“Fucking a, Colter, are you kidding me right now? Tell me I didn’t just hear what I think I heard on the radio. It’s been two years, and you know damn well I did not hand-deliver you an entire song on purpose. Your ethics are shady as fuck.” I exhale in a huff. “‘Jonesin’’? Seriously? After the way you…” I bite off the rest of that thought and take a deep breath. “My lawyers will be in touch, you plagiarizing motherfucker.” I chuck my phone across the studio, where it bounces off the sound-insulated wall and lands with a muffled thud on the thick carpet.
Forking my hands through my wavy hair, I growl in frustration before retrieving the device. My next appointment will be here any minute and I need to pull it together. I slip on my glasses and flick on the overhead lights, collecting discarded water bottles and various clutter left behind from the folk trio who stayed way past their allotted time late yesterday. They’d finally hit their stride near midnight, creatively speaking, and I wasn’t about to cut them off as the magic was hitting. Even if it means I’ll need an IV of espresso to get me through this morning’s session with a former pop princess looking to rebrand herself as a country starlet.
Besides, late nights and early mornings in my studio aren’t the problem. There’s no place I’d rather be. After cashing in my inheritance from Uncle Huckleberry, I found this decrepit factory building a few blocks off downtown Nashville for a steal and had it renovated into a state-of-the-art recording studio. I named it On the Floor Records. It’s my fucking happy place.
No, the problem is that while I stood in line at Charlotte’s Coffee Brewery too early this morning, groggy and feeling hungover (without the bonus of actually consuming alcohol recently, which is a new thing I like to call hitting my mid-thirties), I heard something familiar over the loudspeakers. Which in and of itself isn’t that unusual. Lately, it feels like, when it comes to country music, if I didn’t write it, produce it, or turn it down, I don’t know it.
But this was different. I knew this song in my bones because I wrote it in the privacy of my shitty studio apartment three years ago after Lorelai left town. After our one night together. The night. It wasn’t for airplay and it certainly wasn’t for my former partner and bandmate Drake Colter to use for his comeback.
Fucking “Jonesin’” was mine.
Clearly when I threw down that pile of scrap lyrics and half-thought-out melodies, I’d included at least one real song. A song I never meant for anyone else to hear, let alone that fucker. I was in such a hurry to quit, I didn’t look through what I’d handed him.
I hadn’t given it a second thought until this morning.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I tug it out right as the security doorbell buzzes. I check the camera and let in the client and her team, settling behind the booth and reading my text. I think it’s going to be Colter with some bullshit excuse, but instead it’s an unknown number with an area code I don’t recognize.
UNKNOWN: Heard the new song.
CRAIG: Who is this? Which song?
UNKNOWN: Lorelai. Sorry. New phone.
My coffee does an uncomfortable swirl in my gut. Shit. This is why … I quickly respond, my fingers flying over the keys.
CRAIG: Long time no talk. I didn’t recognize the area code.
CRAIG: Sorry.
LORELAI: That would be because I live in Michigan these days.
LORELAI: I heard Drake’s new song. Your new song. Why is that dickhead still taking credit for your work?
The door opens and I gesture for the clients to get set up in the studio. I press the speaker. “Be right with you guys. Go ahead and get comfortable.” Then I slump back in my chair, the momentum rolling me back a few inches, my thoughts whirling like a drunk girl at her engagement party. Lorelai knows the song is mine. She knows the song is mine. She’s heard the song.
Not only that, she remembers that I told her I wrote all the songs.
She remembers that night and she’s heard the song and she knows I wrote it.
Well. That’s … fuck. I knew when that email showed up, informing me I was inheriting a boatload of money and all my dreams were coming true, that shit was just gonna nip me in the ass cheek one day.
My thumbs hover over a response, coming up empty, all while in front of me, the studio fills with the muffled rumblings of music waiting to be made. I decide to respond like any normal person would, who was just a really good friend and who definitely did not still wake up at least twice a week hard as an I beam at the memory of her coming apart on his tongue.
CRAIG: Long story short, I walked away from touring and opened my own recording studio, On the Floor Records in Nashville. Small. Indie. Probably smells too much like coffee and grilled cheese. But it’s mine.
LORELAI: Holy hell, Huck. That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you!
My chest squeezes at the nickname. It’s been too long since anyone’s called me that.
CRAIG: And you? What’re you doing in Michigan? Still playing music?
LORELAI: Teaching third grade. In fact, I’ve got students coming in minutes.
I release my breath. Saved by the bell. Literally.
LORELAI: But now you have my number. Don’t be a stranger, okay?
As if I could resist.
CRAIG: Wild horses, Jones. Have a great day with your students.
I drop my phone to my desk and lean back in my new fancy ergonomic chair, linking my hands behind my head.
What are the chances? Years of nothing. Nada. Didn’t even know she was in Michigan, teaching. She didn’t even know I broke off on my own. My phone buzzes.
LORELAI: Your name wasn’t on the credits, but I know your lyrics when I hear them, and I’ll bet there’s a story there. Anyway … I like the song. Hit me up if you ever find yourself in Michigan.
I release a long slow breath and my thumbs hover to respond. With what?
No, that wasn’t me. That was Drake. Your ex. Obviously. Not me secretly pining after a girl who was always way out of my reach, and who I slept with one glorious night years ago, and who ruined me for all other women.
Nope. Definitely someone else.
The denial is right there at my fingertips, but what the hell. She lives in Michigan.
Thanks. You might be on to something, there. My studio is always open to old friends, even ones who live in the northern tundra and teach third grade.
* * *
(ONE YEAR EARLIER)
Lorelai and I texted pretty much constantly from that day forward. A steady conversation featuring song lyrics, stupid internet videos, and dirty jokes. What we don’t do is talk about “Jonesin’” ever again. I watch as Lorelai slowly slips back into the spotlight via the HomeMade drama featuring her new best friend Shelby Springfield and costar Cameron Riggs. I notice how Drake makes less and less subtle plays for Lorelai on social media. Publicly, he starts dodging questions about how things ended between them. He begins playing a new roll: the jilted heartthrob for cameras and fans.
And none of it matters because she and I both know he won’t actually try to win her back while she’s an elementary school teacher. There’s nothing in it for him or his career, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Drake Colter, it’s that he loves using others close to him to advance his career.
Until tonight, that is.
It’s a warm evening and there’s a nice breeze, so I’ve decided to enjoy it and walk the six long blocks home to my loft.