She snorts. “Save them for the after-party.”
The boots fit perfectly, and I stand up, walking up to the mirror. I still look like me, but a cleaned-up version. Business on top, different kind of business on bottom. The good-time guy from Tennessee who’s gone and made something of himself.
“Better?” Lorelai asks.
“It’s perfect.”
She wraps her arms around my neck and presses her soft lips to mine, her tongue darting out to taste mine briefly. I place my hands on her belly before sliding them to her hips and squeezing gently. “I love you,” I tell her.
“Love you, too.” She kisses me again and again before pulling back. “Now, if you’re done being a prima donna, I need to get dressed. We’re cutting it close.”
“You know we could still just skip—”
“Fuck off, Boseman. You’re going to the Grammys and you’re gonna like it.”
* * *
Two hours later, Lorelai shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
“Nervous?” I ask her.
She narrows her eyes and lowers her voice. “No, but your child has the hiccups and decided to perch on my bladder. It’s not great.”
I bite back a laugh at her expression and instead try for contrite. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Laugh it up, Boseman. As soon as we’re done here, I’m gonna order you one of those carrier things Cam’s got.”
I shut my mouth and turn back to the show. They’re announcing our category next.
Song of the Year.
I’ve been nominated twice this evening. Once alone, and once as a cowriter with Lorelai. On the one hand, to be nominated is an honor in itself and we’re both thrilled for the recognition.
On the other, there’s a high-stakes bet on the line depending on whether I can win alone or with my wife or not at all.
Our category is announced, and a fresh-faced sitcom actress reads the teleprompter, introducing the songs up for Song of the Year. I can feel the moment the camera pans to Lorelai and me, and she reaches for my hand, squeezing. My eyes are drawn to her, my brain memorizing this moment. Her long, flowing shiny black hair and dark, laughing eyes. My ring on her finger, our child growing to the sound of her steady heartbeat. I’m gone for her and suspect I always will be.
In the next moment, both our names are called to massive applause. She reaches her hand to me and I take it, pulling her gently to her feet. I give her my arm and escort her up the steps, her ethereal white gown glittering and wrapping around her legs, stealing every ounce of my concentration.
I don’t know if it’s hormones or the moment, but when Lorelai reaches the mic, glittering tears spill onto her cheeks.
“Hell,” she says, “I never thought I’d be here.” She swipes her face and looks to me, her watery gaze beaming. “But you knew it, didn’t you?” She turns to the mic, her voice clear. “He always knew. Thank you for giving me this chance to come back. I promise I don’t take it for granted. Huck?” She shifts aside, and suddenly I’m there in front of the mic. In front of my peers.
I take a deep breath. “She’s wrong. I didn’t always know. But I hoped. Which is sometimes the same thing, I guess. I hoped to one day make it up here in front of y’all. Way back when it was just Lorelai and me, trading lyrics back and forth and whispering daydreams on the floor of my tiny apartment. And then there was a time I was afraid it never would.” I look at my wife and she’s pressed her lips together, but it does nothing to diminish her happy smile.
“But one day three years ago, Lorelai called me up out of the blue and told me she was coming back to Nashville. ‘I might have something,’ she’d said. ‘Can you listen and let me know what you think?’”
I look out to the audience, feel something warm inside me at the familiar faces. “That’s when I knew. Alone, I’m all right, but together?” I reach for Lorelai’s hand and kiss her knuckles. “We’re unstoppable.”
“Together we’re unstoppable,” my wife repeats in a whisper, her fingers squeezing mine tight.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If you’ve gotten to this point, you might be thinking to yourself, “Hmm, the premise of this story felt familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.… I wonder if anyone specific inspired Erin to write this?” And you would be correct. So first, I want to shout out my lifelong adoration and love for Natalie Maines and The Chicks. If you don’t know Ms. Maines’s story, you should close this book and hit the internet to do some research and then download all of the band’s albums. Unfortunately, I can’t give everyone their happily ever afters, even if they really deserve it, but if I could, I’d like to think they would look a little like the one Lorelai and Huck got.
All right, so now for my thank-yous, and I’ve got a mighty list. First, my agent, Kate McKean, who I figure is about as fierce as Trina Hamilton, just with better hair. Thanks for always being in my corner, Boss. I couldn’t ask for anyone better. Also my editor, Vicki Lame, who has been my favorite partner in writing-crime since the very beginning through YA and now adult romance. This one was really for the both of us. As I said from the start, Lorelai’s story is exactly our shit. Vanessa Aguirre was the editorial assistant on this story, and thank goodness she was … everything runs real smooth with Vanessa around. I appreciate her so. The jacket and cover design came from the brilliant brain of Kerri Resnick, who barely batted an eye at my twelve emails of “Craig’s beard is really not there, but is more mossy, but also he can’t look nineteen but also skip the beard and just try the glasses” and “OH NO, Lorelai is celiac that bread will kill her!” The end result is a dream. Kerri is why.
Now my list (unfolds paper, leans into the mic, and speed-reads as the music plays her out): publisher Anne Marie Tallberg, designer Michelle McMillian, managing editor Chrisinda Lynch, production editor Ginny Perrin, champion copy editor Nancy Inglis, production manager Jeremy Haiting, marketing geniuses Alexis Neuville and Brant Janeway, and, finally, the publicity team, which was the brilliant combo of Kelly South, Tracey Guest, and Mary Moates.
Early beta readers and dearest, talented friends Kelly Coon, Lillian Clark, and Laura Namey rock my world. Vegas misses us. My oldest besties who, in truth, claimed Craig Boseman as their collective book boyfriend in our group chat months before anyone else laid eyes on him: Cate Unruh, Megan Turton, Jessica Steenlage, and Angela Swope. Thank you for cheering me on, keeping me sane, and throwing the best book bash signing slash friends’ Thanksgiving a girl could ask for.
Thanks to Karen McManus and Kathleen Glasgow. Regular chats with you two keep me sane. I hope I do the same for you!