It’s been five hours since I made it back from Denver—my tour officially canceled, my future officially fucked—and my fiancé still hasn’t called me back. Someone else in my position might worry he’s giving me the cold shoulder, but I know better than to panic. Well, panic about that, anyway. This is standard Drake. He’s notorious for holing up in the studio and turning off his phone, shutting out the world so he can become one with his process or whatever. Case in point: his grandmother had a terrible stroke last fall and it took me flying in from D.C. and literally pounding down the studio door to notify him she was gone. Even then, I got to him only because Huck answered the door.
So his silence isn’t that unusual. But hell if it’s not aggravating as heck and a tiny bit hurtful. On the surface, I’m pretty independent, and we’ve never had one of those clingy relationships (the man is deathly allergic to PDA), but for just once in our lives, I could use a hug and some fucking reassurance from the man I’m marrying. If ever there was a time to be needy …
I try his cell again. And again, nothing. By the time he checks, he’s gonna have seventy missed calls and probably freak out.
Which, well. Considering I just crashed and burned my entire career with one four-and-a-half-minute protest performance, maybe it would help. I would love to not be the only one freaking out.
I nearly smile to myself. Yeah, right. Famous Drake Colter lose control of his careful facade? Not a chance. One of the things that first drew me to him was his calming presence. Nothing rattles him. I could use a voice of reason. Encouragement. Logic.
I call again. “Pick up, pick up, pick up … Hello? Dra—”
“Shit. No, I’m sorry, Lore, it’s Huck.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and double-check the name on the screen and bring it back to my ear in time to catch Huck still speaking.
“I should have used my phone, but I have just a minute and I saw your name flash on the screen and—”
“Where are you guys?”
I can hear Huck’s exhale. “New Orleans.”
“Oh. Well, that explains it. Have you been in the studio all day? I’ve been trying—”
“Yeah, we have,” he cuts in, in a rush. “But listen to me, Lore. Drake already knows. What happened at your show and with your tour … He’s being a dick, okay? He heard the news right away. Powers called first thing this morning.” Huck’s tone is pained as he mentions his and Drake’s slimy manager.
“Oh,” I repeat, icy realization cooling the blood in my veins, freezing me in place. “I see.”
It’s quiet a beat before Huck speaks. “I’m sorry, Lore. I’ve been trying to get him to take your calls, but Powers told him not to talk to you until he figured things out or some shit. I’m not supposed to be talking to you, either, technically, but that’s such bullshit. I’m—this is just all so fucked up. You didn’t do anything wrong, Lorelai.”
“He won’t talk to me because Powers told him not to?” I ask, snagging on the detail.
“Yeeeah.” Huck exhales loudly over the speaker. “Yes.”
I swallow back the sudden rush of emotion, feeling the hot sting of tears for the very first time since this whole thing began, and clear my throat before saying, “Just to clarify, the man I am supposed to marry, tie my life to—who is supposed to love me in sickness or health, for richer or poorer—he won’t talk to me because his manager told him not to.”
“I know. It looks bad. It is bad. One hundred percent. I’m sorry. I feel shitty even telling you, but I couldn’t handle him ignoring your calls. You needed to know.”
“I understand. Thank you. Bye, Huck.”
“Lore—shit. Okay. Right. Bye, Lorelai. I’ll call you later, okay? To check in.”
I hang up the phone, feeling numb, and slump back on my bed with a shaky sigh, rubbing my hands over my eyes until eventually they, too, fall against the rumpled quilt.
My high-rise studio has been half unpacked for over a year. Its honestly more of an overpriced storage facility at this point. I was supposed to move in with Drake, but he’s home even less than I am. I guess it’s good I never did.
It hasn’t always been this way. At the start, before we had things like careers and commitments and tour buses, we spent all our time cuddled up on a secondhand couch we found on a street corner for free. We’d drink cheap beer and smoke questionable weed and dream about our futures as mega super famous country stars and then make love on his piece of shit mattress laid right in the middle of the floor on the wood. It was humble, and maybe even a little trashy, but we were happy. We were on the cusp of something big and filled with all the hope starry-eyed twenty-somethings in Nashville can hold.
And then our dreams came true. Labels signed us. First me, but he wasn’t far behind. And albums were recorded and tours were planned and we could afford things like box springs and couches that didn’t have mysterious stains on the cushions.
And with every granted wish, we pulled further apart. On our three-year anniversary, he took me to St. Croix and asked me to marry him. I said yes, obviously, and I thought maybe that was the missing piece. That if he could make that kind of effort—go to all the trouble to coordinate our schedules and plan this whole beautiful trip and pick out this perfect ring—maybe our relationship wasn’t ill-fated. Deep down he knew me more than anyone and he understood.
Of course I found out later my agent Jen did most of the planning, but that’s not unusual. Our schedules were super busy. It’s hard to plan a surprise trip with someone who reports to an entire management team.
My apathetic musings are interrupted when my phone buzzes. I grope near where I dropped it, grabbing it and blinking against the brightness to read the Google alert.
COUNTRY STAR DRAKE COLTER BREAKS SILENCE WITH SOCIAL MEDIA POST AFTER FIANCéE LORELAI JONES MAKES POLITICAL GAFFE AT SHOW
I sit up, clicking on the link, my heart in my throat. I don’t even read the article, just follow the blue-lined text to Drake’s Instagram. “Don’t you dare let me down, Drake Colter,” I mutter, swiping at my eyes and sniffing as the video loads.
There’s no sound. It’s just one of those screen scrolls. It’s his phone calendar and he scrolls to the month of May. The month we’re getting married. Then the date. There it is on the screen.
Marrying the most beautiful girl in the world.
He deletes it. Letter. By. Letter.
And the video goes black before cycling through again.
I blink, confused. What does that even mean?
Wait. Holy fucking shit, did he just break up with me via a fifteen-second clip on social media?
I watch as the video repeats over and over. Marrying the most beautiful girl in the world.
Marrying the most beautiful
Marrying the most
Marrying the
Marrying
I can’t stop the bark of laughter that creeps past my throat and ends on a loud sob.
Oh my god. I’ve ruined everything.
I’ve ruined everything.
I need a drink.
* * *