The following morning, I’m just pressing the start button on my coffee maker when I hear a knocking at my front door. My head slumps forward on my shoulders and I groan, forcefully smacking the button three more times for good measure to speed things up. I’ve overslept, which is absolutely because I spent half the night tossing and turning before actively googling “Is it possible to unsend texts?” and “Can you delete a file after sending it?” sometime around two A.M.
The knocking continues its assault until it’s topped off by the doorbell, which is one of those annoying old-fashioned buzzer types. “Ugh, I’m coming.” It’s not until I’m halfway down the hall that it occurs to me it might be Craig. That maybe he’s here after getting my song and made himself wait until this morning so he could come over in person and press me up against my wall and kiss all the way down my body and …
I dash into the powder room and dig for a sample bottle of mouthwash courtesy of my last dental appointment, swishing it around my sleep-fuzzy teeth while simultaneously splashing ice-cold water on my face.
I spit in the sink and blot my face dry, combing my fingers through my tangled hair in the mirror, tousling it in a way I hope looks artful and not frizzy. I can see the vague outline of my nipples through my white sleep tank, but maybe that’s a good thing. A little visual reminder of what could be.
Not once, not once, do I question why Craig would be knocking and ringing the doorbell when he lives upstairs and can just, you know, text back and I could unlock my door and—
The doorbell buzzes again. “This is it,” I tell my reflection.
A moment later, I pull open my front door and immediately realize it’s definitely not Craig.
I lean against the doorjamb, immediately crossing my arms over my nipples. “Speak of the never-lovin’ devil.”
Drake beams a confident, too-sexy grin. “So you were speaking of me?”
“Fuck no, I wasn’t. But the point stands.”
His face twitches. A too-familiar indication of his annoyance, but he recovers quickly and holds out a small package. “For you.”
Holding one arm across my breasts, I reach out for the box and shake it a little.
“From the farmers’ market. Vetner’s strawberry shortcakes. Those are your favorite, right?”
I’m busy sniffing the box but slowly lower it at his words. I narrow my eyes at him, bemused. “They are. I’m shocked you remember, though I guess you’re bound to be correct every once in a while. I’m pretty sure you used to have Craig or Levi pick them up for me whenever you were in town.”
He affects a wounded expression, his hand clutching his chest. “Ouch. I did ask you to marry me, Lorelai. I wanted you to be my wife.”
I tilt my head to the side. “Until you didn’t, Drake. Thanks for the shortcakes. You’re right. They used to be my favorite. Before my diagnosis. Now one bite would put me in bed for a week, which you should know, given the way you stalk my Instagram, but that’s neither here nor there.”
I start to duck into my foyer, swinging the door shut behind me, when his arm reaches out. “Jen’s been in touch. Asked about the potential for a reunion tour this winter.” He shrugs. “You could have just asked me in person, Lore.”
My mouth drops open and it feels as though the ground shifts under me. “She did what?”
“Makes sense. I should have done it a long time ago. You were right. I messed up. But better late than never, right?”
“I didn’t—I don’t want—” I swallow, trying to regain my composure. “She never should have—she went behind my back. I never would have asked you that.”
His brows draw together. “Why not? You don’t have to act too proud with me. Look, I’m sorry about the shortcake. I forgot, okay? I can’t keep track of all your diets. But you have to admit, the tour is a brilliant idea. You could celebrate your reemergence on the country music scene aaand…” He trails off meaningfully, stuffing his hands in his designer jeans pockets in a way I know he thinks is down-to-earth and charming. Spoiler: It’s neither.
“And what?” I ask. My patience is way past running thin and I’m not the least bit interested in putting words in his mouth.
“And … I don’t know. Let whatever happens between us, happen. C’mon, Lore, you know our chemistry is off the charts. It’s inevitable.”
I could slam the door in his face. I should after all he’s put me through. But all the insecurities from the last six months—hell, six years—prevent me from completely shutting down this opportunity. I don’t want Drake. I don’t even think I want the tour or the inevitable career boost. But I backed myself into a fucking corner and I’ve spent years trying to muscle my way out.
“Nothing is inevitable, Drake. Least of all, a reunion between us.” I pretend to perk up at something over my shoulder. “I think my phone is ringing. I should go.” I wave the box in my hand before pressing it firmly to his chest. “It’s not a diet, by the way. It’s a chronic autoimmune and digestive disorder, you ass.”
I shut the door with a soft click and lock it before leaning against it and sliding down to the floor, dragging my knees to my chest and exhaling, dropping my head back against the door with a thud.
What was I even thinking coming back here? It’s like those years in Michigan made me forget how jaded and impossible this industry is. Did I really think I could just waltz in with a new sound and everyone would magically forget what I was about the last time around? Did I forget how rare it is to get one shot in Nashville, let alone two? What makes me so special that I deserve to keep making music?
No, I don’t want to join forces with my ex, but I don’t want to do an apology tour, either. The fact is, I might have to swallow my pride and do both if I want a second chance, and I’m in no position to refuse help, no matter how much said help makes my stomach churn.
I know what Craig would say. He’d tell me to trust in the duet. But that seems even less likely a scenario than the tours. I’m not saying I won’t do it, and I know if Craig writes it, it will be a hit. No question. I’m all in, I just don’t see how one song is going to fix the mess I’ve made.
And really, it’s easy for Craig to say. He’s not the one bumming a living off his friend’s generosity. He’s not the one shutting the door in his ex’s face and he’s not the one watching his meager teaching savings slip away month after month.
I don’t begrudge my friend’s success. He’s worked his ass off and he deserves every bit of happiness. But at the end of the day, I don’t have an eccentric wealthy uncle who died and left me the ability to take career risks.
And of course, that’s not all that’s bothering me. Right this moment, when I’m feeling all tender and decidedly not my usual bad bitch self, I’m worried that I’ve misread things with my best friend/professional partner by sending him (half) a dirty song.
And if I’m being honest, that feels worse than the rest of it put together.
Emotions are weird motherfuckers.