Without dwelling too long on the details, I explain how Drake broke off our engagement unexpectedly, followed by the disintegration of my band, my record contract, and my career.
“So there you were, left without a friend in the world.”
I smile, thinking of Huck. “Well, not totally. But it was definitely time for me to reprioritize and start at square one. So I moved to Michigan, where I found myself back in the classroom.”
“And where you met your close friend Shelby Springfield, now Shelby Riggs.”
I nod, warming up to the subject. “Yup. I had a first-row seat to watching her and Cameron fall head over butt for each other.”
Amy laughs and segues into “What They Have,” the song I wrote for my friends.
“Here you are singing it at their wedding a few months ago.”
“I was so nervous,” I admit, glimpsing the footage on the large screen over my shoulder. “I practiced it a hundred times with my producer Craig, convinced I’d mess it up.”
“And by Craig, you mean Craig Boseman, right? Rumor around Nashville is that you are longtime friends with the up-and-coming indie record producer.”
“I’ve known Craig since back when I was touring with Drake Colter. He played bass for Drake.”
“Craig’s recently come into the spotlight after releasing a viral video singing ‘Jonesin’,’ causing some to speculate that maybe he wrote it all along. Can you confirm that?”
I press my lips together, hesitating. “I can only confirm that the mystery bridge—that’s my favorite part.”
“Interesting.” Amy’s eyes glitter. “What about the rumors that the song is about you?”
I feel my face flush despite the cool stage, and I’m kicking myself for not presuming Craig and/or “Jonesin’” might come up.
“I can’t say for sure. I’ve never straight-up asked! You’ll have to get Craig on here and drill him about it.”
Amy chuckles like I’ve just said the most hilarious thing and swiftly moves on to what I’m doing now. I tell her about my upcoming album Avalanche, produced by Craig and Arlo, and we chat about the duet debuting at number one on the Billboard Top 100. I easily settle into raving about Jefferson Coolidge and what a dream it has been to work together.
At which Amy breaks character and actually does gush. I don’t blame her. I’ve been teasing Shelby about her Jefferson Coolidge crush for years. He has that effect on women of all ages. The man sings like Elvis, and I can’t wait for the world to fall even more in love with this new and improved version of him.
“Well, I don’t want to spend all our time with you talking. I hear you brought your guitar and are prepared to sing something for us. Is this another brand-new hit we’re about to hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. This is just a taste off my new album Avalanche.”
We go to commercial and I transition to the small stage to sing in front of the small live studio audience.
“This is about a man,” I say with a wink, “but at the end of the day, it ain’t about Drake Colter.”
I strum the opening chords and sing for everything I’m worth.
Because I figure if I’m gonna put my whole-ass self out on a limb to dangle, I might as well put my heart out there, too.
32
CRAIG
SHAMELESS
According to Arlo, I’ve just missed Lorelai when I get back into town late on Sunday evening after dropping a newly clean and marshmallow-free Dustin at his mama’s house. I should feel refreshed after a long weekend away at the cabin, and with regards to my business, I do, but I’m also crawling-out-of-my-skin ready to see Lorelai. We need to talk. Or I need to talk, anyway, and just lay it all out there, consequences be damned.
And at least I’ll have told her the truth, right? Even if she doesn’t feel the same, she deserves to know someone fell in love with her. To know she’s that special to someone, even if it’s just me.
Or at least that’s what I was thinking before Arlo stormed into my office way earlier than he’s usually in, let alone awake, startling me so badly I shoot hot coffee from my nose and all over the stack of paperwork that’s collected on my desk while I was out of town. Not that I’d done anything more than shove the papers out of my way before picking up my phone, staring at it and arguing with myself about how early is too early to text Lorelai.
I’d just settled on sending her “Thank You” by Led Zeppelin as a sort of softball icebreaker text that wouldn’t matter what time of day or night I’d sent it (because the song game doesn’t play by normal rules of engagement) when my partner—in no fedora, mind you—slams open my office door.
Arlo’s red hair is usually cut so short, I’ll forget how curly it is, but this morning, he’s got a halo of fiery frizz and wild eyes. He marches over to where a small flat-screen smart-TV monitor hangs against the wall and flips it on.
“Good morning?” I say to him, grabbing a bunch of takeout napkins out of my drawer and mopping up my desk.
“Morning, boss,” he sings. “Sorry, I overslept.”
“Um. For what?”
He gives me a look over my shoulder that clearly translates as “obviously to do this,” which is not at all obvious, but I don’t argue.
“How’s baby watch going?”
“Her cervix is two to three centimeters dilated, and she thinks she shed her mucus plug this morning.”
I choke on a fresh sip of coffee. “I’m sorry, did you just say…” I trail off, not daring to repeat what I thought I heard him say. Instead, I put the coffee down. Maybe later.
Arlo finds whatever channel he’s been looking for and it’s on a commercial. He fluffs his hair out of his eyes and swipes a bead of sweat trailing over his eyebrow.
“Mucus plug. Yes. Don’t ask me, but Josh made excited doctor noises when she told us that, so I’m going on a limb to say it’s a good thing.”
“Awesome, man. I’m so excited for you guys.”
“Oh, I know. We got the Johnny Cash onesies.”
“Hey! That was a surprise!”
“I know that, too.” Arlo shrugs unapologetically. “But I want the baby to wear it home. Start them off right, you know? Nothing better than dressed in something Uncle Craig picked out special.”
I swallow, my face feeling hot. “Hell, Arlo.”
“I know,” he repeats, his eyes brimming with meaning. “Anyway…”—he flaps his hands and sniffs loudly—“shush, it’s about to start.” He turns up the volume on the TV and settles across from me in a chair, turning it to face the screen.
“What is—”
“Shh!” he insists and gestures for me to watch.
And there she is. Holy fuck, Trina got her on The Good Morning Show? I surge to my feet, my chair forgotten, and in three steps I’m standing directly in front of the screen, hands on hips, jaw unhinged.