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I laugh and nod in agreement. It’s not like I’ll be planning a wedding anyway at this point.
Justine hits a high note that rattles through the steel rafters, her fingers clenched around the mic stand like she might snap it in half. I cross my arms, watching. Not for her—at least not how she probably thinks—but because something about this moment feels important.
Like she’s not just another opener trying to make it.
She is the show.
And I’m not sure she even realizes it yet.
I hope what I said to Justine earlier about the sisters being jealous of her, never comes to fruition because Plum is magic on stage.
The arena feels small.The kind of small where people are packed in like sardines, and the air gets caught in your throat, and where everything echoes too loudly. I stare out at them, the people who have paid to watch us play, while Ajay taps his drumsticks against a folding chair. Dana hums the opening lines of our first song while Elle paces near the lighting rig, talking into her earpiece, her free hand resting on her stomach like she’s trying to keep grounded.
And the crowd chants our name. Loud and rhythmic. I remember when I was a kid and I’d be on tour with 4225 West—the crowd was the same—and yet different in a sense. It’s hard to explain, but when I look out at the audience now, I see a mix of men and women, but back then I only remember women being in the front rows. Mostly with signs asking the guys to marry them, and some throwing their underwear on stage.
I’ve done a couple of shows where undergarments have landed near my feet. I’ve never asked the roadies where those items end up. Hell, I don’t even know if they’re clean. If they are, I hope they’re donated to a women’s shelter or something and not just thrown in the trash.
Over the years, I’ve kept very few things fans have given me. Mostly because if I kept everything, I’d need an entire wing of a house for storage. I’ve kept some of the flowers, shirts, and a few drawings or fan art. Anything edible goes right into the trash, along with phone numbers.
Although now I may be inclined to keep a few of those.
I can see the headline now:“Quinn James Falls for a Fan”
I suppose that’s what I did with Nola, and it should be a lesson in what not to do.
One of our roadie members signals it’s time for us to take our place on stage. I roll my shoulders back and grip the neck of my guitar.
Everything’s in place,
But I’m not, at least not mentally. She’s still in my head.
Not Justine. Nola.
The version of her I saw—or didn’t see—in the crowd earlier. That ghost has teeth. And it’s sinking them in deep, gnawing its way into my subconscious, reminding me she’s always there, lingering.
“You good?” Keane asks from the other side of the curtain.
“Fine.” The word isn’t necessarily a lie, but it’s damn close.
“Don’t forget, we changed the setlist again,” he says as a friendly and much-needed reminder. I wouldn’t be able to forget if I wanted.
The lights change.
The music changes.
The crowd roars.
I walk out onto the stage and into the noise, into the heat of a thousand eyes and the wash of artificial blue lighting that spills across the mic stand.
The opening chords of “Gravity” pulse beneath my fingers. It’s a song I’ve played so many times I could sleep through it. But tonight, every note feels like it’s dragging something out of me.
She used to sing along to this one.
I find her in the lyrics again, in the way the melody dips and stretches, in the sharp breath before the final line.
“You pulled away and I fell harder.
You left the earth and I stayed grounded.”