We go to commercial and I transition to the small stage to sing in front of the small live studio audience.
“This is about a man,” I say with a wink, “but at the end of the day, it ain’t about Drake Colter.”
I strum the opening chords and sing for everything I’m worth.
Because I figure if I’m gonna put my whole-ass self out on a limb to dangle, I might as well put my heart out there, too.
32
CRAIG
SHAMELESS
According to Arlo, I’ve just missed Lorelai when I get back into town late on Sunday evening after dropping a newly clean and marshmallow-free Dustin at his mama’s house. I should feel refreshed after a long weekend away at the cabin, and with regards to my business, I do, but I’m also crawling-out-of-my-skin ready to see Lorelai. We need to talk. Or I need to talk, anyway, and just lay it all out there, consequences be damned.
And at least I’ll have told her the truth, right? Even if she doesn’t feel the same, she deserves to know someone fell in love with her. To know she’s that special to someone, even if it’s just me.
Or at least that’s what I was thinking before Arlo stormed into my office way earlier than he’s usually in, let alone awake, startling me so badly I shoot hot coffee from my nose and all over the stack of paperwork that’s collected on my desk while I was out of town. Not that I’d done anything more than shove the papers out of my way before picking up my phone, staring at it and arguing with myself about how early is too early to text Lorelai.
I’d just settled on sending her “Thank You” by Led Zeppelin as a sort of softball icebreaker text that wouldn’t matter what time of day or night I’d sent it （because the song game doesn’t play by normal rules of engagement） when my partner—in no fedora, mind you—slams open my office door.
Arlo’s red hair is usually cut so short, I’ll forget how curly it is, but this morning, he’s got a halo of fiery frizz and wild eyes. He marches over to where a small flat-screen smart-TV monitor hangs against the wall and flips it on.
“Good morning?” I say to him, grabbing a bunch of takeout napkins out of my drawer and mopping up my desk.
“Morning, boss,” he sings. “Sorry, I overslept.”
“Um. For what?”
He gives me a look over my shoulder that clearly translates as “obviously to do this,” which is not at all obvious, but I don’t argue.
“How’s baby watch going?”
“Her cervix is two to three centimeters dilated, and she thinks she shed her mucus plug this morning.”
I choke on a fresh sip of coffee. “I’m sorry, did you just say…” I trail off, not daring to repeat what I thought I heard him say. Instead, I put the coffee down. Maybe later.
Arlo finds whatever channel he’s been looking for and it’s on a commercial. He fluffs his hair out of his eyes and swipes a bead of sweat trailing over his eyebrow.
“Mucus plug. Yes. Don’t ask me, but Josh made excited doctor noises when she told us that, so I’m going on a limb to say it’s a good thing.”
“Awesome, man. I’m so excited for you guys.”
“Oh, I know. We got the Johnny Cash onesies.”
“Hey! That was a surprise!”
“I know that, too.” Arlo shrugs unapologetically. “But I want the baby to wear it home. Start them off right, you know? Nothing better than dressed in something Uncle Craig picked out special.”
I swallow, my face feeling hot. “Hell, Arlo.”
“I know,” he repeats, his eyes brimming with meaning. “Anyway…”—he flaps his hands and sniffs loudly—“shush, it’s about to start.” He turns up the volume on the TV and settles across from me in a chair, turning it to face the screen.
“What is—”
“Shh!” he insists and gestures for me to watch.
And there she is. Holy fuck, Trina got her on The Good Morning Show? I surge to my feet, my chair forgotten, and in three steps I’m standing directly in front of the screen, hands on hips, jaw unhinged.
She’s so beautiful, my chest aches just looking at her. Lorelai crosses her long legs and laughs out loud at something the host says and it makes the hair on my arms stick up. They’re showing footage of her as a kid, and I’m overwhelmed with how powerful this moment is. How she’s come full circle through the grief and bullshit and now she’s on top of it all. On fucking national television, telling her story.
The interviewer asks about what went down after Lorelai played “Ohio,” and Lorelai doesn’t hold back. She talks about being abandoned by her label, her bandmates, and yeah, fucking Drake. But then something happens.
The interviewer, Amy something or other, reflects on how Lorelai was left without a friend in the world and there’s this look. Lorelai smiles. It’s small and familiar and I can feel it in my chest. “Well,” she says, “not totally.”
Because she wasn’t alone. She had me. She’s always had me. My heart is thumping now, racing, even, which is crazy because I’m just standing here. But my mind is spinning. Lorelai always knew she could count on me.
I might not have told her I love her, but she’s always known.
I just have to explain it to her, is all.
I’m so distracted, having revelations and making plans, that I miss a lot of what’s being said until my ears perk up at a name. My name. Shit, apparently they’re discussing me and I didn’t even realize it.
“Craig’s recently come into the spotlight after releasing a viral video singing ‘Jonesin’，’” Amy is saying, “causing some to speculate that maybe he wrote it all along. Can you confirm that?”
Lorelai presses her lips together, clearly hesitating, and I want to shout at her, “It’s fine! I don’t give a fuck anymore!” But obviously I can’t, and it doesn’t matter because she’s already speaking.
“I can only confirm that the mystery bridge—that’s my favorite part.”
“Interesting.” Amy’s eyes brighten with understanding. “What about the rumors that the song is about you?”
I swallow hard. Lorelai should know the truth, but does she know it in the same way she knows I love her? Christ on a cracker, I need to communicate better.
“I can’t say for sure. I’ve never straight-up asked! You’ll have to get Craig on here and drill him about it.”
I hear a snicker coming from behind me and whirl around to face Arlo, who is rocking side to side in his chair and smirking at his manicure.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says, undeterred in his rocking. “Just imagining you facing down that itty-bitty host while she tries to worm out all your secrets.”
“Lorelai’s killing it.”
“She is,” he admits, proudly. “But we’ve always known our girl was meant for the national stage.”
And suddenly I’m just so fucking over hiding everything. Keeping things locked up so long I’m just asking someone to swoop in and steal her out from underneath me. “I wrote ‘Jonesin’’ about Lorelai. Years ago. After we hooked up the first and only time—well, until recently,” I tell him.