I TAKE MY CHANCES
After carrying one very tired puppy home and parking him on the bathroom rug while I shower off my almost-run and the wedding from the night before, I spend the afternoon catching up on work emails. Well, really just a handful of emails from the same person: my agent, Jennifer Blake. We go way back. Maybe too far back, if I’m honest. She was my agent before and up to when everything went haywire after the “Ohio” incident. When I was twenty-four, Jen found me in a tiny coffeehouse playing covers. Not long after that, she found my old bandmates, Carissa and Lanie, and we became the Belles. For several years, things were the stuff of dreams coming true. Sure, Carissa was a prima donna who always wanted to go solo and Lanie hated touring because it took her away from her model/actor boyfriend … so that was never ideal. Really, though, that only made things easier when they fell apart. No hard feelings. Or at least none outside of what I read in the comments section.
After “Ohio,” Jennifer dropped me, but again, I couldn’t really blame her. I mean, if my own fiancé … well, anyway. Maybe I should have tried harder to find new representation when I returned to Nashville, but after a few hard passes right out of the gate, and the widespread rumor that my name had been cancelled around town by several top executives, I was feeling lucky Jennifer didn’t slam the door in my face. In fact, she came to me. Aside from Craig and Arlo, she was the only one. Besides, if she believed I had a chance to make it again … that’s half the battle, right? Finding someone to believe in you?
Right. Or so I thought. The thing is, back in Michigan, I was all ready to say “fuck you!” to every single doubter and hater who gave up on me all those years ago. And then I got to Nashville, and everyone was kissing my ass and feeding me lines and offering me deals that sound suspiciously exactly the same as the ones they’d previously yanked away from me.
Including Jen. Especially Jen. Who very much wants me to smile pretty and say, “Oh gosh, thanks for giving me this second chance! I won’t disappoint you again, mister!” She has this whole “apology tour” worked out. Wants me to sit in with country radio deejays and executives and recant my rebellious ways. Explain that I was young and rash and shortsighted, but not anymore. I’ve learned my lesson!
Which is a crock of shit, frankly. I’ve spent at least half a decade teaching in Michigan, and if anything, things are even more horrifying and I’m even more furious. I stand by what I did. I won’t apologize for having a soul and the platform to use it.
But—and here’s the real fucking crux of the problem—how can I effect change without the platform? If I don’t kiss the asses of people in powerful positions, I won’t have a career in music and I might as well go back to teaching third grade. Which, let’s be real, is tempting.
I stare at Jen’s email and click the respond button a dozen times before closing it out. Technically, I’m still in Michigan. This can wait one more day. Or two. I want to talk to Craig. If anyone understands my position and won’t judge, it’s him.
Maren’s old grandfather clock chimes the hour and I figure I better get dressed to go out and maybe see if Rogers is ready for another short walk. Before I do, though, I open my Instagram. Force of habit, even though I was telling myself I wouldn’t check social media while I’m out of town. I scroll through notifications, barely acknowledging them. There are too many to keep track of, and I learned long ago that if anyone important needed to get ahold of me, they wouldn’t use social media. I pull up the feed. I don’t follow very many accounts, but right on top is a photo dump from Shelby and Cam. She told me they made a deal with their network that they wouldn’t allow any film crews or official photos at their wedding, honeymoon, or anything else, but instead would post their pics on social media in their own time and at their own pace. I loved that for them and for me.
I scroll through their photos, soaking in the happy smiles and relaxed poses. Their villa in Fiji is stunning and airy in that super tropical paradise way and I smirk, knowing they’ve probably had sex on every surface already. Good for Shelby. Lucky bitch.
I continue to scroll and my throat catches. Oh. He’s posted. Hot damn. I’m already flushed and haven’t even read the words yet.
So here’s the thing. Craig publishes erotic poetry using an anonymous account. I found out by total accident a year or so back. In my defense, I already followed the account. Hell, everyone does. And by everyone, I mean it has multiple millions of (horny) followers. It’s pure unadulterated sensual magic. Like, the number of times I’ve gotten off …
Ugh. I’m already sweating.
Anyway, like I said. I followed the account and I’m 99.99 percent sure he has no idea because he’s never followed anyone back. He’s exactly the kind of person who just throws his genius at the wall and doesn’t bother checking if it sticks before logging out to do more genius things.
Super healthy and somehow even hotter.
For months, I didn’t make the connection that it was Huck behind the account, until one day I picked up his phone to order us Grubhub at his request and his screen was full of notifications for his IG, under that very familiar screen name. I’ll be honest. I about had an orgasm right there in the studio.
I know what you’re thinking. Wow, Lore, that’s objectification. He’s your friend and you work together.
First of all, fuck you and the horse you rode in on, and second, I know. I know, okay?
But I would like to offer this as exhibit A:
carefully uncork
her all-consuming bouquet
sipping
holding
soaking
swallowing
savoring sweetly, so lush upon my tongue this insatiable thirst
only ever quenched by her
Holy … wait just one damn minute. Something clicks in my brain and I tap on the icon containing my own avatar, scrolling through my pictures. There it is: the wedding. Oh hell, I forgot I posted that champagne toast picture. I’m so obvious. But there’s no response from him. Not there, anyway. I skip back to the poetry and look at the time stamp. Same night, hours apart. He’s talking about champagne, right?