And last night? I mean. What the actual fuck happened last night? I squirm on the giant boulder I’ve claimed, darting glances around to double-check that I’m still alone up here, and release a humiliated groan even as my thighs clench against the tiny and persistent residual zings of a phantom orgasm.
How dare he be just as miraculous at oral sex as I’d remembered.
How dare he … what? Give me one hell of an orgasm and refuse to allow me to pay back the favor? The audacity of the man to package up leftovers?
Like, on paper, it was a good night. He didn’t technically “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” me and shove me out the door to call my own Uber. So why does it seem like that’s what happened?
Why do I have this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach like it was all wrong? I confessed feelings, he confessed feelings, and then we made out, which led to kitchen-counter cunnilingus. The stuff of literal fantasies.
But my fantasies never ended with me falling asleep alone, in a disgusting puddle of snot and tears. As hot as that was, and it really, really was, I would trade it back a hundredfold if I could just have a little platonic cuddling followed by the security of knowing my friend was still my friend and nothing had changed.
I know. I hardly expected it myself.
Eventually I force myself off the boulder and hike back down the short trail to the parking lot just as the first cars filled with morning sightseers are pulling in. I go home, make coffee, and eat a breakfast of soy-sauce-free Chinese leftovers, cold and straight from the container.
By the time my phone rings with a FaceTime notification from Maren and Shelby, I’m wrung out and ready for bed. It’s all of 11:30 A.M.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Oh shit, you saw already?” Maren says. She’s clearly in her office, from the amount of planed timber and the “Poisonous Plants of Northern Michigan” graphic over her shoulder.
“Hold on!” There’s the generic racket of construction happening over Shelby’s speakers, and I watch her gingerly step out onto the green porch of some project or another, slamming the door shut behind her.
“What did I see already?” I ask dully.
“Oh shit, she didn’t see.” Shelby’s eyes grow wide.
Maren’s normally sunny face slips into an apologetic wince. “Drake’s post on Instagram this morning about you two going on tour together. You’re not going on tour together, right? You would have told us. I mean … not that there would be anything wrong with that.” She immediately changes course and I cut her off.
“No, I’m not. At least I haven’t decided yet but probably not.”
“Just probably?” Shelby asks, squinting in the sun and jabbing on a pair of what look to be Cameron’s sunglasses.
I release a breath and settle in against the back of my couch. “Almost definitely. It’s just…” and all of a sudden, I can feel the tears sizzling in the back of my throat. Fucking a. I wave a hand in front of my face, trying to stave them off.
“Lorelai!” Maren gasps, alarmed, as if she’s never seen me cry. Which, to be fair, she hasn’t. Aside from the snot fest last night, I haven’t full-out cried since my parents told me they were getting a divorce when I was a kid. Not even Drake dumping me after “Ohio”-gate made me this emotional, but these last few weeks have got me weeping like Shelby.
Which, ugh. Probably means something extra shitty.
“What happened?”
I take a deep breath. “Huck went down on me and it was perfect and then he got all weird and sent me home with leftovers.” The last part is half whine, half sob, and all embarrassing.
There’s a long, awkward silence before Shelby asks, “Did you say you hooked up with Craig?”
I nod.
Maren. “Is leftovers a euphemism?”
I shake my head.
Maren’s expression is baffled. I hear you, sister. “But why are you crying? Was it bad?”
“It w-was…”—I hiccup—“so hot. I’ve never come so hard in my liiiiiiiife,” I sob.
Through swollen eyes, I see Maren and Shelby exchange looks before Maren guesses, “So … you’re crying because it was good?”
I take another cleansing breath, trying to pull myself together. Then take two more for good measure. Yoga breaths. I fucking hate yoga, but the breathing thing is objectively useful. “I’m crying because afterwards he got all weird about it and sent me home with the rest of dinner. Alone.”
My best friends look pained, which is answer enough.
“I don’t know what went wrong,” I say. “We talked about our feelings…”
“You did? You told him how you feel?”
I think back. “Well, I sent him a sext … or a sexy song, anyway, like you said, and then I confronted him about the poetry account and we started making out and he just dropped to his knees right there in the kitchen.”
Shelby whistles low. “I mean. We all knew he had it in him, but damn, girl.”
Maren fans her face. “I’m not trying to visualize, but I’m not not trying, either. Sorry,” she confesses wickedly. “It’s been a while.”
I wave her off. “Fair.” I exhale with a huff. “So that’s that. I don’t know what happened and I need to talk to Huck, clearly. What’s this about a tour with Drake? I told him no when he showed up, uninvited, again, yesterday morning.”
“So you did see him yesterday morning?”
I deflate. “Not on purpose, why?”
“Well, you should probably sign on to your Instagram and get caught up. We’ll wait.”
I prop my phone on a cushion, leaving it lopsided and likely showing them an excellent view of my ceiling, and pull my laptop close. Instagram is still open in a tab, so it takes me no time to find what they are talking about.
“Ugh, Drake, seriously?”
On my screen is my ex, as per usual, shirtless and so obviously aware of his appeal it makes me roll my eyes. Twice. The caption reads something about Netflix and “Jonesin’.” “Real original, you dick,” I mutter as I scroll up to see that last night he posted another photo, this one pretending to be a candid shot of his songwriting, and the caption says, Six years later, and it’s still hard to keep from writing all my songs about you. With the hashtag #togetheragain #summertour.
“Fuck’s sake!” I shout, slamming my laptop shut with an unsatisfyingly soft click and grabbing for my phone. “What is he talking about? He didn’t even write ‘Jonesin’’! Last I knew, he didn’t write any of his songs, let alone about me! He’s so full of shit. And the hashtags! What the ever-living fuck is he on about? ‘together again’?!” I mock in a douchey voice. “Please.”
“Well, that clears up that,” Shelby says, amused.
“So … if we saw these, what are the odds that Craig saw these?”
My chest pulls tight and the blood drains from my face. “Oh god, you don’t think he still follows him?”
“I wouldn’t if I was him,” says Shelby. “But Craig is still in the industry, and I bet for business reasons, it behooves him to be in the know or whatever.”
“So wait, Drake didn’t write ‘Jonesin’’?” Maren asks, frowning.
I shake my head, distracted. “Craig was the songwriter. Drake was the face. They shared credit, but it was pretty clear, even back then.”