I press forward, my fingers splayed across the table in front of me. “But here’s the kicker. Did you know that day when everything blew up, I called Drake at least a hundred times with no answer. Turns out the whole band was in New Orleans holed up in a studio, working on a new record, and their manager forbade them from having contact with me. Drake didn’t even break up with me himself. He made an artsy Instagram post showing him canceling the wedding. So basically, it was implied. Fuck you, Lorelai Jones, looks like I have May tenth open now.”
Shelby hisses under her breath while Beth and Maren wear matching gaping expressions.
I grin darkly and continue. “Yeah, it was bad. But then, apparently while this was happening, Huck hops on the first plane out of Louisiana and finds me in a dive bar in Nashville, drinking my feelings. He was there for me when no one else was, literally risking everything when my fiancé—the man who was supposed to be my husband—wouldn’t. That’s…” I shake my head and tap the tabletop in front of me with my painted nails. “That’s a mindfuck right there. We’ve never discussed it since. So what am I supposed to do about it now? Because he’s the first person I call when I finish a new song. I know his takeout order by heart. He smells like clean laundry and he writes like a fucking daydream, and lately I’m kind of desperate to stick my hand down his pants just to see what he’d do, but then what if it scares him off and he kicks me out and tells me to find another producer?”
“Oh,” Maren says.
“Jesus, Jones,” Shelby says with a soft snort.
Beth clears her throat. “I feel like I need to point out that no man in their right mind would leave if you, Lorelai Jones, stuck your hand down his pants.” She smirks. “Just putting that out there.”
“Especially not a guy as nice as Craig Boseman.”
I laugh, because I’m really not upset. I’m resigned. It’s different. “Maybe so. But I’m not that altruistic. I’d want him to put his hand down my pants and he might not do that.”
“Fair enough.”
I sigh. “Besides. I can’t go there right now. I really, really need to focus on my career and my music, and Huck is an enormous part of that. I can’t fuck this up with gratuitous handies just because I’m horny. I’m okay. I know that made me sound all angsty, but it’s not like that. I love the way things are right now and I don’t want to mess them up. I think the whole Drake thing from this morning messed with my head. Churned up all those gross feelings and memories.” I shake my hands out and flick away the bad vibes. “I should proba bly call my therapist and schedule an appointment to see her when I get back to Tennessee.”
“You’re sure?” Shelby checks, still looking worried. Well, we can’t have that. She’s getting married tomorrow. Way to drag down the mood, Jones.
“Positive,” I tell her. “A thousand percent. But another gin fizz wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Already on it,” says Beth, heading for the bar. Maren excuses herself to the bathroom right as Shelby’s phone rings. From the way her face lights up like a Christmas tree, it’s got to be Cam. She holds up a finger and I wave her off with a grin.
“Hey, Lore,” she whispers, peeking back around the doorway, her hand over the speaker, “it’s actually Jazz with a cross-contamination question. If she wraps your cookies and has them displayed in a special box, can we still put them on the cake table? By the way, I can’t wait for you to see them, they’re darling!”
I’m already nodding. “Should be fine. Maybe put a little card next to them that says, ‘Allergy friendly, gluten and dairy free’ or whatever so no one accidentally grabs them instead of the cake?”
“Great idea!” Shelby’s voice fades away as she’s relaying what I’d said about the cards. I was diagnosed as celiac roughly six months ago, so I’m still getting used to advocating for myself and my strict diet. It’s a tricky balance of not wanting to come across as a whiny pain in the ass but knowing if I don’t speak up, I will literally have a whole lot of pain in my ass if I consume so much as a crumb of gluten or casein. And then I’ll fall asleep faster than a dad on Thanksgiving. And I’ll wake up with every single vertebra and foot and hand bone on fire. And then I’ll be useless for an entire week with constant migraines.
This wedding is my first big test. I was tempted to pack gluten-free granola bars rather than make a fuss about the catering, but Shelby wouldn’t hear of it. （I’m still packing the granola bars, FYI, and my enzyme pills, because I’m not about to interrupt my best friend on the most important day of her life to ask for my chicken to be sent back and baked in olive oil instead of butter.）
I sip the last bit of my watered-down gin, the ice having melted, and pull out my phone. I’d silenced it, but it appears Huck’s been texting me a running commentary from the night. His sound engineer, Arlo, was holding a gender-reveal party at an ax-throwing place outside Nashville. A smile blooms across my face as I scroll.
HUCK: These guys are too manly for me. This place is bleeding masculinity and not just because nearly everyone is a lumberjack homosexual. They all have beards. And giant forearms. Did you know there was a wrong way to throw an ax?
I snicker. Arlo is a pretty small dude, but his husband, Josh, is a burly pediatrician who comes from a large family of strapping men. They’re having their first child via surrogate this fall and just had the ultrasound done this week. I’m dying to know what they’re having.
HUCK: Scratch that—the wrong way is throwing a sharp object in the first place.
HUCK: Update: they bought cigars. Know what’s more ridiculous than a scrawny white dude whose preferred drink of choice is “your driest Cab”？ A thirty-six-year-old trying to smoke a cigar for the first time. This is like when I was twelve and my friend Joe rolled literal swamp grass in a poison ivy leaf and tried to convince me it was pot.
HUCK: Seriously though, these guys are so nice. Arlo married up. I knew that, of course, but …
HUCK: Your song was just on the radio.
HUCK: And now my song is on the radio.
HUCK: They’re song besties.
HUCK: I might be drunk. No one wants to share my wine. Not even Arlo. I need you.
HUCK: I mean.
HUCK: To help drink the wine.
HUCK: I don’t NEED you. You should be having fun with your ladies.
HUCK: Ladies is a dumb word. Women? Girls?
HUCK: They just started a competition to see who can chop through a log in a single swing. Help!
HUCK: Spoiler: I didn’t win.
I bite my lip to keep from giggling out loud. Man, he’s fucking cute.
LORELAI: When is the reveal happening???
HUCK:…
HUCK: No way. You have to wait until you come back before I tell you.
LORELAI: What? That’s not fair!
HUCK: Too bad. How’s your hen party?
LORELAI: Is that what you landed on? Hens? Not ladies?
HUCK: Still workshopping it.
LORELAI: Fun! Shelby is glowing and the blackberry gin fizzes are out of this world.
HUCK: Are you getting nervous for tomorrow?
I’m singing tomorrow at the wedding, and I’ve been stressing about it all week.