I tilt my head to the side. “Until you didn’t, Drake. Thanks for the shortcakes. You’re right. They used to be my favorite. Before my diagnosis. Now one bite would put me in bed for a week, which you should know, given the way you stalk my Instagram, but that’s neither here nor there.”
I start to duck into my foyer, swinging the door shut behind me, when his arm reaches out. “Jen’s been in touch. Asked about the potential for a reunion tour this winter.” He shrugs. “You could have just asked me in person, Lore.”
My mouth drops open and it feels as though the ground shifts under me. “She did what?”
“Makes sense. I should have done it a long time ago. You were right. I messed up. But better late than never, right?”
“I didn’t—I don’t want—” I swallow, trying to regain my composure. “She never should have—she went behind my back. I never would have asked you that.”
His brows draw together. “Why not? You don’t have to act too proud with me. Look, I’m sorry about the shortcake. I forgot, okay? I can’t keep track of all your diets. But you have to admit, the tour is a brilliant idea. You could celebrate your reemergence on the country music scene aaand…” He trails off meaningfully, stuffing his hands in his designer jeans pockets in a way I know he thinks is down-to-earth and charming. Spoiler: It’s neither.
“And what?” I ask. My patience is way past running thin and I’m not the least bit interested in putting words in his mouth.
“And … I don’t know. Let whatever happens between us, happen. C’mon, Lore, you know our chemistry is off the charts. It’s inevitable.”
I could slam the door in his face. I should after all he’s put me through. But all the insecurities from the last six months—hell, six years—prevent me from completely shutting down this opportunity. I don’t want Drake. I don’t even think I want the tour or the inevitable career boost. But I backed myself into a fucking corner and I’ve spent years trying to muscle my way out.
“Nothing is inevitable, Drake. Least of all, a reunion between us.” I pretend to perk up at something over my shoulder. “I think my phone is ringing. I should go.” I wave the box in my hand before pressing it firmly to his chest. “It’s not a diet, by the way. It’s a chronic autoimmune and digestive disorder, you ass.”
I shut the door with a soft click and lock it before leaning against it and sliding down to the floor, dragging my knees to my chest and exhaling, dropping my head back against the door with a thud.
What was I even thinking coming back here? It’s like those years in Michigan made me forget how jaded and impossible this industry is. Did I really think I could just waltz in with a new sound and everyone would magically forget what I was about the last time around? Did I forget how rare it is to get one shot in Nashville, let alone two? What makes me so special that I deserve to keep making music?
No, I don’t want to join forces with my ex, but I don’t want to do an apology tour, either. The fact is, I might have to swallow my pride and do both if I want a second chance, and I’m in no position to refuse help, no matter how much said help makes my stomach churn.
I know what Craig would say. He’d tell me to trust in the duet. But that seems even less likely a scenario than the tours. I’m not saying I won’t do it, and I know if Craig writes it, it will be a hit. No question. I’m all in, I just don’t see how one song is going to fix the mess I’ve made.
And really, it’s easy for Craig to say. He’s not the one bumming a living off his friend’s generosity. He’s not the one shutting the door in his ex’s face and he’s not the one watching his meager teaching savings slip away month after month.
I don’t begrudge my friend’s success. He’s worked his ass off and he deserves every bit of happiness. But at the end of the day, I don’t have an eccentric wealthy uncle who died and left me the ability to take career risks.
And of course, that’s not all that’s bothering me. Right this moment, when I’m feeling all tender and decidedly not my usual bad bitch self, I’m worried that I’ve misread things with my best friend/professional partner by sending him （half） a dirty song.
And if I’m being honest, that feels worse than the rest of it put together.
Emotions are weird motherfuckers.
In no time, hot tears are pricking in the corners of my eyes. What a fucking disaster. It takes me a minute to realize my phone actually is ringing from my bedroom. With a loud sniff, I scrub at my mostly dry face and scramble to my feet. By the time I make it to my phone, I’ve missed a call from Jen. I imagine she wants to fill me in on her “huge move” in scooping a Drake Colter tour. Thanks for nothing on that one.
It really would be so much easier if I could wipe the slate clean with Drake and fall into his convenient （cold and largely calculating） arms. Even if it wasn’t real, I was happy enough while it lasted. And I would have my patched-up career to keep me warm at night when he’d inevitably be off changing his name to the Artist Formerly Known as Drake Colter or pretending to write his own songs or working out. Whatever the fuck Drake does when he’s busy avoiding meaningful relationships.
Except even the perceived happiness I found with Drake—the touring and screaming fans and gold records and award shows—stopped being enough the first time I sat on Craig’s balcony with a bottle of wine and a couple of guitars between us.
I sigh, picking up my phone and putting it to my ear, halfway listening to Jen’s voice mail and confirming her glee at having “the offer of a lifetime.” I go to delete when I notice another notification—a series of texts—and I quickly tap the icon and HUCK is lit up with messages.
HUCK: Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. I was in the studio late.
I chew my lip. I suppose he might not have listened until this morning. That’s reasonable. He is working, after all.
HUCK: I listened right away but was dog-tired and needed to let it marinate. It’s different from what I’ve heard from you before, but I think you know that.
Hell, is he critiquing this? Is he really that dense? I huff, swallowing a frustrated growl, and continue reading.
HUCK: Come to my place tonight? After eight?
I freeze, my phone clutched in my hand. Okay. That’s … good. He’s not so disgusted that he’s avoiding me. He’s not asking to see me in a neutral location like the studio. Holy fuck, the overthinking is going to murder me.
LORELAI: You provide the wine; I’ll bring the takeout.
12
CRAIG
SHOOT ME STRAIGHT
It’s not even lunch and I’m ready to call it. I slept for shit last night, getting tangled up in my sheets for hours before caving finally and throwing myself on the couch and cracking open a YA novel about teenage country music stars that my niece, Jenna, lent me, reading until the sun came up. I crawled into the studio before seven, guzzling so much caffeine, it feels like I’ve swallowed a pair of Lorelai’s running shoes and they’re completing a 5K in my gut.
Baker’s Dozen were back again bright and early （for them, anyway） to re-record a track they felt wasn’t vibing well with the rest of the album. Thankfully, they didn’t require my expertise as much as my equipment and Arlo was able to get it laid down, because I’ve been consumed with fielding legal calls from fucking Colter all fucking day.