I narrow my eyes at her whiny tone. Like I said, everyone loves Huck. “He’s really not here. He drove me to the airport. Which threw Drake for one hell of a loop when Huck walked right past where he was standing on my stoop declaring his love and grabbed my luggage to throw it in the back of his Subaru.”
Beth gasped, her short blond ponytail bobbing adorably. “Drake said he loved you?”
“Did Craig hear that part?” Shelby sounds more alarmed than the situation calls for, if you ask me.
I blink at her again. “Um, maybe? But it’s not true. Obviously. He said something like”—I drop into my best dude bro voice—“‘I still love you and you still love me’ … but I told him I definitely don’t love him anymore and I don’t think he ever could have left me the way he did if he loved me.”
“Good for you,” Maren says, approving.
“What did Craig say?” Shelby presses.
I stare at her. “Nothing.” I gesture to my disgruntled female anatomy. “Thoroughly friend zoned on that front.”
“Yeah, but, like, what about your one-night stand?”
I glance at the door behind me, to reassure myself it’s still closed. It is, and more than that, the entire restaurant is dark aside from our cozy room. “Well, Shelb, darlin’,” I drawl, “I suppose that was it. One night. Like, a bunch of years ago. And it only happened because I was leaving town.” I take another long draw from my straw, feeling my frown when I suck up gin-flavored air.
“I find that hard to believe. Have you tried to make a move on him recently?”
Slouching back in my chair, I grab a tortilla chip, dunking it in the salsa and stuffing it in my mouth, petulantly chewing. After swallowing, I say, “Definitely not. He’s my land lord and also sort of my boss. That’s got to be illegal or at the very least ethically shady.”
Shelby shakes her head. “Never thought I’d see the day Lorelai Jones is worried about ethics.”
“I’m not!” I insist to their knowing faces. “I’m just … I’m completely fucking over it, okay? I was engaged to be married once. I planned an actual wedding with flower arrangements and bridesmaid dresses and themed cocktails. I spent the first half of my twenties thinking I was in love and we were going to be together forever. That we would have babies and gold albums and share a tour bus … but then Drake just … took it all away. One song and poof! Gone. He couldn’t love me anymore.”
I press forward, my fingers splayed across the table in front of me. “But here’s the kicker. Did you know that day when everything blew up, I called Drake at least a hundred times with no answer. Turns out the whole band was in New Orleans holed up in a studio, working on a new record, and their manager forbade them from having contact with me. Drake didn’t even break up with me himself. He made an artsy Instagram post showing him canceling the wedding. So basically, it was implied. Fuck you, Lorelai Jones, looks like I have May tenth open now.”
Shelby hisses under her breath while Beth and Maren wear matching gaping expressions.
I grin darkly and continue. “Yeah, it was bad. But then, apparently while this was happening, Huck hops on the first plane out of Louisiana and finds me in a dive bar in Nashville, drinking my feelings. He was there for me when no one else was, literally risking everything when my fiancé—the man who was supposed to be my husband—wouldn’t. That’s…” I shake my head and tap the tabletop in front of me with my painted nails. “That’s a mindfuck right there. We’ve never discussed it since. So what am I supposed to do about it now? Because he’s the first person I call when I finish a new song. I know his takeout order by heart. He smells like clean laundry and he writes like a fucking daydream, and lately I’m kind of desperate to stick my hand down his pants just to see what he’d do, but then what if it scares him off and he kicks me out and tells me to find another producer?”
“Oh,” Maren says.
“Jesus, Jones,” Shelby says with a soft snort.
Beth clears her throat. “I feel like I need to point out that no man in their right mind would leave if you, Lorelai Jones, stuck your hand down his pants.” She smirks. “Just putting that out there.”
“Especially not a guy as nice as Craig Boseman.”
I laugh, because I’m really not upset. I’m resigned. It’s different. “Maybe so. But I’m not that altruistic. I’d want him to put his hand down my pants and he might not do that.”
“Fair enough.”
I sigh. “Besides. I can’t go there right now. I really, really need to focus on my career and my music, and Huck is an enormous part of that. I can’t fuck this up with gratuitous handies just because I’m horny. I’m okay. I know that made me sound all angsty, but it’s not like that. I love the way things are right now and I don’t want to mess them up. I think the whole Drake thing from this morning messed with my head. Churned up all those gross feelings and memories.” I shake my hands out and flick away the bad vibes. “I should proba bly call my therapist and schedule an appointment to see her when I get back to Tennessee.”
“You’re sure?” Shelby checks, still looking worried. Well, we can’t have that. She’s getting married tomorrow. Way to drag down the mood, Jones.
“Positive,” I tell her. “A thousand percent. But another gin fizz wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Already on it,” says Beth, heading for the bar. Maren excuses herself to the bathroom right as Shelby’s phone rings. From the way her face lights up like a Christmas tree, it’s got to be Cam. She holds up a finger and I wave her off with a grin.
“Hey, Lore,” she whispers, peeking back around the doorway, her hand over the speaker, “it’s actually Jazz with a cross-contamination question. If she wraps your cookies and has them displayed in a special box, can we still put them on the cake table? By the way, I can’t wait for you to see them, they’re darling!”
I’m already nodding. “Should be fine. Maybe put a little card next to them that says, ‘Allergy friendly, gluten and dairy free’ or whatever so no one accidentally grabs them instead of the cake?”
“Great idea!” Shelby’s voice fades away as she’s relaying what I’d said about the cards. I was diagnosed as celiac roughly six months ago, so I’m still getting used to advocating for myself and my strict diet. It’s a tricky balance of not wanting to come across as a whiny pain in the ass but knowing if I don’t speak up, I will literally have a whole lot of pain in my ass if I consume so much as a crumb of gluten or casein. And then I’ll fall asleep faster than a dad on Thanksgiving. And I’ll wake up with every single vertebra and foot and hand bone on fire. And then I’ll be useless for an entire week with constant migraines.