“Oh, I know alllll the dirt.” She fans herself. “Okay, I need to get home. I have an interview with a radio station in the morning and a public apology to issue.”
* * *
It’s the middle of the night. I can’t sleep and I’m in my studio. Not my studio studio, but my office studio, in my loft.
The one no one knows about. Turns out I’ve been keeping a lot of things to myself. I don’t know why I haven’t told people about the cabin or my bike or even this small one-room office recording booth.
Why so secretive?
Maybe I was just waiting to share myself with the right person. Or maybe I’m a coward.
I’ve been thinking about what Drake is asking and how Lorelai reacted. The way she said, “It’s your song, obviously. Like ‘Jonesin’。’”
It’s not just that Colter released my words and made money off them. Or that he continues to use it again and again to publicly court Lorelai. That’s all obnoxious, of course, but the worst thing is, it’s not even the real fucking song.
Drake never had the entire song. How could he? He didn’t write it, and after he released what he had, I didn’t want to correct him because the bridge was personal and there was a reason I didn’t share it. It was my confession. I was in love with my partner’s ex. My best friend. My soulmate. And I couldn’t tell her.
But she has a way of seeing all the things I don’t say and knowing all the things I don’t know, and maybe it’s time I claim “Jonesin’。” It’s too late to actually get credit. The song released years ago.
But I’d know. And she’d know. And Drake would know.
And maybe he’d see the threat for what it is and stop stealing credit for my other songs. Because if I wrote “Jonesin’，” there’s a good chance people will want to know what else I wrote for Drake.
I don’t need words or even the music. When I write a song, it glues itself inside of my brain forever. A creative muscle memory, of sorts. I’m not an awesome guitar player, but this song was meant to be acoustic. You’re supposed to hear every slide of the strings and feel the space between every resting sigh.
I hit record, close my eyes, and sing for her, the way it was always meant to be done, and when I get to where he stopped, I keep going.
So I’m here, my door unlocked
My bed unmade, my heart unblocked
I’m right here, begging you to come back
To reach across, to be my one
And only then, will I find peace
My soul can rest, I’ll breathe with ease
Until that day, here I’ll remain,
Craving her, I’m jonesin’
And it’s time for me to show her I mean it.
18
LORELAI
9 TO 5
Jen has another client meeting in Memphis this morning that conflicts with the kickoff of my apology tour, so instead I’m stuck listening to her on the phone as she preps me from the back seat of her Uber on the way to the airport. She keeps giving the driver directions in between instructing me.
I cross my legs, one foot bouncing, careful not to meet the eye of anyone listening to my half of the conversation in this shiny lobby.
“If Drake or the summer tour comes up, I want you to play it off like it’s all still under wraps. Okay, Lorelai? I know you’re a bit rusty at the PR, but…”
“I told you I’m not interested in the tour.”
“Right, but—”
“And before that, I made it clear to Drake.” I say his name in a whisper, my hand dancing in front of my mouth, blocking it from sight, like I’m a defensive coordinator in the Orange Bowl. “That’s why I’m here, playing nice.”
“I know that,” Jen responds tersely. “No, not this exit. The next one. I’m not paying you one hot cent more for your delays. Take the next exit and get me out of this car. Sorry, sugar.” Jen’s tone artificially sweetens as she switches her attention back to me. “I know that,” she repeats. “But all that hinges on how well you play your part. Until then, let’s avoid burning bridges. Drake’s ready and willing. Let’s not look a gift horse and all that.”
“These people are like vultures,” I insist. “Give them an inch to speculate over and they’ll have us reengaged and pursuing shotgun nuptials faster than you can say JLo.”
Jen gives a pleased hum in the back of her throat and I scowl at the fresh-faced receptionist, clearly eavesdropping. “That’s all I’m asking for, Lore. An inch. Do not confirm or deny. Just apologize, and dammit, be sincere about it. You’re too fucking smart for your own good. The industry doesn’t favor smart women. It favors respectful women who know their place, and I’m not saying I agree with it, but for the love of Pete, leave the intelligence and forward thinking for your songs.”
I snort, but she remains quiet. “Wait. You’re serious.”
“Perfectly serious,” she says, her tone growing harsh and censuring. “None of your usual shit, Lorelai. That’s what got you into trouble in the first place. I opened the door for you. I told them you were contrite and the last few years have humbled and matured you. Get in there and prove it.” The call disconnects and I can’t tell if she hung up or lost the signal, but it doesn’t matter. The receptionist calls my name and I tuck my phone away in my purse. I get to my feet, pressing my sweaty palms against my denim skirt and brushing my long dark waves behind my shoulders before following Bo, a young intern, toward the studio.
I’ve dressed as instructed. “Front pew on Sunday morning with a dash of the sex kitten we all know and love.” Yeah, I’m not exactly sure what that’s supposed to be, either, but I decided on a simple white cotton cap-sleeved blouse and a classic jean skirt that hits closer to my knees than my butt cheek but still shows plenty of tasteful leg.
I haven’t been out of the industry that long. Despite what my agent apparently thinks, I’m not a complete idiot when it comes to what sells.
There are a bajillion women just like me out there with talent. Some sing better than me, some are prettier, some are more gifted writers, some play guitar like the dickens … But I also know I possess a package that sells. A chemistry, if you will, that draws people in.
I have it. Even now, years after they forced me out on my ass, I still have it. It’s why when Shelby and Cameron were this close to losing their show and falling right into the pit that Shelby’s ex, that fucker Lyle Jessup, dug for them, I was able to fall back on my social media following to pass them a shovel. Country music might’ve turned its back on me, but my fans haven’t. Not yet. I just need to find a way to reach them again.
Bo makes me wait for the on-air light to click off before opening the door into the booth. He presses a hand to the small of my back, escorting me in. I’m sure he thinks he’s being reassuring, but inwardly I bristle at the touch, at the insinuation, slight as it might be, that I need help.
I’m Lorelai fucking Jones, and it’s about time I remember that.
And that right there is the moment where everything starts to go south.
I’m introduced to Carl and Reggie, the morning show on-air personalities, as well Marissa, their producer. Marissa looks to be about my age, though she dresses older, and it’s clear after only a few minutes that she’s honestly sick of Carl and Reggie’s bullshit. Which, who can blame her?