That evening, Cameron and I are curled up on my loveseat. He’s watching the Tigers game and I’m tooling around on my phone. I set up an Instagram account and am trying to figure out how the site works … all the filters and clips. I follow Michelle Obama and Glennon Doyle and spend a solid twenty minutes watching Jennifer Garner’s backlog of adorable farm videos.

I can do this. It’s not so scary.

I elbow Cam. When he turns to me, I hold out my phone. “I’m going to take a selfie of us for Instagram, okay?”

“Quick question: Is it called a selfie if we’re both in it?”

“Cam—”

He grabs my phone. “I have longer arms.” He reaches in front of us and presses a kiss to the top of my head as the camera clicks, before passing it back.

I examine the photo. It’s perfect. Cam kissing me, me radiating luckiness. I post it and underneath I write the words:

Love of my life

The next morning, I have a checkmark and a million and a half followers.

Lyle has nine hundred thousand.

(Not that I’m comparing.)

It’s a quiet Tuesday night and we’re eating grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches on Lorelai’s front porch. My best friend invited me over after work, which isn’t unusual, but she’s quieter than I’m used to. Not her typical brash self at all.

After several long minutes of near silence, I crack.

“Out with it, Jones. What’s wrong?”

She sighs, long suffering. I quirk a brow, and she smooths her napkin, playing for time. Eventually, she says, “I have an idea, but I’m not sure if it’s something you’d be into.”

I take a sip from my iced sun tea and gesture with my hand for her to proceed.

“I’ve been writing,” she starts with a near grimace. “Kind of a lot, actually. Like, an album’s worth, at least.”

I know this, but I let it play out because I have a feeling I’m about to get the entire story, finally. I place my glass on the table with a soft thud. “Since when?”

Lorelai shrugs. “Since the bar?”

“You mean since Drake texted you and told you he loved you?” She doesn’t deny it. “That’s a lot of songs in a matter of weeks, Lorelai.”

“I know. It all poured out. Five years of choking on silence, and all of a sudden, it was like a purge. Anyway, I sent some demos to my old friend, Craig Boseman. Since,” she rambles on in an uncharacteristic rush of words, “just because I think I’ve got something, doesn’t mean I do, and long story short, he wants to fly me down to his studio outside Nashville to put down some tracks. He thinks I might have something really great here.”