get angry on my behalf. It feels immeasurably validating to know it’s not just me. Or even just me and Huck and Arlo. This is why I need to make sure I come back to Michigan more often. The perspective is so good for my pores.
“So what are you going to do? You’re going to fire her ass, right?”
I make a face and brush salt off my fingertips with a napkin. “It’s not that simple. I’m still a cussword behind closed doors. I doubt anyone else would touch me or my career with a ten-foot pole.”
“Even after the success of ‘What They Have’？”
“That was a song. Or okay, a few songs. It wasn’t a career.” She opens her mouth to protest and I raise my hand. “I’m not downplaying those songs. I promise. I’m saying those weren’t enough to get me back in the good graces of country music. Might never be. Jen’s plan is just that. One plan. It’s not a bad one, exactly. She’s not new to country music. She knows what it takes. I’m just not sure I’m willing to grovel. Maybe that’s not what I want.”
“Fair. So what do you want?”
I shrug a shoulder and sip my margarita before saying, “To write and perform music that changes the world.”
Maren grins. “Is that all?”
“That’s all,” I say in a long-drawn-out Carolinian drawl, smirking to finalize the point.
“What does Craig think?”
I sigh. “I mean, I haven’t talked to him about today’s round of emails, so I can’t say specifically…”
“But—”
“But he thinks I should say fuck off to country music. That they lost their shot at me, and I should go the way of Taylor Swift.”
“Pop music?”
“Or something. Mainstream. L.A. That kind of thing.”
Maren taps her lips, thinking. “And you don’t agree?”
“I don’t disagree,” I say carefully. “I’m just not sure I have what it takes to make it in pop, and also I love my southern roots.”
“Okay, what about Americana or indie folk? Indie anything, really. You don’t have to walk away from your roots, but you don’t have to be held back by them, either.”
“Right. I could do that, too.” Really love that idea, actually. “Huck seems to think I’m bigger than his record company and has been hesitant to produce me on a large scale up to this point.”
She raises a brow and I sigh again. “I know. It’s dumb. He’s a genius.”
“So are you. It seems like it’s a match made in heaven.”
“One would think.”
Maren rolls her eyes, snorting into her drink. “Okay, can I just say something? You’re fucking Lorelai Jones. The ballsiest woman I’ve ever known. This isn’t a ‘one or the other’ kind of thing. You can have his genius brain and his heart and his cock. Just get after it.”
See? Beauty queen on tequila.
I straighten to mirror her. “Who said I want anything to do with his heart. Or his cock?” I add, ducking my head and taking a long sip of my drink.
When I finally look up, Maren is watching me shrewdly. “Okay,” she says after a beat. “If that’s the way we’re playing this, fine. Just his brain, then.”
I ignore her dry tone. “This probably still won’t work, though.”
“Well, what do you want from me?” she asks, grinning. “I’m a park ranger, not a publicist.”
* * *
Later that night, after I’m tucked into bed, my suitcase already packed and ready to fly back to Nashville, I pull up my phone and reread his poetry for too long.
Eventually, I close the app and pull up my messages.