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Justine smiles, not the polite, quick smile she gives fans. Not the forced stage grin she gives me after our duet. This one is different. It’s slower, softer, like she’s letting me in on a secret she hasn’t told anyone.
It pulls at the corner of her mouth, tipping just a little higher on the left side.
Mischievous.
Knowing.
Playful.
It’s the kind of smile that says, “I see you even when you’re trying not to be seen.”
This one is for me and only me.
She sees me.
How long has she been looking?
And for a beat, I forget what I’m angry about.
I forget about the note dragging my pocket down and the ring causing my heart to ache cruelly.
For a beat, I’m Quinn, musician and lead male singer of a very successful band . . . all because of Justine’s smile.
TEN
If you want to know what a man’s really feeling, don’t read his words. Read his setlist. It’s what I’ve learned over the past three days, staring at this sheet of paper like it’s a Ouija board that might spell her name.
Only, my life doesn’t work that way.
Unless you’re Dana and believe in the paranormal shit. She actually spends all her free time doing ghost tours in the cities we visit, dragging Keane and Chandler along with her.
We’re in Nashville for two shows. Imagine that, selling out two shows in a predominantly country music town. I think Elle is proud of us for doing so, but also, it’s the only way to hear our yet-to-be-released single that Justine and I perform during the encore. Someday, we’ll put it online and send it to the radios.
This is not someday.
Elle and Ben are here for two days of promo. During the day, Ben has us booked with multiple radio stations, a three-song performance on a morning show, and we’re “hosting” a fashion show at the mall. Elle wants us to be more community-oriented in the places we visit, especially when we have more than one show there.
My phone dings with a text from Elle. I know better than to ignore it, but I’m busy writing out a new setlist for the last half of our tour. Another tactic from my sister. She never wants things to become stale or predictable.
Elle
Come downstairs to the restaurant.
I groan.
I’m busy.
Elle
Be busy later.
Later.
Elle
Quinny, please come downstairs.
I roll my eyes. I hate that she can bring me to my knees with her nickname for me. Not even Peyton calls me Quinny.