Besides, Drake’s an opportunist. He’s too self-absorbed to put actual effort into loving someone, but if the right situation presents itself, he’ll be the first to jump on it and ride the easy wave.
Which is exactly why the minute, and I mean the very minute, he tried to play the “Baby, I still love you, what are you wearing right now?” card, I quit that shit cold turkey. I might be an idiot who stayed with the guy way longer than I should have, but I needed to learn my lesson only once.
Anyway, I don’t want that with Craig, not the long-distance sexting and not the epically terrible one-sided relationship. As hot as his poetry gets me, there’s a reason the account is anonymous. It’s the same reason he played bass in the shadows instead of up front and center, despite his enormous talent. And the same reason I like him so damn much. I can’t just send him a text saying, “Fingered myself to your poem last night. Want to meet up?”
（Also, meet up where? On our balcony? In our driveway? Want to meet me downstairs in my apartment that you own?） Just. Ugh.
By the time I’ve run all my favorite routes up my favorite wall a half a dozen times, I’m feeling an intense burn in my shoulders that’s gonna follow me into tomorrow and I’ve come up with a plan. It’s not quite so elaborate as “anonymous erotic poetry account,” but it’s close.
I shower, change into jeans and an old Hootie & the Blowfish tee （because I liked Darius Rucker before he was country music cool）， and make myself two toasted sandwiches on tiny gluten-free slices of bread. Then I pick up my guitar and get to work. I’m not as exceptional a songwriter as Craig, but I’m good in my own right. And occasionally, I’m even brilliant.
A few hours later, I’ve got a decent start on a new song. Only this one will never see the inside of a booth. This is just for him, and it’s not finished yet, but as it is, it should get his blood pumping. Praying that I’m not making a huge mistake, I hit record on my laptop, strum the opening chords, and sing.
The words you said
echo softly ’round my head
Whisper sparks along my skin and
I can’t help
Tracing patterns from the lines
Fingertips drawing where your eyes
Set me on fire
You breathed me in
Stealing air and sense away
And planted longing deep inside
I can’t stop
Imagining your lips
Kissing every inch of me
Burning for you
It records in one take, and I don’t even bother listening back. I’m not aiming for perfection. Frankly, I’m aiming for his cock.
I save the file and send myself a copy so that I can access it on my phone. I don’t want to send this through our emails like a business transaction.
I open my text app and tap on his name.
LORELAI: I worked on a little something today. It’s not finished yet, but I wanted you to hear it first. <<< File.ForYou.zip>>> He doesn’t respond right away. In fact, he doesn’t respond all day. To the point that I end up turning my phone off and on again to make sure it’s working. But I get texts from Shelby asking for an update while I’m eating a comfort dinner of boxed gluten-free vegan mac and cheese, so I know everything is operational.
I’m halfway through a draft of a text where I tell him it was an accident, and I wasn’t ready to send that song and to please disregard, when I see the gray dots of his reply pop up. I sit back on my heels, my heart in my throat. Oh god. What if he was grossed out? Okay, probably not grossed out. We’re adults. And he was definitely into it that one time. But he could be trying to figure out how to let me down easy? To be professional. Holy fuck he owns his own recording studio. What was I thinking?
I panic, flipping the phone facedown on the table and jumping to my feet. For a second, I stand in indecision. I have to go somewhere. Do something. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the small stack of dishes from dinner and so I methodically make my way through them, hand washing and drying and putting them away. Then I move on to laundry … I need to keep on top of my sweaty running clothes, after all. When I’ve exhausted the too-short list of housekeeping chores, I turn to my phone, my lips pressed together. It’s only a text, Lorelai. Fuck’s sake.
I reach for my phone and on the count of three, I flip it, revealing the empty lock screen.
No notifications.
He didn’t respond. He saw the text and started to respond … I saw it. I know I didn’t imagine it.
But then he just didn’t respond. He’s never not responded to me before.
Oh my god. What have I done?
11
LORELAI
MAYDAY
It’s been five hours since I made it back from Denver—my tour officially canceled, my future officially fucked—and my fiancé still hasn’t called me back. Someone else in my position might worry he’s giving me the cold shoulder, but I know better than to panic. Well, panic about that, anyway. This is standard Drake. He’s notorious for holing up in the studio and turning off his phone, shutting out the world so he can become one with his process or whatever. Case in point: his grandmother had a terrible stroke last fall and it took me flying in from D.C. and literally pounding down the studio door to notify him she was gone. Even then, I got to him only because Huck answered the door.
So his silence isn’t that unusual. But hell if it’s not aggravating as heck and a tiny bit hurtful. On the surface, I’m pretty independent, and we’ve never had one of those clingy relationships （the man is deathly allergic to PDA）， but for just once in our lives, I could use a hug and some fucking reassurance from the man I’m marrying. If ever there was a time to be needy …
I try his cell again. And again, nothing. By the time he checks, he’s gonna have seventy missed calls and probably freak out.
Which, well. Considering I just crashed and burned my entire career with one four-and-a-half-minute protest performance, maybe it would help. I would love to not be the only one freaking out.
I nearly smile to myself. Yeah, right. Famous Drake Colter lose control of his careful facade? Not a chance. One of the things that first drew me to him was his calming presence. Nothing rattles him. I could use a voice of reason. Encouragement. Logic.
I call again. “Pick up, pick up, pick up … Hello? Dra—”
“Shit. No, I’m sorry, Lore, it’s Huck.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and double-check the name on the screen and bring it back to my ear in time to catch Huck still speaking.
“I should have used my phone, but I have just a minute and I saw your name flash on the screen and—”
“Where are you guys?”
I can hear Huck’s exhale. “New Orleans.”
“Oh. Well, that explains it. Have you been in the studio all day? I’ve been trying—”
“Yeah, we have,” he cuts in, in a rush. “But listen to me, Lore. Drake already knows. What happened at your show and with your tour … He’s being a dick, okay? He heard the news right away. Powers called first thing this morning.” Huck’s tone is pained as he mentions his and Drake’s slimy manager.
“Oh,” I repeat, icy realization cooling the blood in my veins, freezing me in place. “I see.”