* * *
Two days before I’m supposed to fly to L.A. for the interview and I’m sitting on my balcony with Maren, pouting. It’s obvious why. Because on the one hand, literally everything is going right for me. Or at least better. I have an agent in my corner. I have the once-in-a-lifetime chance to share my side of the sordid tale. My best friend is visiting. The album is gorgeous and the duet is sitting pretty at number one.
All these things are the very best. Opportunity knocking and second chances blooming left and right. I can’t hardly believe my luck and I’m fucking miserable about it.
Because I don’t have Huck. I miss him. I still see him, of course. Regularly, and if you were observing our conversations, you might not even notice anything has changed. For example, the other night I texted him “Black” by Pearl Jam, and he responded within seconds with “Heart-Shaped Box” by Nirvana as if he’d just been staring at his phone, willing me to reach out. Like always.
But it’s different. It’s more stilted. Forced. Not forced like we’re pretending we like each other but forced lightness. As if we’re pretending not to like each other so much. He’s stopped writing his poetry. I’ve been checking twice a day, and nothing. And he hasn’t made any more claims to “Jonesin’，” or any of Drake’s supposed other songs, for that matter.
The nominations for Song of the Year were posted and Drake was there, claiming “Best Worst Case” as his without a cowriter. Though I did notice Drake didn’t post anything on his socials about the nod and he didn’t issue a statement. In fact, he’s basically gone dark in recent weeks. Knowing him the way I unfortunately do, I’m positive Old Drake would be crowing from the rooftops about his songwriting prowess. His “spending time locked away in the studio” vague posts mean something came to a head.
And I’m dying to ask Huck about it, but after wrapping on the album, he left town. Arlo said he took his nephew to his cabin in the Smokies. Which sounds planned, so I’m trying not to spiral on the implications, even though he never mentioned it before and also he’d hinted at one point he’d take me … Regardless, no one knew exactly when he’d be back and he’s completely unreachable. So that’s that.
Maren offers to top off my glass and I accept because, what the hell, why not. We’re perched on the iron porch railing while Miranda Lambert plays over the speaker. She’s singing about a man who done her wrong, and I’m feeling it all the way down to my red-painted toes. Because even though I miss Huck like crazy, I’m still nursing a bruised ego and a neglected vagina and both of those things are capital H, capital F, His Fault.
Even if he was pulling back for the right reasons, which, okay, so maybe he was, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about it if he shuts down and travels four hours into the mountains where I can’t text him.
I know. I hear myself. I’m being a bitch. A lonely bitch who misses her friend, whom she loves.
And his cock. That is attached to him, so it’s not like I’m not talking about the same thing here.
Maren is scrolling through her phone, keeping up on emails, and I can tell by the tense line of her slim shoulders that something’s wrong.
“Work problems?” Even though I’m headed out of town, I’m leaving for just the one night, so Mare has decided to stay a little longer.
“No, not work. Something else. Just…” Her brows draw together and she shakes her head as if she’s dislodging a thought and meets my gaze.
“I need to go to Wisconsin.”
I put down my wine and straighten. “Right now? Is everything okay?”
“No, not now.” She waves at me to sit and settles in her chair, more relaxed. “But soon. I have to go see some people about a legal thing. It’s nothing bad. Just weird. I had an old friend in the North Woods, from back when I led fishing tours, and he passed away. Anyway, apparently he left me some things.”
“I’m sorry, Mare. I didn’t know you lost someone recently.”
She takes a long sip, her gaze suddenly a million miles away. “It was a month ago, actually. I went to the funeral. He was in his nineties and it wasn’t unexpected. But I didn’t realize he’d left me anything, so I guess I need to go back.”
“Was he rich?”
She snickers, relaxing. “Not in the slightest. It’s probably a bunch of old fishing poles and fifty-year-old musky tackle.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah. I’ll be sure to take my pickup when I go. So anyway, we were talking about you,” she says.
“Were we?”
“Maybe not out loud, but you were definitely thinking about Craig again. Your expression went all sour and we’ve listened to this album twice through now.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time I almost got a tattoo with Miranda?”
Maren’s eyes grow huge. “No!”
“We chickened out. We were drunk as two skunks and wanted to get matching Loretta Lynn quotes. Blake found out and intervened.”
“No shit. What was the quote?”
“Turns out it was a Dolly quote, so props to Blake, because that would have been an expensive PR nightmare.”
Maren laughs her musical laugh and rests her head against the back of her chair, turning her face toward me. “You gonna be okay, Jones?”
“Always am.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.” I sigh. “Yeah, I will be. I need to talk to Huck and tell him how I feel. Obviously. Which scares the ever-living shit out of me because I only ever told one man I loved him and he broke my heart. And somehow this feels even more scary, because as much as I thought I loved Drake, I was wrong. I didn’t love him. I barely liked him once the dust settled. But I’m head over ass for Huckleberry and he could crush me.”
“He won’t crush you.”
“But he could,” I insist softly.
“He won’t, though.”
“We’ll see.”
* * *
The next morning, I leave Maren sleeping off a wine hangover and head into the studio early.
“Lorelai!” Arlo raises his head with a start. There is music pumping out the speakers of his work laptop and two empty cardboard coffee cups and a half-eaten muffin beside him on the desk. “I didn’t realize you were coming in.”
“No appointment.”
“Craig’s still out, I’m afraid. I’m only in because our surrogate Jessica is due literally any minute and I’m freaking the fuck out. Josh sent me to work, saying I was giving him heart palpitations with my pacing.”
“I figured. Hoped, actually. I’m here to see you—if you can keep a secret from your boss, that is.”
Arlo’s expression brightens beneath his fedora. “I love secrets. Go on.”
“I hoped you might say that.” I take a deep breath and plop down across the desk from him and pull a piece of paper out of my scratched-to-hell notebook, something I’d worked on late into the early morning. “So here’s what I’m thinking, and I’m in a bit of a crunch…”
31
LORELAI
NOT READY TO MAKE NICE