No, the problem is that while I stood in line at Charlotte’s Coffee Brewery too early this morning, groggy and feeling hungover （without the bonus of actually consuming alcohol recently, which is a new thing I like to call hitting my mid-thirties）， I heard something familiar over the loudspeakers. Which in and of itself isn’t that unusual. Lately, it feels like, when it comes to country music, if I didn’t write it, produce it, or turn it down, I don’t know it.
But this was different. I knew this song in my bones because I wrote it in the privacy of my shitty studio apartment three years ago after Lorelai left town. After our one night together. The night. It wasn’t for airplay and it certainly wasn’t for my former partner and bandmate Drake Colter to use for his comeback.
Fucking “Jonesin’” was mine.
Clearly when I threw down that pile of scrap lyrics and half-thought-out melodies, I’d included at least one real song. A song I never meant for anyone else to hear, let alone that fucker. I was in such a hurry to quit, I didn’t look through what I’d handed him.
I hadn’t given it a second thought until this morning.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I tug it out right as the security doorbell buzzes. I check the camera and let in the client and her team, settling behind the booth and reading my text. I think it’s going to be Colter with some bullshit excuse, but instead it’s an unknown number with an area code I don’t recognize.
UNKNOWN: Heard the new song.
CRAIG: Who is this? Which song?
UNKNOWN: Lorelai. Sorry. New phone.
My coffee does an uncomfortable swirl in my gut. Shit. This is why … I quickly respond, my fingers flying over the keys.
CRAIG: Long time no talk. I didn’t recognize the area code.
CRAIG: Sorry.
LORELAI: That would be because I live in Michigan these days.
LORELAI: I heard Drake’s new song. Your new song. Why is that dickhead still taking credit for your work?
The door opens and I gesture for the clients to get set up in the studio. I press the speaker. “Be right with you guys. Go ahead and get comfortable.” Then I slump back in my chair, the momentum rolling me back a few inches, my thoughts whirling like a drunk girl at her engagement party. Lorelai knows the song is mine. She knows the song is mine. She’s heard the song.
Not only that, she remembers that I told her I wrote all the songs.
She remembers that night and she’s heard the song and she knows I wrote it.
Well. That’s … fuck. I knew when that email showed up, informing me I was inheriting a boatload of money and all my dreams were coming true, that shit was just gonna nip me in the ass cheek one day.
My thumbs hover over a response, coming up empty, all while in front of me, the studio fills with the muffled rumblings of music waiting to be made. I decide to respond like any normal person would, who was just a really good friend and who definitely did not still wake up at least twice a week hard as an I beam at the memory of her coming apart on his tongue.
CRAIG: Long story short, I walked away from touring and opened my own recording studio, On the Floor Records in Nashville. Small. Indie. Probably smells too much like coffee and grilled cheese. But it’s mine.
LORELAI: Holy hell, Huck. That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you!
My chest squeezes at the nickname. It’s been too long since anyone’s called me that.
CRAIG: And you? What’re you doing in Michigan? Still playing music?
LORELAI: Teaching third grade. In fact, I’ve got students coming in minutes.
I release my breath. Saved by the bell. Literally.
LORELAI: But now you have my number. Don’t be a stranger, okay?
As if I could resist.
CRAIG: Wild horses, Jones. Have a great day with your students.
I drop my phone to my desk and lean back in my new fancy ergonomic chair, linking my hands behind my head.
What are the chances? Years of nothing. Nada. Didn’t even know she was in Michigan, teaching. She didn’t even know I broke off on my own. My phone buzzes.
LORELAI: Your name wasn’t on the credits, but I know your lyrics when I hear them, and I’ll bet there’s a story there. Anyway … I like the song. Hit me up if you ever find yourself in Michigan.
I release a long slow breath and my thumbs hover to respond. With what?
No, that wasn’t me. That was Drake. Your ex. Obviously. Not me secretly pining after a girl who was always way out of my reach, and who I slept with one glorious night years ago, and who ruined me for all other women.
Nope. Definitely someone else.
The denial is right there at my fingertips, but what the hell. She lives in Michigan.
Thanks. You might be on to something, there. My studio is always open to old friends, even ones who live in the northern tundra and teach third grade.
* * *
（ONE YEAR EARLIER）
Lorelai and I texted pretty much constantly from that day forward. A steady conversation featuring song lyrics, stupid internet videos, and dirty jokes. What we don’t do is talk about “Jonesin’” ever again. I watch as Lorelai slowly slips back into the spotlight via the HomeMade drama featuring her new best friend Shelby Springfield and costar Cameron Riggs. I notice how Drake makes less and less subtle plays for Lorelai on social media. Publicly, he starts dodging questions about how things ended between them. He begins playing a new roll: the jilted heartthrob for cameras and fans.
And none of it matters because she and I both know he won’t actually try to win her back while she’s an elementary school teacher. There’s nothing in it for him or his career, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Drake Colter, it’s that he loves using others close to him to advance his career.
Until tonight, that is.
It’s a warm evening and there’s a nice breeze, so I’ve decided to enjoy it and walk the six long blocks home to my loft.
My phone rings as I’m locking up the studio to leave, and her name flashes on the screen. I answer, a grin already in place. “Hey, Lore.”
“Hey, Huckleberry,” she drawls out in a singsong voice, sounding unusually nervous. “I’m sending you something I’ve been working on.”
That gets my attention and I freeze right in the middle of the sidewalk. “No shit?”
She huffs a chuckle into the phone. “No shit. It might be garbage, but … no. It’s not. Can you just, um, listen and then call me back? Let me know what you think?”
“Of course. Send it right now. I have a good walk home ahead of me.”
We hang up and she must have been sitting at her laptop with the mouse hovering over the send button because the file is already in my inbox. I stuff my AirPods into my ears and cue the file.
From the very first lyric, my eyes slip shut of their own volition and I have to find a bench and sit down. It’s been so long since I’ve heard her sing, and no one, no one sounds like Lorelai Jones. And I know a lot of singers. She has this quality to her vocals. Richer than sweet. Almost smoky in the lower registers but clarified. Like it’s been filtered of all the gunk and what’s left is pure sunshine. Bonnie Raitt spliced with Regina Spektor, rolled in Miranda Lambert, and smoked with Maren Morris.
And the writing. God, the writing is … brutally, refreshingly, cuttingly honest.