It’s quiet a beat before Huck speaks. “I’m sorry, Lore. I’ve been trying to get him to take your calls, but Powers told him not to talk to you until he figured things out or some shit. I’m not supposed to be talking to you, either, technically, but that’s such bullshit. I’m—this is just all so fucked up. You didn’t do anything wrong, Lorelai.”
“He won’t talk to me because Powers told him not to?” I ask, snagging on the detail.
“Yeeeah.” Huck exhales loudly over the speaker. “Yes.”
I swallow back the sudden rush of emotion, feeling the hot sting of tears for the very first time since this whole thing began, and clear my throat before saying, “Just to clarify, the man I am supposed to marry, tie my life to—who is supposed to love me in sickness or health, for richer or poorer—he won’t talk to me because his manager told him not to.”
“I know. It looks bad. It is bad. One hundred percent. I’m sorry. I feel shitty even telling you, but I couldn’t handle him ignoring your calls. You needed to know.”
“I understand. Thank you. Bye, Huck.”
“Lore—shit. Okay. Right. Bye, Lorelai. I’ll call you later, okay? To check in.”
I hang up the phone, feeling numb, and slump back on my bed with a shaky sigh, rubbing my hands over my eyes until eventually they, too, fall against the rumpled quilt.
My high-rise studio has been half unpacked for over a year. Its honestly more of an overpriced storage facility at this point. I was supposed to move in with Drake, but he’s home even less than I am. I guess it’s good I never did.
It hasn’t always been this way. At the start, before we had things like careers and commitments and tour buses, we spent all our time cuddled up on a secondhand couch we found on a street corner for free. We’d drink cheap beer and smoke questionable weed and dream about our futures as mega super famous country stars and then make love on his piece of shit mattress laid right in the middle of the floor on the wood. It was humble, and maybe even a little trashy, but we were happy. We were on the cusp of something big and filled with all the hope starry-eyed twenty-somethings in Nashville can hold.
And then our dreams came true. Labels signed us. First me, but he wasn’t far behind. And albums were recorded and tours were planned and we could afford things like box springs and couches that didn’t have mysterious stains on the cushions.
And with every granted wish, we pulled further apart. On our three-year anniversary, he took me to St. Croix and asked me to marry him. I said yes, obviously, and I thought maybe that was the missing piece. That if he could make that kind of effort—go to all the trouble to coordinate our schedules and plan this whole beautiful trip and pick out this perfect ring—maybe our relationship wasn’t ill-fated. Deep down he knew me more than anyone and he understood.
Of course I found out later my agent Jen did most of the planning, but that’s not unusual. Our schedules were super busy. It’s hard to plan a surprise trip with someone who reports to an entire management team.
My apathetic musings are interrupted when my phone buzzes. I grope near where I dropped it, grabbing it and blinking against the brightness to read the Google alert.
COUNTRY STAR DRAKE COLTER BREAKS SILENCE WITH SOCIAL MEDIA POST AFTER FIANCéE LORELAI JONES MAKES POLITICAL GAFFE AT SHOW
I sit up, clicking on the link, my heart in my throat. I don’t even read the article, just follow the blue-lined text to Drake’s Instagram. “Don’t you dare let me down, Drake Colter,” I mutter, swiping at my eyes and sniffing as the video loads.
There’s no sound. It’s just one of those screen scrolls. It’s his phone calendar and he scrolls to the month of May. The month we’re getting married. Then the date. There it is on the screen.
Marrying the most beautiful girl in the world.
He deletes it. Letter. By. Letter.
And the video goes black before cycling through again.
I blink, confused. What does that even mean?
Wait. Holy fucking shit, did he just break up with me via a fifteen-second clip on social media?
I watch as the video repeats over and over. Marrying the most beautiful girl in the world.
Marrying the most beautiful
Marrying the most
Marrying the
Marrying
I can’t stop the bark of laughter that creeps past my throat and ends on a loud sob.
Oh my god. I’ve ruined everything.
I’ve ruined everything.
I need a drink.
* * *
The following morning, I’m just pressing the start button on my coffee maker when I hear a knocking at my front door. My head slumps forward on my shoulders and I groan, forcefully smacking the button three more times for good measure to speed things up. I’ve overslept, which is absolutely because I spent half the night tossing and turning before actively googling “Is it possible to unsend texts?” and “Can you delete a file after sending it?” sometime around two A.M.
The knocking continues its assault until it’s topped off by the doorbell, which is one of those annoying old-fashioned buzzer types. “Ugh, I’m coming.” It’s not until I’m halfway down the hall that it occurs to me it might be Craig. That maybe he’s here after getting my song and made himself wait until this morning so he could come over in person and press me up against my wall and kiss all the way down my body and …
I dash into the powder room and dig for a sample bottle of mouthwash courtesy of my last dental appointment, swishing it around my sleep-fuzzy teeth while simultaneously splashing ice-cold water on my face.
I spit in the sink and blot my face dry, combing my fingers through my tangled hair in the mirror, tousling it in a way I hope looks artful and not frizzy. I can see the vague outline of my nipples through my white sleep tank, but maybe that’s a good thing. A little visual reminder of what could be.
Not once, not once, do I question why Craig would be knocking and ringing the doorbell when he lives upstairs and can just, you know, text back and I could unlock my door and—
The doorbell buzzes again. “This is it,” I tell my reflection.
A moment later, I pull open my front door and immediately realize it’s definitely not Craig.
I lean against the doorjamb, immediately crossing my arms over my nipples. “Speak of the never-lovin’ devil.”
Drake beams a confident, too-sexy grin. “So you were speaking of me?”
“Fuck no, I wasn’t. But the point stands.”
His face twitches. A too-familiar indication of his annoyance, but he recovers quickly and holds out a small package. “For you.”
Holding one arm across my breasts, I reach out for the box and shake it a little.
“From the farmers’ market. Vetner’s strawberry shortcakes. Those are your favorite, right?”
I’m busy sniffing the box but slowly lower it at his words. I narrow my eyes at him, bemused. “They are. I’m shocked you remember, though I guess you’re bound to be correct every once in a while. I’m pretty sure you used to have Craig or Levi pick them up for me whenever you were in town.”
He affects a wounded expression, his hand clutching his chest. “Ouch. I did ask you to marry me, Lorelai. I wanted you to be my wife.”