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LORELAI: Holy hell, Huck. That’s incredible. I’m so proud of you!
My chest squeezes at the nickname. It’s been too long since anyone’s called me that.
CRAIG: And you? What’re you doing in Michigan? Still playing music?
LORELAI: Teaching third grade. In fact, I’ve got students coming in minutes.
I release my breath. Saved by the bell. Literally.
LORELAI: But now you have my number. Don’t be a stranger, okay?
As if I could resist.
CRAIG: Wild horses, Jones. Have a great day with your students.
I drop my phone to my desk and lean back in my new fancy ergonomic chair, linking my hands behind my head.
What are the chances? Years of nothing. Nada. Didn’t even know she was in Michigan, teaching. She didn’t even know I broke off on my own. My phone buzzes.
LORELAI: Your name wasn’t on the credits, but I know your lyrics when I hear them, and I’ll bet there’s a story there. Anyway… I like the song. Hit me up if you ever find yourself in Michigan.
I release a long slow breath and my thumbs hover to respond. With what?
No, that wasn’t me. That was Drake. Your ex. Obviously. Not me secretly pining after a girl who was always way out of my reach, and who I slept with one glorious night years ago, and who ruined me for all other women.
Nope. Definitely someone else.
The denial is right there at my fingertips, but what the hell. She lives in Michigan.
Thanks. You might be on to something, there. My studio is always open to old friends, even ones who live in the northern tundra and teach third grade.
(ONE YEAR EARLIER)
Lorelai and I texted pretty much constantly from that day forward. A steady conversation featuring song lyrics, stupid internet videos, and dirty jokes. What we don’t do is talk about “Jonesin’” ever again. I watch as Lorelai slowly slips back into the spotlight via theHomeMadedrama featuring her new best friend Shelby Springfield and costar Cameron Riggs. I notice how Drake makes less and less subtle plays for Lorelai on social media. Publicly, he starts dodging questions about how things ended between them. He begins playing a new roll: the jilted heartthrob for cameras and fans.
And none of it matters because she and I both know he won’tactuallytry to win her back while she’s an elementary school teacher. There’s nothing in it for him or his career, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Drake Colter, it’s that he loves using others close to him to advance his career.
Until tonight, that is.
It’s a warm evening and there’s a nice breeze, so I’ve decided to enjoy it and walk the six long blocks home to my loft.
My phone rings as I’m locking up the studio to leave, and her name flashes on the screen. I answer, a grin already in place. “Hey, Lore.”
“Hey, Huckleberry,” she drawls out in a singsong voice,sounding unusually nervous. “I’m sending you something I’ve been working on.”
That gets my attention and I freeze right in the middle of the sidewalk. “No shit?”
She huffs a chuckle into the phone. “No shit. It might be garbage, but… no. It’s not. Can you just, um, listen and then call me back? Let me know what you think?”
“Of course. Send it right now. I have a good walk home ahead of me.”
We hang up and she must have been sitting at her laptop with the mouse hovering over the send button because the file is already in my inbox. I stuff my AirPods into my ears and cue the file.
From the very first lyric, my eyes slip shut of their own volition and I have to find a bench and sit down. It’s been so long since I’ve heard her sing, and no one,no onesounds like Lorelai Jones. And I know a lot of singers. She has this quality to her vocals. Richer than sweet. Almost smoky in the lower registers but clarified. Like it’s been filtered of all the gunk and what’s left is pure sunshine. Bonnie Raitt spliced with Regina Spektor, rolled in Miranda Lambert, and smoked with Maren Morris.
And the writing. God, the writing is… brutally, refreshingly, cuttingly honest.
I listen through once on the bench and twice more on the way to my loft. I hit my door and lock it behind me, tossing my keys on the counter and shrugging off my leather jacket. I drape it over a barstool and pull up her number to hit call.
