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Emotions are weird motherfuckers.
In no time, hot tears are pricking in the corners of my eyes. What a fucking disaster. It takes me a minute to realize my phone actuallyisringing from my bedroom. With a loud sniff, I scrub at my mostly dry face and scramble to my feet. By the time I make it to my phone, I’ve missed a call from Jen. I imagine she wants to fill me in on her “huge move” in scooping a Drake Colter tour. Thanks for nothing on that one.
It really would be so much easier if I could wipe the slate clean with Drake and fall into his convenient (cold and largely calculating) arms. Even if it wasn’t real, I was happy enough while it lasted. And I would have my patched-up career to keep me warm at night when he’d inevitably be off changing his name to the Artist Formerly Known as Drake Colter or pretending to write his own songs or working out. Whatever the fuck Drake does when he’s busy avoiding meaningful relationships.
Except even the perceived happiness I found with Drake—the touring and screaming fans and gold records and award shows—stopped being enough the first time I sat on Craig’s balcony with a bottle of wine and a couple of guitars between us.
I sigh, picking up my phone and putting it to my ear, halfway listening to Jen’s voice mail and confirming her glee athaving “the offer of a lifetime.” I go to delete when I notice another notification—a series of texts—and I quickly tap the icon and HUCK is lit up with messages.
HUCK: Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. I was in the studio late.
I chew my lip. I suppose he might not have listened until this morning. That’s reasonable. Heisworking, after all.
HUCK: I listened right away but was dog-tired and needed to let it marinate. It’s different from what I’ve heard from you before, but I think you know that.
Hell, is he critiquing this? Is he really that dense? I huff, swallowing a frustrated growl, and continue reading.
HUCK: Come to my place tonight? After eight?
I freeze, my phone clutched in my hand. Okay. That’s… good. He’s not so disgusted that he’s avoiding me. He’s not asking to see me in a neutral location like the studio. Holy fuck, the overthinking is going to murder me.
LORELAI: You provide the wine; I’ll bring the takeout.
12CRAIG
SHOOT ME STRAIGHT
It’s not even lunch and I’m ready to call it. I slept for shit last night, getting tangled up in my sheets for hours before caving finally and throwing myself on the couch and cracking open a YA novel about teenage country music stars that my niece, Jenna, lent me, reading until the sun came up. I crawled into the studio before seven, guzzling so much caffeine, it feels like I’ve swallowed a pair of Lorelai’s running shoes and they’re completing a 5K in my gut.
Baker’s Dozen were back again bright and early (for them, anyway) to re-record a track they felt wasn’tvibingwell with the rest of the album. Thankfully, they didn’t require my expertise as much as my equipment and Arlo was able to get it laid down, because I’ve been consumed with fielding legal calls from fucking Colter all fucking day.
Note to self: If some jackhole narcissist invites you to be his writing partner and tour with his self-named band,run in the opposite directionto avoidyearsof aggravation.
This could all be solved if Drake had (a) not used the songs I wrote years ago on his latest album or (b) just credited me as coauthor and paid me my due.
It’s a hundred percent my own fault I’m still in this mess years after the fact. I didn’t fight him on “Jonesin’” like I should have. I wanted a clean break and a clear conscience after hooking up with his ex on the down-low, then quitting his band on such short notice and starting my own indie label. So when I heard “Jonesin’” on the radio a year after I’d walked, I didn’t push for credit. Not hard, anyway. I figured, I’d give him one album and that would be that. My business had been taking off and I didn’t need to be greedy, and honestly, I didn’t want the hassle.
Though I wish it hadn’t been that song. That one was personal. But how was I supposed to call him up and be like, “Hey, man, I wrote that song about your ex, whom I slept with that one time after you broke up and might’ve fallen a little bit more in love with her that night, and so it would be awesome if you’d fucking stop using it already.”
Regardless, that was two albums ago, and Colter is still using my lyrics, uncredited. And this time there’s been talk about one of them being a contender for Song of the Year.
Song of the Year would be a hell of a résumé boost to a guy seeking validation with his own indie record label in a town chock-full of record labels and songwriters.
DRAKE: Just sign the goddamn release, man. It’s not like it matters to you. You’re solid with your other songs.
DRAKE: This could be a game changer for me. After you left, it’s the least you can do.
There it is. The guilt treatment. As if my leaving was crushing for him and his career.
DRAKE: Is this about”Jonesin’”?
DRAKE: We wrote that together. It’s legit.
That’sdebatable, but still.
CRAIG: And yet only one of us got paid for it.
CRAIG: I’m getting real tired of hearing my songs on the radio and not getting paid for them, Drake. All you have to do is credit me and we’re good.
