“I know you are. So what are you going to do?”
I glance up at the mountain. “First, I’m gonna make you climb this entire thing while I think good and hard about some revealing question to ask you when you least suspect it.”
Maren smirks, eyes crinkled in amusement. “Fair enough.”
“And then I’m gonna consider what you’ve said and also what to do about it if it’s true.”
“It’s true,” she insists, getting to her feet and tightening her harness. “And while you’re thinking about how you plan to interrogate me, maybe you can lead off with some of the more pertinent details regarding that motorcycle sex. For starters, kickstand up or down?”
“Which one?” I ask her with a wink.
* * *
While Huck’s been busy fine-tuning Avalanche and working hard to make Lorelai Jones a household name once more, and Maren （plus Shelby via FaceTime） has been preoccupied with renovating the shambles of my nonexistent love life, my new agent slash manager slash PR miracle worker, Trina Hamilton, has been chipping away at my disaster image. If it wasn’t for the fact that the woman wears prickly like a pair of fucking Luccheses, I’d be concerned she was taking me on as a pity project.
Admittedly, I’ve calmed down a bit on the pity party since the duet released to acclaim. I’m not a complete lost cause, but scars run deep, and mine were stitched together in a rush job the first time around.
But I’ve seen Trina chew out a （probably） well-meaning barista for asking if she wanted to change her latte from full fat to skim, so I know for certain she doesn’t have a soft bone in her body. Even her cartilage is reinforced with titanium.
I fucking love her. It’s been too long since I’ve felt confident in my own skin around anyone besides Huck and my friends in Michigan. I let this place humble me. More than that, I let it shame me and for what? Because I had principles? Principles, mind you, that are shared by a significant portion of the population. It shouldn’t have been shame on me. It should have been shame on them all along. Trina Hamilton and her pointy heels and pointy manicure and matte lips and big hair reminded me of that.
Reminded me of who I was.
Thank God.
“So here’s the scoop, Cheetah,” she tells me, using her new nickname because she’s up to her microbladed eyebrows in Glennon Doyle’s Untamed and now calls everyone with a uterus, physical, spiritual, or otherwise, Cheetah. Her fingers tap on her phone screen in front of me, and I settle back in my chair, folding my napkin and pushing the remnants of my giant Cobb salad to the center of the table. “I’ve gotten you an early morning appearance on The Good Morn ing Show in three days. I know it’s a tight turnaround, but Amy Anderson is a massive fan of yours, not to mention angling for the Enlightened News Anchor of the People Award or some other made-up bullshit recognition. Whatever it is, she practically fell out of her chair at the chance to interview you on camera.”
There’s a loud buzzing noise in my ears that kicked in somewhere around the words The Good Morning Show. “Holy shit, can you repeat that?”
Trina rolls her eyes lightly, but I see the subtle beginnings of a pleased smirk around the corners of her painted mouth. “Amy Anderson. The Good Morning Show. Three Days. You.”
I take a long draw from my iced tea and fan my face, looking around, a little unnerved to notice everyone else just going about their day. No one else looks like they’ve just received the shock of their lives. Only me. We’re sitting in a wide-open street café on Broadway on a Tuesday in full view of God and country. Another change that I’m getting used to. Trina refuses to strategize in private. No more hiding like you got caught lip-synching at the Super Bowl. You are a goddamn cheetah, Jones.
“You’re completely serious.”
“I don’t lie about business,” Trina says, before tilting her head to the side and taking a short sip through her straw. “Well, mostly.”
“What’s the angle? How do you know they aren’t hoping to burn me on national TV?”
“I’m ninety-five percent sure they aren’t. But even if they were, it’s a calculated risk that I’m encouraging you to take. This is your chance to share your side of things. To change the narrative. Plus, TGMS has a national reach in several different times zones. I’ve also arranged to have you perform a song.”
I choke on my tea and Trina barely misses a step, passing me a clean napkin. “The world needs to be reminded of what you bring to the table without all the gatekeeping and drama. Underneath the moral panicking, there’s a hell of a talented singer-songwriter. You’re gonna show them that.”
“Three days isn’t a lot of time to coach—”
“I’m not turning you into a robot, Lorelai. This ain’t no Eliza Doolittle shit. There’s nothing wrong with the way you are. Your only mistake was in trusting the wrong people, who advised you to turn tail and be ashamed of yourself. We’re not doing that, Cheetah. This time you’re embracing it. Will you lose some folks? Sure. Though you could lose them just as easily for gaining or dropping weight or having a bad haircut or sleeping with a married man.”
“So to be clear, you want me to be myself on national television?”
“A hundred percent you.”
“No matter the consequences.”
“Can I be candid, Jones?”
“Do you have another way?” I ask wryly.
She doesn’t even flinch. “You’re interesting as hell. I researched you and the whole HomeMade drama with your friends up in Michigan. You stepped back into the spotlight for them, and your fans showed up. Some people step away for six months and can never crawl their way back. You left for nearly half a decade and people were clamoring for more. More you, more Shelby and Cameron, more Craig Boseman, even more Drake Colter, though the piece of shit doesn’t deserve it. All of that, or at least a large part of that, is because of you. People are fascinated to see what you’ll do next. Even the radio show—”
“I thought you said that was a mistake.”
“Not because you did anything wrong,” she clarifies sharply. “It was a mistake for you to lower yourself to their level. To pander to those small-minded idiots. They were never gonna welcome you back. Jennifer Blake offered you up on a platter with a side a grits.”
“Well okay then,” I say, resolved. What’s the worst that can happen? They cancel me on a national level? Been there and done that. Gave back the fucking engagement ring.
“Excellent.” Trina slips her shades over her eyes and rubs at her temples. “I hate pep talks. I know they’re necessary, but they give me migraines.”
“Being nice gives you migraines?”
Trina raises her hand to signal for the bill. “Believe me, this is a breeze compared to the days I spent paying bail on Coolidge. But yes, being nice gives me migraines. It’s my trigger. Like chocolate and the smell of antiseptic.”
“Thanks, Trina.”
She grins, accepting the bill and signing off on it with a flourish. “You’re welcome, Cheetah. I’ll have my assistant send over your flight and hotel details before tonight.”