Shelby whistles low. “I mean. We all knew he had it in him, but damn, girl.”
Maren fans her face. “I’m not trying to visualize, but I’m not not trying, either. Sorry,” she confesses wickedly. “It’s been a while.”
I wave her off. “Fair.” I exhale with a huff. “So that’s that. I don’t know what happened and I need to talk to Huck, clearly. What’s this about a tour with Drake? I told him no when he showed up, uninvited, again, yesterday morning.”
“So you did see him yesterday morning?”
I deflate. “Not on purpose, why?”
“Well, you should probably sign on to your Instagram and get caught up. We’ll wait.”
I prop my phone on a cushion, leaving it lopsided and likely showing them an excellent view of my ceiling, and pull my laptop close. Instagram is still open in a tab, so it takes me no time to find what they are talking about.
“Ugh, Drake, seriously?”
On my screen is my ex, as per usual, shirtless and so obviously aware of his appeal it makes me roll my eyes. Twice. The caption reads something about Netflix and “Jonesin’。” “Real original, you dick,” I mutter as I scroll up to see that last night he posted another photo, this one pretending to be a candid shot of his songwriting, and the caption says, Six years later, and it’s still hard to keep from writing all my songs about you. With the hashtag #togetheragain #summertour.
“Fuck’s sake!” I shout, slamming my laptop shut with an unsatisfyingly soft click and grabbing for my phone. “What is he talking about? He didn’t even write ‘Jonesin’’！ Last I knew, he didn’t write any of his songs, let alone about me! He’s so full of shit. And the hashtags! What the ever-living fuck is he on about? ‘together again’？！” I mock in a douchey voice. “Please.”
“Well, that clears up that,” Shelby says, amused.
“So … if we saw these, what are the odds that Craig saw these?”
My chest pulls tight and the blood drains from my face. “Oh god, you don’t think he still follows him?”
“I wouldn’t if I was him,” says Shelby. “But Craig is still in the industry, and I bet for business reasons, it behooves him to be in the know or whatever.”
“So wait, Drake didn’t write ‘Jonesin’’？” Maren asks, frowning.
I shake my head, distracted. “Craig was the songwriter. Drake was the face. They shared credit, but it was pretty clear, even back then.”
“But that song released after they parted ways.”
“Yeah, I know.” I shrug. “I don’t really know why Craig didn’t fight for credit, but I would guess he was trying to be nice and let Drake take that one. Which apparently Drake is going to run into the fucking ground. I’m this close to changing my last name from Jones to Springfield.”
“Or Boseman,” Maren offers slyly.
Despite the chasm that’s burst between me and Craig in the last twelve hours, a tiny irrational grin tugs at my lips.
“Well,” I say, getting back to business. “It looks like I’ve put off returning my agent’s call for too long, so I better let you two go.”
* * *
Predictably, Jennifer is reluctant to outright turn down Drake’s offer and was definitely not going to follow through with my suggestion of “tell him to go to hell.”
The best compromise we could come up with was to give her so-called apology tour a chance.
“I’ve got it all arranged. A couple of willing local radio stations, an interview on Square TV, and…”—there’s a pause and some aggressive typing on her end of the line—“I’m sending you the contact information for a publicist who’s known for being able to perform damage control. I can’t reveal her client list,” she whispers into the phone, “but trust me. She’s worth every penny.”
I try to keep my voice even, but my agent loves to play tone-deaf on the whole “Lorelai needs to make money to spend money” side of her job. “How many pennies are we talking, Jen?”
“Okay, I can reveal a little,” she says in a rush, ignoring my question as expected. “Remember that cute little chickadee from that one children’s show that had the sex tape?”
“No.”
“Exactly. She won an Oscar last year and no one suspects a thing.”
“Huh?”
“Call the publicist, Lorelai. I’ll put off Colter’s team for now, but this offer isn’t without an expiration date. I’ll make the arrangements for your first few radio interviews and see if we can’t get the ball rolling on the apology tour.”
My head is spinning a little by the time I hang up, but that’s nothing new. It’s not like I didn’t know I’d have to eat some crow in the process of getting back on track. Might as well start now.
I open my text messages, rereading from last night.
LORELAI: Made it home safe.
HUCK: Good. ’Night, Lorelai.
LORELAI: ’Night.
With a sigh, I toss my phone down. Maybe I need to add Craig to my apology tour, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why?
16
CRAIG
DOIN’ THIS
These days, when I’m struggling with something, I go to the studio. I pull out my guitar or sit at my piano and I write until I’ve nailed down exactly what it is that’s holding me down.
Unfortunately, right now I know whatever is bothering me won’t be fixed in a studio, and home is the last place I want to be when every creak, groan, and door slam reminds me how close I am to Lorelai.
Instead, I cleared my meetings for the next forty-eight hours, told Arlo to take a long weekend, and walked my Harley out of the garage behind the duplex like a fucking chicken-shit teenager sneaking out past curfew. I pack an overnight bag and some well-used camping gear and hit the open road for my favorite spot up in the Smokies. It’s a tiny one-room cabin my uncle Huck built several decades ago to hide away from the world and focus on his art, which, honestly, ain’t a bad idea. The journey’s a four-or five-hour trek, depending on traffic, but I don’t mind, and for once, I don’t bother with music. I need a break from melodies, instead choosing to let the rumble of my bike and the relentless battery of wind fill my brain. It’s not a perfect solution, but for a short while, with all my attention focused on the road, I stop seeing her laid out before me. The heady scent of hot asphalt and pine trees erases the taste of her, and over the roar of my engine, I’m unable to hear the echo of her moans.
Most of all, I don’t see the memory of her stricken expression as I packed up leftovers like some fucking douche, opening the front door and telling her to text me when she made it back downstairs to her place, safe and sound.
Years. Fucking years I’ve spent dreaming of kissing her—of bringing her to the brink—and it was even better than I remembered. So of course I panic and fuck it all up with my overthinking.
I thought I could do casual. I’d convinced myself that whatever Lorelai could give me would be enough and I would be okay with that. People do it all the time. Hell, I’ve done it for years with other women.