Okay, fine, that’s a lot of fucking work. I’ll just move out.
And you know what? After hearing that song, I deserve to have to move out. Once that song hits the radio （which it will because I will produce the hell out of it. I can already tell it’s a banger）， disappointed women everywhere will scream it from rafters and I will become the poster boy for fucking up a good thing.
Until then, I have a nephew who needs me （or maybe I need him at this point） and the open air of the Smokies and no girls are allowed. Thank God.
I trade my motorcycle for Melissa’s more practical Chrysler minivan and we hit the road at first light after the requisite stop at Clark’s Mini Mart to purchase our weight in Little Debbie snacks, sugary drinks his momma wouldn’t approve of, and pork rinds （they don’t really count as meat, they’re basically deep-fried fatty air）。 I can spare only four days, and we plan to make the most of every minute.
I’m not used to sharing my inherited sanctuary with anyone, but I find I’m looking forward to it. It can get a little lonely out there when the sun goes down and the world is asleep. I’ve packed cheese dogs （for him） and marshmallows, along with some of those long metal pronged sticks to roast them over a fire under the stars. Between that and the fishing we’ll do while waiting for our pots in the kiln, I think I’ve covered everything I can remember from the nights I spent learning about pottery and life at my uncle Huck’s knee.
Except by the end of the first day, it’s clear I’ve forgotten a lot of what my great-uncle Huck taught me, and really, the pottery shed has seen better days. There’s a bat’s nest in the corner over the kiln and neither Dustin nor I are manly enough to scare them off, plus Melissa would murder me if I returned her baby with a rabies infection. So instead, we close the door, locking it up real tight, and I make plans to call one of those exterminators that don’t actually exterminate but rather “relocate” the pests.
Good news is I brought my guitar. Even better, I thought to grab a second one for long nights around the fire. So maybe I’m not Great-Uncle Huck, passing on my world-renowned pottery knowledge to a new generation of young artists …
But guitar playing is pretty cool, too. Not to mention, D’s a natural at coming up with lyrics. We take turns over the bonfire laying down rhyming verses, and I’m itching to write down some of his lines. With permission, of course. And full songwriting credit, for fuck’s sake.
We spend the next few days sunning ourselves on the shore, casting lines off the fishing rock, and learning chords at night. We eat fresh fish until we’re sick of it, and then I drive us into town, where we drink iced slushies and he gets a burger the size of his head while I end up with a salad the size of, well, a big plate. Because fiber. Long gone are the days I can live on marshmallows and fried lake perch.
And through it all, I barely think of her.
Finally, when our last night rolls around, we decide to sleep under the stars. I aired out an old two-person tent just in case we actually do see a bear, and we sit around our bonfire.
“I don’t want to go home,” D says, his fingers glued with sugar and chocolate.
“I hear ya. But if I kept you here much longer, your mom would come after us, and that would definitely mess with the whole ‘guys only’ vibe we have going on.”
“I thought that was just for this trip?”
“Why?” I ask, passing him a graham cracker and trying not to laugh at the amount of marshmallow covering his face. “You making plans to bring your dates out here in a couple of years? Because I’ll tell you, it’s probably more rustic than most girls prefer.”
“No,” he says, flushing in the light of the fire. Poor kid has his uncle’s cheeks.
“Uh-oh. Is there a lucky girl in your life, D?”
“Not yet. I’m only twelve.”
I want to tease him, but I make myself stop. This is a safe space, after all. Where we keep our secrets until we don’t want to anymore.
“What about Lorelai? Has she come out here yet?”
Apparently not my secrets, though.
I pretend to be considering my marshmallow, rotating it this way and that over the embers, buying myself some time when I decide it can’t hurt to share.
“I haven’t brought her, no. Though we talked about it once. She seemed pretty excited about checking it out one day.”
“Why don’t you bring her, then?”
I grimace, partly because my marshmallow’s on fire and partly because Lorelai.
“Maybe I will one day. But things are pretty complicated with Lorelai. She’s a super good friend, but that’s all. And it’s not always a good idea to bring your super good friends who are girls on overnight trips to your creepy cabin in the mountains.”
“Because you’ll want to have sex.”
I choke on charred marshmallow, hacking and coughing and inhaling smoke until my eyes are streaming. This kid’s straight talk could give Trina Hamilton a run for her money.
“Where did you hear that? Am I allowed to—hell, is that why? Did your mom send you here so I could talk to you about sex?”
If a twelve-year-old could scoff, he does. “Duh, I took a class in school.”
“In fifth grade?”
“I’m in seventh grade, Uncle Craig.”
I rub a hand down my burning face. “Right. I knew that. Sorry. Okay, so you already know about sex. Good. That’s good.”
“So is that why you can’t invite Lorelai? Because Mom says you’re in love with her. And when you love someone, you get to have sex with them.”
Holy shit.
Holy. Shit.
Right now would be an excellent time for a bear attack.
I decide the best route is the most direct. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.
“I don’t know where your mom got that information from, but between you and me, I guess, sure. Yes. I love Lorelai. Have for years. Haven’t told her because I know she doesn’t feel the same. So, no more—so, no sex,” I amend, sweating. “Like you said. You should love someone before you have sex with them. Or at least wait until you’re old enough and man enough to buy condoms yourself.”
“Does Lorelai know you love her?”
“No. Thank God.”
“So how do you know she doesn’t love you?”
“She never told me.”
“You never told her that you love her.”
I blink, staring in the firelight, wrapping my head around his preteen logic and looking for the holes. Or even a hole. But, dammit, there isn’t one. It’s massively oversimplified, sure, but maybe I’ve overcomplicated things.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
“Fair enough. You got me on that one, kid. I’ll think about it. For now, though, I think we better get to bed. We have a long ride down the mountain tomorrow, topped off by a side trip to my place to figure out a way to get the marshmallow out of your hair before your mom takes one look and decides to shave it all off.”
30
LORELAI
CHANGE MY MIND
Shockingly, Maren makes it three whole days before she corners me about the dismal state of my love life. The diabolical Junior Miss Michigan waited until I was literally hanging off a cliff’s edge, my life in her hands, before she brought it up in a maddeningly casual and not-at-all-out-of-breath way.