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It’s a shame he never took the time to figure it out. If he had, maybe he wouldn’t be freaking the fuck out that my “cover” of “Jonesin’” has flown up the charts in the weeks since Arlo helped me lay it down all official like.
He wouldn’t have teams of legal advisors combing through the online speculation about the extra verse. Wouldn’t need to double and then triple down on his efforts to get me to sign away my cowriting rights weeks before the final decision on Best New Song nominations goes live.
If only he’d stopped at “Jonesin’.”
I don’t feel guilty anymore. After all, he brought this upon himself. I gave him plenty of notice. Too much, even.
But that doesn’t mean I feel good about it. Knowing I’m the subject of so much outside conjecture about things between me and someone I used to call a friend is uncomfortable, to say the least. Also, I’m sleeping with his ex-fiancé. Sure, it was years ago that they were together, and he was the asshole who walked away, but it almost feels likeI’ve won the lottery out from under him, and when the rest of the world finds out, it’s gonna look… complicated.
If there is one thing Lorelai and I have never been, it’s complicated. Easy as Sunday morning, more like.
So it’s a good thing I’m picking her up on my bike and taking her to this new place out of town and away from prying eyes. Not that there’s anything for people to pry into aside from multiple (friendly) orgasms over the course of a few weeks and the nearly complete duet I wrote for her and Coolidge. Even if I wanted more, which, let’s be clear,I do,that would definitely fall outside the purview of “friends with benefits.”
Arlo gave me a sort of litmus test of what constitutes “FWB (friends with benefits)” behavior. It goes something like “If you met a woman in a bar and took her back to your place, would you then also…”
It’s not a great test, honestly, because Lorelai and I have been close friends for a long time and we also live at the same address. So obviously we don’t act like strangers in a bar, but Arlo’s explanation was “maybe so, but you also don’tdateyour friends, so that’s where to draw the proverbial boundaries,” and I’m trying to remain true to the spirit of the thing. Take tonight, for example. Yes, I am taking her out to dinner becausewe already made plansand need to eat anyway, so who cares if we do it together? But I’m taking her on the back of my bike, so it’s not like we can hold hands or talk about our days or whatever. And the restaurant is a hole-in-the-wall barbecue joint. In fact, calling it a restaurant is even a stretch. More like a roadside stand with a couple of weathered picnic tables and plastic baskets full of wet naps. I would never take a real date there.
After, if we end up at my place or hers, and more orgasms ensue, great. Fine. Excellent. I’m notplanningon it, though.
LORELAI: What is the dress code for tonight?
I bite back a sigh and make a mental note to have Arlo explain his litmus test to Lorelai.
CRAIG: I’m picking you up on the bike. So whatever that means.
LORELAI: I was hoping you’d say that. The shortest skirt I own, then.
I can’t tell if she’s kidding, so I let it go.
CRAIG: And before you ask, we’re just getting BBQ. Nothing fancy.
LORELAI: At that little shack outside town you keep going on about? FINALLY. I’ve been waiting for-the-fuck-ever for you to take me!
LORELAI: Speaking of taking me… I have this fantasy about you, me, and that bike and a deserted back road…
I groan, dropping my phone on my desk and burying my face in my hands, working to dispel the image that’s instantaneously and inconveniently branded on my brain.
“Everything okay, boss?”
I scoot closer to my desk, making sure any evidence of my reaction to her text is hidden, but Arlo is already sauntering over to the incriminating phone still lit with her message.
“I’m gonna need to you to explain your litmus test to Lorelai. She seems blurry on the details.”
Arlo’s reach halts inches from the phone and he throws his head back with a whoop of ringing laughter. “I’ll schedule her in for a one-on-one next time she’s in to record.”
Just before I’m about to leave for the day, my Mac pings with an alert that I’ve received an email from the agent of the pop princess looking to go country whom I’ve been in the early contract stages with. She’s decided to pull out over “a difference of visions,” but attached to the email is an article from some industry insider magazine reporting on Lorelai’s “disastrous” (their words, not mine) apology tour that wasn’t.
I skim through the article, out of morbid curiosity, but it’s the same old shit-for-brains nonsense as all the others. I read the email again, gauging my response. Honestly, I’m not surprised, nor am I really that upset. I mean, I don’t want to lose business, especially only a few years in, but I get it. If she was trying to make the transition to pop, it might be different, but if she’s trying to get on the good side of the industry and worm her way in, aligning with On the Floor Records is probably not the way to do it.
“Knock knock!”
I look up and see Lorelai in a tiny flowy skirt, a denim jacket, and her cowboy boots. “Hey, gorgeous… er,friend.”
She raises an eyebrow, amused. “You okay?”
I close the lid of my laptop with a slap and get to my feet, stretching. “Yeah. Long day, but I’m much better now,” I assure her. “Let me just grab my helmet. Did you walk?”
Lorelai holds up her helmet that I somehow missed. “Yeah. I didn’t get my run in this morning, so I took a meandering stroll.”
