Jefferson’s accompanied by his usual rusty-haired fiddler, Fitz Jacoby, and a dark-haired drummer who looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t automatically place him. After a minute, Lorelai leans over and says in my ear, “Is that Mathers’s drummer? Diaz?”
Instantly, I know she’s right. I’ll have to confirm if he’ll be the one recording for Coolidge or if he’s just in town for tonight. The three play seamlessly for over an hour. That Jefferson has someone as talented as Jacoby on the fiddle opens a lot of doors. I wonder if he plays the mandolin or banjo? I don’t think he’s mentioned it. I let Coolidge’s whiskey tenor roll over me and allow my mind to wander, mentally skimming my catalogue for songs that might work for him. More than anything, though, I imagine his vocals layered with Lorelai’s against the backdrop of the lyrics I wrote this morning.
Soon it’s break time and they make a beeline straight for our table.
“Craig, you made it.” He shakes my hand. “You remember Fitz, and this is Jason Diaz,” Coolidge says before motioning to a server, who quickly brings him a tall glass of ice water and Fitz and Jason a couple of beers. Then he turns to Lorelai. “I’ll admit, Ms. Jones, to being a bit starstruck that you’re here. I’m honored you came.”
Lorelai holds out her hand. “Fuck’s sake, please call me Lorelai. Y’all make me nervous calling me Ms. Jones. The honor is mine. You play beautifully, and that tone of yours is a goddamn dream.”
Everyone settles around our table and compliments pass back and forth for a little while. Lorelai asks after Annie Mathers, telling Jefferson she remembers her from when she was a child. He tells us she’s in L.A. doing promo for a song she has featured on a blockbuster movie soundtrack. Because of that, Jason Diaz is on loan for the next few months and has committed to laying down tracks for Coolidge, which answers that question. Honestly, this keeps getting better and better.
“My girl’s in town for a few months,” Diaz tells me with an easy lopsided grin, his foot tapping a backbeat on the sticky linoleum. “So I’m happy to overlap here in Nashville and help out.”
I tell them that works for me. After hearing how cohesively they play together, I’m thrilled to put Diaz on the record. Someone from Lulu Mays gives them a discreet five-minute warning.
“I have a proposition for you,” I say. “No pressure and I don’t even want to know tonight, which is why I’m only bringing it up now. I was working on a little something original this morning. I’ve sent it to your email, as well as yours,” I say to Lorelai. “A duet, meant for two talented vocalists looking to reinvent themselves in this industry. Like I said, no pressure, but the timing is pretty perfect for you both.”
Coolidge looks surprised but intrigued. “Okay, I’ll definitely listen.”
Lorelai looks a little relieved, maybe that Jefferson seems interested in sharing a song with her and her reputation. She doesn’t have anything to worry about on that front, though. My gut tells me this is a good thing.
“Me too,” she says with a grin.
I nod my head, indicating that’s settled. “Awesome. That’s all I ask, and then we can revisit next week sometime if it turns out you’re interested.”
The men return to the stage, but it’s late and Lorelai traveled from Michigan this afternoon, so we decide to give up our table. Outside, it’s even more dark and humid, and when combined with the half bottle of red from earlier and the more recent two glasses, I’m feeling plenty loose-limbed and drowsy. We decide to forgo a ride and instead walk back to the duplex, allowing us some time to sober up and stretch our legs.
The sidewalks still hum with music and laughter and the clinking of bottles, but they’re less bustling than they are on the weekends, so we stroll side by side. Our hands dangle between us, occasionally tangling but never quite catching, and I ignore the way my skin practically vibrates from the closeness.
“Do you think he’ll want to do the duet?”
“Do you want to do the duet?” I toss back.
She looks over at me, her dark eyes penetrating. “Well, yeah. You had me at ‘I’m writing a song for you…’”
“Okay,” I concede, fighting the urge to smile, “but I would write you a song either way.” Every day until the day I die if she wanted.
She slows to a stop under a glowing neon sign flashing a pair of dancing cowboy boots. “Have I thanked you lately?”
I pause alongside her, the corner of my mouth lifting. “For what?”
She raises her hands and gestures around. “For everything, really, but mostly for being such a good friend.”
My mouth goes dry because that’s me. A good friend. “Oh. Well.” I shrug a shoulder, looking forward at nothing and grateful for the flashes of blue and green neon when I feel my cheeks flame. Might as well let the moss grow back and retain the tiny shreds of dignity I have left. “You really don’t have to thank me for that.”
She’s quiet and eventually I turn to look at her. Her brows are pulled together and her lips are tight. I wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. She steps into my space and gingerly lifts her hand toward my face. Eventually her cool palm finds my burning jawline. She stumbles the tiniest bit forward and I reach up my hand to steady hers on my skin. This close, the scent of White Zinfandel mixes with her breath and covers me in soft puffs of sweet air.
“I’ve been—um.” She pauses. Starts again. “Your face. It’s so smooth. I wanted—” She swallows, her eyes searching my own. She has to be able to feel the way my blood is rushing beneath my skin. The way I can’t help but sway toward her, magnetized. “I was curious if it was as smooth as it looked.” Her thumb brushes along my cheekbone, back and forth, and I’m pulled closer still.
“Is it?” I ask her, dumbly.
She blinks, her lashes fluttering, and I sway even closer. Her inhales are bringing her chest within inches of mine. I don’t dare look down to confirm, but I swear to Christ her breasts brush against me. Her lips are open ever so slightly. I can practically taste her. If I just bent the slightest bit …
“Look out!” Suddenly I’m swept to the side and knocked off-balance as someone zips past on a rented scooter, reeling out of control and shrieking over their shoulder, “Sorry, man!”
Lorelai untangles herself and straightens first, eyes bright and brimming with amusement. I shake my head, getting to my feet. “Are you okay?” she asks, holding out a hand. I take it, but she releases it almost as quick, biting her lip. The moment, whatever the fuck it was, has passed.
“Yeah.” I laugh once, rubbing at my bruised ass. “Yeah, I’m … fine. Good. I mean, I think I broke my tailbone, but it’s nothing an inflatable doughnut seat can’t fix.”
My bruised pride, however? That’s gonna need something stronger.
10
LORELAI
SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT
Is my breath wasted if it’s only exhaled between your lips If my fingers print the sway of your hips, If my eyes crave to trace your freckles unseen, If my tongue licks and lingers just in between, If I tease out your cries,