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“Can I be candid, Jones?”
“Do you have another way?” I ask wryly.
She doesn’t even flinch. “You’re interesting as hell. I researched you and the wholeHomeMadedrama with your friends up in Michigan. You stepped back into the spotlight for them, and your fans showed up. Some people step away for six months and can never crawl their way back. You left for nearly half a decade and people were clamoring for more. More you, more Shelby and Cameron, more CraigBoseman, even more Drake Colter, though the piece of shit doesn’t deserve it. All of that, or at least a large part of that, is because ofyou.People are fascinated to see what you’ll do next. Even the radio show—”
“I thought you said that was a mistake.”
“Not because you did anything wrong,” she clarifies sharply. “It was a mistake for you to lower yourself to their level. To pander to those small-minded idiots. They were never gonna welcome you back. Jennifer Blake offered you up on a platter with a side a grits.”
“Well okay then,” I say, resolved. What’s the worst that can happen? They cancel me on a national level? Been there and done that. Gave back the fucking engagement ring.
“Excellent.” Trina slips her shades over her eyes and rubs at her temples. “I hate pep talks. I know they’re necessary, but they give me migraines.”
“Being nice gives you migraines?”
Trina raises her hand to signal for the bill. “Believe me, this is a breeze compared to the days I spent paying bail on Coolidge. But yes, being nice gives me migraines. It’s my trigger. Like chocolate and the smell of antiseptic.”
“Thanks, Trina.”
She grins, accepting the bill and signing off on it with a flourish. “You’re welcome, Cheetah. I’ll have my assistant send over your flight and hotel details before tonight.”
Two days before I’m supposed to fly to L.A. for the interview and I’m sitting on my balcony with Maren, pouting. It’s obvious why. Because on the one hand, literally everything isgoing right for me. Or at least better. I have an agent in my corner. I have the once-in-a-lifetime chance to share my side of the sordid tale. My best friend is visiting. The album is gorgeous and the duet is sitting pretty at number one.
All these things are the very best. Opportunity knocking and second chances blooming left and right. I can’t hardly believe my luck and I’m fucking miserable about it.
Because I don’t have Huck. I miss him. I still see him, of course. Regularly, and if you were observing our conversations, you might not even notice anything has changed. For example, the other night I texted him “Black” by Pearl Jam, and he responded within seconds with “Heart-Shaped Box” by Nirvana as if he’d just been staring at his phone, willing me to reach out. Like always.
But it’s different. It’s more stilted. Forced. Not forced like we’re pretending we like each other but forced lightness. As if we’re pretending not to like each other so much. He’s stopped writing his poetry. I’ve been checking twice a day, and nothing. And he hasn’t made any more claims to “Jonesin’,” or any of Drake’s supposed other songs, for that matter.
The nominations for Song of the Year were posted and Drake was there, claiming “Best Worst Case” as his without a cowriter. Though I did notice Drake didn’t post anything on his socials about the nod and he didn’t issue a statement. In fact, he’s basically gone dark in recent weeks. Knowing him the way I unfortunately do, I’m positive Old Drake would be crowing from the rooftops about his songwriting prowess. His “spending time locked away in the studio” vague posts mean something came to a head.
And I’m dying to ask Huck about it, but after wrapping on the album, he left town. Arlo said he took his nephew to his cabin in the Smokies. Which sounds planned, so I’m trying not to spiral on the implications, even though he never mentioned it before and also he’d hinted at one point he’d take me… Regardless, no one knew exactly when he’d be back and he’s completely unreachable. So that’s that.
Maren offers to top off my glass and I accept because, what the hell, why not. We’re perched on the iron porch railing while Miranda Lambert plays over the speaker. She’s singing about a man who done her wrong, and I’m feeling it all the way down to my red-painted toes. Because even though I miss Huck like crazy, I’m still nursing a bruised ego and a neglected vagina and both of those things are capital H, capital F, His Fault.
Even if he was pulling back for the right reasons, which, okay, so maybe hewas,I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about it if he shuts down and travels four hours into the mountains where I can’t text him.
I know. I hear myself. I’m being a bitch. A lonely bitch who misses her friend, whom she loves.
And his cock. That is attached to him, so it’s not like I’m not talking about the same thing here.
Maren is scrolling through her phone, keeping up on emails, and I can tell by the tense line of her slim shoulders that something’s wrong.
“Work problems?” Even though I’m headed out of town, I’m leaving for just the one night, so Mare has decided to stay a little longer.
“No, not work. Something else. Just…” Her brows drawtogether and she shakes her head as if she’s dislodging a thought and meets my gaze.
“I need to go to Wisconsin.”
I put down my wine and straighten. “Right now? Is everything okay?”
“No, not now.” She waves at me to sit and settles in her chair, more relaxed. “But soon. I have to go see some people about a legal thing. It’s nothing bad. Just weird. I had an old friend in the North Woods, from back when I led fishing tours, and he passed away. Anyway, apparently he left me some things.”
“I’m sorry, Mare. I didn’t know you lost someone recently.”
She takes a long sip, her gaze suddenly a million miles away. “It was a month ago, actually. I went to the funeral. He was in his nineties and it wasn’t unexpected. But I didn’t realize he’d left me anything, so I guess I need to go back.”
“Was he rich?”
