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I wonder idly how that’s going for him and am relieved to see the camaraderie and respect between the two younger men tonight. Conflict is par for the course in the music industry, but I try to avoid it in my studio. It fucks with the vibes.
The two men play a few new originals for us that I really dig. A little Chris Stapleton–esque. If Chris had been twentyyears younger and an unassuming underwear model type. Coolidge is genuine and poised. I was expecting youthful cockiness, but he seems to have grown out of it already, which is a huge point in his favor. Arlo offers refreshments, and while Fitz takes a beer, Jefferson sticks to water. He’s refreshingly focused. I like him. A lot. Sometimes you just get gut feelings about people, and this is one of those instances. I’m happy to go with my instincts on this.
I lean forward in my chair with a soft squeak of leather. “So what exactly are you looking for from us?”
5CRAIG
EVEN IF IT BREAKS YOUR HEART
Jefferson Coolidge settles back on the black leather sofa, crossing an ankle over his knee and draping an arm over the top of the cushion, looking every bit comfortable in his own skin.
“No offense,” I continue mildly, “but I remember your being connected to Mathers. One tour with her and you’d be set. The labels have got to be knocking down your door.”
Coolidge’s face contorts in a boyish grimace. “They are, but I’m not interested in that route. Been there, done that, had my stomach pumped and vomited on the T-shirt.”
My eyebrows shoot up at his frank response while a slow clap plays inside my head. “Ah.”
“I know what lies that way,” Coolidge continues. “It doesn’t work for me. Annie’s still touring stadiums and Suncoast is treating her like the royalty she is. I’m not interested in riding her coattails,” he says with a smirk, trading knowing glances with his bandmate. “I’ve got new material I want to try out—experiment with, even. A little less refined thanwhat the labels are looking for, but I think it could be something special under the right producer’s magic.”
“And you think I’m the right producer? I used to work with Colter, you realize?”
I don’t like to remind people, but it’s not like I can hide my former attachment. Especially in this case. Colter has long held a beef with Coolidge grown primarily out of jealousy. They faced off for Best New Artist and Coolidge swept. Then Drake faced off against Annie Mathers for Best Song the following year and lost again. It was mostly timing (not to mention, I was the one who wrote the song, so pardon if I didn’t give a flying fuck about his feelings on the matter), but Drake’s a dick. Look at the way he dropped Lorelai and she was his fiancé. And I haven’t forgotten that he was relentless against Coolidge when the news started reporting his follies. It still riles me up to think about.
In my studio, however, Jefferson shrugs his shoulder, not shifting from his relaxed position. “Used tobeing the key. I heard you dropped Colter and picked up Jones.”
I have to work so as to not react at her name. I put that aside for self-reflection at a later date, probably never. “No one picks up Jones. She’s her own star.”
He nods at me, a glimmer of respect in his eyes. “Then you get me. Did you know Annie and Lorelai sang together years ago?”
I shake my head, and he leans forward, elbows on knees. “Annie’s looked up to Lorelai for years. Hated what happened to her and the way she was treated after the ‘Ohio’ incident. She was still in high school at the time. In Michigan, in fact,” he says, and I don’t miss the implication, as Lorelai taughtschool in Michigan. “Annie was the one to point me in your direction. Said if Lorelai Jones trusts you, I could, too.”
I nod, feeling even more sure about the idea turning over in my head. I can feel everything clicking into place. “You can.”
Jefferson holds out his hand. “Excellent.”
We make plans for him to come back in toward the end of the week and workshop a few songs. He doesn’t seem in a hurry and I’m okay with that. That’s part of the reason why I wanted to go indie. It’s not about the hustle. It’s about quality and creativity.
Arlo ushers the guys out and I shove back in my chair, putting my feet back up and cracking my neck. It’s late. I check my phone. Definitely after eleven. I’ve been here eight long hours on my day off. I’ll definitely bum a ride off Arlo tonight. It’s too late to be walking home. Scrolling through my phone, I open Instagram and check Lorelai’s posts to see how the wedding went, thinking maybe I’ll text her if it’s over.
The first pic is a glamorous shot of Shelby and Cameron Riggs dancing together, completely lost in their own small world. Around them, the reception looks rustic and simple and fits perfectly with what I know of the pair.
The second is a beautifully decorated cookie with celiac as the hashtag. Lorelai’s new to her diagnosis, but she’s never been one to shy away from trying to use her name to do some good. Even if it’s just normalizing that people with special diets want to eat good things, too. The third is a gorgeous selfie, with Lorelai in a fluttery-looking lavender dress, toasting the camera with a flute of champagne. My blearyeyes skim over the caption, snagging on the familiar wording, and read it through again, a smile growing on my face.
Today was better than anything I could have dreamed up for my best friends. Only missing one scrawny thirty-six-year-old drinker of only the driest Cab.
I click the comment button to respond and write… what? How do I respond to that without sounding pathetic? Everything that comes to mind is… boring. Maybe she did want me there, after all. At least to keep her company. Like friends do. Unsure of what to say, I hit the like button and close out, opening my other account. My anonymous poetry account that was miraculously verified months ago because of the sudden uptick in popularity.
I let the words, always there, simmering just under the surface, spill over onto the keys
carefully uncork
her all-consuming bouquet
sipping
holding
soaking
