Five minutes later, I’m marching through the automatic doors of the grocery store and grabbing a basket. I fill it with essentials: blue Gatorade, hot water bottles, Epsom salts, several cans of gluten-free chicken soup, Ben & Jerry’s dairy-free Cherry Garcia because even when she doesn’t feel up to keeping anything down, Lorelai wants ice cream.
I text Arlo from the checkout line.
LORELAI GLUTENED. I’LL BE OUT TOMORROW.
He responded before I even got the items on the belt.
GIVE HER A GENTLE HUG FROM ME AND DR. JOSH. BTW DR. JOSH SAYS START WITH BONE BROTH.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath and turn to the elderly woman behind me in line. “Can you watch this for a second? I just need to grab something else real quick.”
She smiles knowingly. “First time with a sick wife at home?”
I don’t correct her. “Yeah.”
* * *
I return with my spoils and don’t bother knocking, unlocking the door with my master key. “I’m back, Lore. Got you ice cream.”
“Cherry Garcia?” she asks from her pile of blankets.
“You know it.”
I put away the groceries, filling the kettle again, and start up some bone broth in a pot. I pour boiling water into the hot water bottles and put the soup in a large bowl on a tray before walking it over to her couch.
“Okay, Princess and the Pea,” I tease gently, using the nickname she gave herself after realizing how tender her body would get from glutening. Even her skin aches. “It’s time to feel better. I need you to sit up, though.”
Lorelai rises with a wince and adjusts herself on the cushion. When she’s settled, I place the hot water bottles behind the small of her back and around each hip. Her eyes close with relief. “Thank you. I know it’s still hot outside, but it cannot get warm enough in here for my bones.”
“Which is why,” I say with a grin, passing her the soup, “I’m gonna run you a hot bath with some Epsom salts next.”
“I don’t have any—”
“It’s okay. I bought some. I read an article about Epsom salts a little while ago. A bath with them will help soothe your muscles. I know it’s your bones that ache, but lying there all tense like you are is hard on your muscles, too. Besides, the warmth will help.”
She blinks, her expression unreadable. I can’t tell if that’s because she thinks I’m being nosy and overbearing or if it’s the gluten. Both, probably.
“Bone broth,” I tell her once she takes a sip of her soup. “Dr. Josh suggested you start with it.”
Lorelai takes a few more sips before putting down her spoon. “You told Dr. Josh?”
“I told Arlo,” I clarify. “Because I’m not coming in tomorrow. He told Josh.”
She pauses mid-sip. “What? You can’t miss work. I’m fine.”
“First of all, I’m the boss. I can do whatever the fuck I want. Second, you’re not fine. You look like hell. Third, this…”—I gesture to her listless form, hunched over on the couch—“is my fault. I’m the one who didn’t research the barbecue stand carefully enough.”
Her eyebrows scrunch together. “Huckleberry,” she says softly, “you can’t fight all my battles for me.”
I bite down on a response, because I know she’s not just talking about gluten. And because if she let me, I’d never let her fight another battle alone for the rest of her life.
* * *
After running her a bath, I get to work straightening out Lorelai’s bed with fresh sheets and her trusty comforter. I refill her hot water bottles and place her pain meds and a glass of room-temperature water on her nightstand. My gaze snags on a picture there and I lift it to my face. It’s an old one. From when Lorelai was still the darling of country music and I was still playing backup with Drake. It’s of the two of us. My hair is long and shaggy and my hands are in my pockets. Lorelai has her arms flung around my shoulders and she’s pressing a kiss to my flushed cheek. Honestly, we might have been a little stoned in this picture or maybe drunk.
Or maybe we were just us. Two happy idiots before fame complicated everything. I put the frame back down and make my way over to Lorelai’s dresser, digging out a pair of flannel pants, an old tee, and a pair of fleecy socks and completely ignoring the top drawer where I know she keeps her lingerie.
Not today.
Then I remember our argument.
Not ever.
I hear the telltale sound of Lorelai getting out of the tub and I lay the clothes on her bed with a handwritten note telling her I’ll be back in the morning before ducking out and climbing the stairs to my apartment. A few minutes later, I flop on my bed, fully clothed, alone except for my asshole cat, Waylon, who gives me a death glare.
“Yeah, buddy,” I mumble as he turns and starts licking his butt on my duvet. “I’m mad at me, too.”
26
LORELAI
WE’RE NOT FRIENDS
A week after Huck ended things, then did an abrupt turn and took care of glutened-me for two days straight, navigating the biggest emotional minefield between us to date, I get a text from my new friend Annie Mathers inviting me out. She asked me to join her at a tiny little-known bar way off the main Nashville drag to watch Coolidge and the gang play.
I feel kind of weird because the group is quite a bit younger than me, but also I could use a friend in town and who am I to be picky? I am quite literally at their disposal. I have one best friend here and I could swim laps in the mixed signals and wrong turns between us. We’ve been back in the studio the last few days, and when we’re there, wrapped in song notes and speaking lyrics, things between Huck and me are the same as ever, but outside? Things are extra strained. I know we slept together years ago and were able to remain friends after, but this feels different. It wasn’t just a tipsy one-night stand. It was weeks of hooking up in ev ery way imaginable. And also unimaginable ways. Just so many ways.
We know too much.
If I’m honest, and full disclosure I’m not being honest with anyone right now because it fucking sucks … this thing between us? Didn’t ever really feel casual. And my whole plan of guarding my heart by insisting it be casual backfired spectacularly because apparently hearts don’t take directions well. Hearts just do whatever the fuck they feel like, and mine felt like loving Huck.
And now that’s done. So bravo, Heart, you bitch.
At eight o’clock, I’m locking the door behind me and slipping out in my favorite ripped jeans, tee, and baseball cap, tucking my keys and phone in my back pocket. I’m not hiding, but my name finally stopped trending on Twitter, and after all the hard work and energy Craig and Arlo put into my album this week, I don’t want to blow it up by reminding everyone I’m still in town. They can’t afford to lose any more contracts.
Another point of contention to add to the pile.
I arrive at the bar and spot Annie’s famously wild golden-brown curls in a booth near the very front, along with a statuesque blonde and a small-framed dark-haired woman who looks familiar. Without making eye contact with anyone else, I make a beeline for their booth and sink into the open seat before beaming up at the trio.
“Lorelai!” Annie shouts, her sweet-as-pie megawatt smile on full display as she throws her arms around my neck. I hug her, a relieved laugh caught in my throat, already feeling every eye in the entire bar on us.