Page 50

And no matter what Nola says, no matter how much of my past lives in her . . .
We end there.
FIFTEEN
The South Carolina air hits differently. Heavier. Stickier. More like memories than oxygen. I stand outside the venue, watching the roadies unload our equipment, and know I can’t put this off anymore.
For weeks, I’ve been holding my breath. Through countless states, performances, and numerous times staring at her note, I’ve managed to survive. Some nights better than others. Some shows more present than others. But every mile of highway has been leading here, to Charleston, to her.
To whatever comes next.
“You sure about this?” Keane asks, appearing beside me with two cups of coffee. He hands one to me, steam rising in the early morning air.
“No,” I admit. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
I finally broke down after the show in Asheville. It was a small intervention. Him, Dana, Hendrix, and Ajay. Dana called a band meeting in the lounge and tackled me in a death grip hug. I could’ve continued to shut them out, but I didn’t. Not with this date circled in my mind since we left the parking lot back in California.
No one judged. No one told me to dump her, to beg for her to stay. They listened, offered a shoulder to cry on, and told me that while they appreciate the music, they’re tired of heartbroken Quinn and want their rocker back.
I think they all knew what today was or what was going to happen. On our last tour, Nola was a staple. She was always around, bopping in rehearsals, shopping with Dana and Chandler, and attached to Elle during shows. Her absence has been noticed. The excuse of having school only goes so far.
“Need company?” Keane asks. He’s a stand-up guy and I’m so thankful we’re not only bandmates but friends. Even though I’ve let the friend part of my life slide. Mostly because of Nola. Keane lost his wife to cancer when their daughter was little. He’s done a great job—not that I would know any better—of raising Chandler. She’s not one of those annoying tweens who acts obnoxious. She’s one of us.
After today, I won’t put anyone between me and my friends.
I shake my head. “This is something I gotta do alone.”
“Elle know you’re going?”
I take a sip of the bitter coffee and wince. “I haven’t told her or Peyton. I don’t want them to stress while they’re pregnant. Plus, they’d tell our mom and then she’d be on the tour in an instant, probably on the bus. Although having her on the bus might fix Hendrix.” I laugh.
Keane doesn’t argue. “Just be back by four. Soundcheck’s nonnegotiable. Your sister will have your head if you’re late.”
“Don’t be a tattle,” I say, jokingly.
Keane scoffs. “Don’t forget my daughter works for your sister.”
I sigh and shake my head. “Kid . . . I’ll be here.”
He walks away, leaving me staring at the rental car I’ve arranged. It’s nothing fancy, just a basic sedan that won’t drawattention. Charleston isn’t Los Angeles. Here, people might actually recognize me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Justine Floyd
I know what this city means to you. I’m here if you want to chat.
I smile despite the knot in my stomach. She knows because she’s sang all the damn songs I’ve written about Nola.
The drive isn’t long, but it feels eternal. The GPS guides me through neighborhoods with sprawling oaks draped in Spanish moss, historic homes with wraparound porches, and perfectly manicured gardens that reek of old money and older traditions. The Boone estate is in one of one of these neighborhoods, with a half-mile long driveway, but I’m not going there.
Not yet.
I’m not ready to see her and need a minute or two. I turn around and head to the waterfront. It’s one of Nola’s favorite places. She used to come here when her parents or siblings hounded her about leaving the area for college. Nola wanted to spread her wings and see other parts of the country. Her parents weren’t so sure, and they definitely weren’t happy when I showed up at their house one day. I’m not who her parents want to be with. She told me she never cared. I think at some point, she started too.
I park several blocks away and walk, keeping my head down, baseball cap pulled low. It’s a beautiful park, with piers stretching into the harbor and a famous pineapple fountain that graces half the postcards in the city. Joggers pass by. Dog-walkers herd their pack. A few tourists pose for photos.
There’s an empty park bench, which is perfect for me. I sit and look out over the water, letting the ebb and flow of thetide calm me. I’m torn on what I want to happen. Yesterday, I planned to knock on the front door and tell her it’s over. But now, the idea of seeing her has my heart racing with anticipation.