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Maren narrows her eyes, her head tilting to the side andher ponytail swinging over her bare shoulder. “You really are surprised by this, aren’t you?”
I can feel my face get hot under her scrutiny. “Well, yeah.”
“Fucking Drake Colter. I’m sorry, but I wish I had been around back then, because I would have kicked him in the ball sac and ruined his singing career. Drake is one guy. He was the wrong guy, but that wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that,” I insist, feeling annoyed. “Deep down, I do. I’m working through it.”
“I know you are. So what are you going to do?”
I glance up at the mountain. “First, I’m gonna make you climb this entire thing while I think good and hard about some revealing question to askyouwhen you least suspect it.”
Maren smirks, eyes crinkled in amusement. “Fair enough.”
“And then I’m gonna consider what you’ve said and also what to do about it if it’s true.”
“It’s true,” she insists, getting to her feet and tightening her harness. “And while you’re thinking about how you plan to interrogate me, maybe you can lead off with some of the more pertinent details regarding that motorcycle sex. For starters, kickstand up or down?”
“Which one?” I ask her with a wink.
While Huck’s been busy fine-tuningAvalancheand working hard to make Lorelai Jones a household name once more, and Maren (plus Shelby via FaceTime) has been preoccupied with renovating the shambles of my nonexistent love life, my new agent slash manager slash PR miracle worker, Trina Hamilton, has been chipping away at my disaster image. If itwasn’t for the fact that the woman wears prickly like a pair of fucking Luccheses, I’d be concerned she was taking me on as a pity project.
Admittedly, I’ve calmed down a bit on the pity party since the duet released to acclaim. I’m not a complete lost cause, but scars run deep, and mine were stitched together in a rush job the first time around.
But I’ve seen Trina chew out a (probably) well-meaning barista for asking if she wanted to change her latte from full fat to skim, so I know for certain she doesn’t have a soft bone in her body. Even her cartilage is reinforced with titanium.
I fucking love her. It’s been too long since I’ve felt confident in my own skin around anyone besides Huck and my friends in Michigan. I let this place humble me. More than that, I let it shame me and for what? Because I had principles? Principles, mind you, that are shared by a significant portion of the population. It shouldn’t have been shame on me. It should have been shame on them all along. Trina Hamilton and her pointy heels and pointy manicure and matte lips and big hair reminded me of that.
Reminded me of who I was.
Thank God.
“So here’s the scoop, Cheetah,” she tells me, using her new nickname because she’s up to her microbladed eyebrows in Glennon Doyle’sUntamedand now calls everyone with a uterus, physical, spiritual, or otherwise, Cheetah. Her fingers tap on her phone screen in front of me, and I settle back in my chair, folding my napkin and pushing the remnants of my giant Cobb salad to the center of the table. “I’ve gotten you an early morning appearance onThe Good Morning Showin three days. I know it’s a tight turnaround, but Amy Anderson is a massive fan of yours, not to mention angling for the Enlightened News Anchor of the People Award or some other made-up bullshit recognition. Whatever it is, she practically fell out of her chair at the chance to interview you on camera.”
There’s a loud buzzing noise in my ears that kicked in somewhere around the wordsThe Good Morning Show.“Holy shit, can you repeat that?”
Trina rolls her eyes lightly, but I see the subtle beginnings of a pleased smirk around the corners of her painted mouth. “Amy Anderson.The Good Morning Show. Three Days. You.”
I take a long draw from my iced tea and fan my face, looking around, a little unnerved to notice everyone else just going about their day. No one else looks like they’ve just received the shock of their lives. Only me. We’re sitting in a wide-open street café on Broadway on a Tuesday in full view of God and country. Another change that I’m getting used to. Trina refuses to strategize in private.No more hiding like you got caught lip-synching at the Super Bowl. You are a goddamn cheetah, Jones.
“You’re completely serious.”
“I don’t lie about business,” Trina says, before tilting her head to the side and taking a short sip through her straw. “Well, mostly.”
“What’s the angle? How do you know they aren’t hoping to burn me on national TV?”
“I’m ninety-five percent sure they aren’t. But even if they were, it’s a calculated risk that I’m encouraging you to take. This is your chance to share your side of things. To changethe narrative. Plus,TGMShas a national reach in several different times zones. I’ve also arranged to have you perform a song.”
I choke on my tea and Trina barely misses a step, passing me a clean napkin. “The world needs to be reminded of what you bring to the table without all the gatekeeping and drama. Underneath the moral panicking, there’s a hell of a talented singer-songwriter. You’re gonna show them that.”
“Three days isn’t a lot of time to coach—”
“I’m not turning you into a robot, Lorelai. This ain’t no Eliza Doolittle shit. There’s nothing wrong with the way you are. Your only mistake was in trusting the wrong people, who advised you to turn tail and be ashamed of yourself. We’re not doing that, Cheetah. This time you’re embracing it. Will you lose some folks? Sure. Though you could lose them just as easily for gaining or dropping weight or having a bad haircut or sleeping with a married man.”
“So to be clear, you want me to be myself on national television?”
“A hundred percent you.”
“No matter the consequences.”
