Two hours and forty windy miles out of town later, my forearms burn and something warm is trickling down the back of my leg. I don’t know for sure if it’s sweat or blood, but I don’t care. The sun is blazing, but under this shallow rock shelf, there’s cool relief on top of the sweet release of being too busy keeping from falling and breaking my ass to care about anything else. I hold my position, shifting my foot from an outside to an inside hold, so that I can release the fingers of my right hand to shake them out. At first I feel the sting, but soon it’s calmed to a dull ache and I repeat with my other hand. Then I wipe at my forehead and lean back to think, relying on my harness, and peering over the shelf at what lies ahead.
It’s only five more feet to the top of this cliff, but the shelf makes those feet feel impossible. My shoulders are annoyingly stiff. I barely make it out on my own anymore, and while I run nearly every day, rock climbing challenges my muscles in a unique way. Between Shelby and Cam’s wedding and Jen’s apology tour and trying to find validation in a town that doesn’t want me …
Well, I’ve lost touch with me. Not the Nashville Darling version and not the Pissing Mad Woman version.
I’m missing the real Lorelai. She’s been fading in and out like a firefly dodging jars in June. A few months back here and I’m turning into the bullshit scared girl who let country music execs run her out of town. I’ve got Drake showing up at my doorstep, making gooey eyeballs like he’s the fucking hero, and strangers online judging my every move, getting in my brain and making me second-guess my own name. I remember last year when Shelby’s ex Lyle was fucking around with her in the press and creating drama for the sake of whatever gets narcissistic jackholes like him off. My best friend finally got fed up and made the ballsy move of taking control of the entire narrative. She and Cameron fought back, using happiness and a big old dose of refreshing honesty.
I stare off into the distance at the rolling green hills upon green hills upon rocky outcroppings like the one I’m climbing and close my eyes, letting the early autumn breeze cool my face and whip away my morose thoughts.
Nothing for it. I can’t hang here any longer. Every minute that passes has got my muscles seizing up, and I can’t afford to be shaky on the shelf or I might as well just belay back down. Up to this point, I’ve always climbed alone, taking every possible precaution and preventive measure, while also pushing myself. But I’m out of shape. I’ve been spoiled by gym rock wall climbing and meandering hikes.
I make a vow to return next weekend, mentally carving out time for myself, and work to wrap this up as safely as possible.
As I do so, it occurs to me that maybe I don’t have to do this alone. Climbing, yes, but in other ways, too. After “Ohio,” I left town by myself. It was me versus the world. I’d been abandoned by everyone who was supposed to care.
But now I wonder if maybe I hadn’t been. After all, Craig found me.
And five years later, he keeps finding me.
I shove off in a rocking motion from heel to toe and make a grab for the top of the rocky ledge. Before gravity drags me under, I swing a leg up and over in one motion while curling my biceps. I’m too close and clumsier than I used to be, though, and scrape my collarbone and breastbone as I pull up, leaving a piece of me behind on the sharp rock.
I make it to my knees and stifle my groan, holding a hand to my chest to soothe the sting, but also to relish the pain. It feels familiar and real and possibly like the start of something better.
* * *
（EIGHT YEARS EARLIER）
It’s one of those rare nights when the stars align and Drake and I are in the same town at the same time. His most recent tour wrapped over the weekend, and I leave for mine in three days. It’s not enough time to travel anywhere and get away from it all, but it’s enough time to hole up inside his small apartment for some nostalgic songwriting and long-overdue lovemaking.
If he was here, anyway.
I check my watch again, holding back a sigh, and Huck grunts over his notebook, making a note in his chicken scratch before sticking his pencil over his ear with a sly smirk. “Relax, Lorelai. I can practically hear your repressed hormones from over here. You know Powers always needs to debrief the minute we get home from a tour.”
“For hours?” I scoff. “It’s been at least four, and anyway, you’re here. Doesn’t he need to debrief you, too?”
Huck lifts a shoulder, strumming once, a loud discordant sound, on his guitar. “Nope. Just the talent.”
I roll my eyes. “Fuck off. You know you’re as much the talent as he is. He knows it, too.”
Huck raises a single dark eyebrow.
“Even if he won’t admit it out loud.”
The other brow goes up. Another loud strum.
“Even upon threat of death.”
He snorts.
My phone buzzes with a text alert and it’s embarrassing how quickly I reach for it.
DRAKE: Don’t wait up, baby. Need to schmooze some bigwigs from the label. Promise I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.
Fucking hell. I haven’t ridden a dick in months. Even phone sex has lost its appeal, and I’m supposed to leave for another four weeks.
This was the dream, Lorelai. Always. You are living the dream. Right now. The sacrifice to your vag is worth it.
“Thank you for your service,” I mutter under my breath to my poor neglected vag before typing a response.
LORELAI: You better. You have a lot of ground to cover and only two days to do it.
He gives my text a thumbs-up and I throw my phone down with a growl.
“I’ll give you a thumbs-up.”
I scramble to my feet, brushing my hands down my jean-clad thighs. “I need a drink. What do y’all have around here?”
Huck tilts his head to the side. “Pretty sure there’s beer.” I frown and he laughs. “Too good for beer these days. Okay, I think there’s some tequila we got from some fancy exec type. It’s for sipping, though. Which is why we ain’t opened it … ever.”
I find the bottle in question and spin around, waving it at him.
“Get drunk with me, Huckleberry, and let’s write something good.”
* * *
An hour later, we’re sauced and the bottle is three-quarters empty. Turns out, Huck and I suck at sipping.
But we’re not half-bad lyricists.
Our knees are practically touching as we sit cross-legged across from each other, our guitars cradled in our laps. Huck’s working through a bridge of one of those merry “this is my hometown dive bar” kind of country songs everyone loves and Drake is known for. I’m trying to power through the third stanza of an emotional ballad about my parents’ divorce. It’s not my usual fare, but this is my second album and I’m hopeful I’ll get a little more rein to write something with some emotional heft.
We work perfectly together, swinging back and forth between his song and mine, flipping the switch flawlessly. It’s always been like this with Huck. I said magic and I wasn’t exaggerating. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced with someone else. His creativity is the other half to mine.
Or something like that. Tequila always makes me feel … more.
So does Huck.