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Hendrix approaches with a suspicious grin. “So . . . no more brooding poet act? Because I was just starting to perfect my Quinn James impression.” He hunches his shoulders and mimics a deep, mournful voice. “Life is pain, and my guitar is my only solace.”
The room erupts with laughter, and I find myself joining in. “God, was I really that bad?”
“Worse,” Dana confirms, topping off my drink. “But we loved you anyway.”
As the celebration continues, I notice Justine drifting toward the door. Without thinking, I follow.
The hallway is quiet compared to the raucous green room. Justine leans against the wall, eyes closed, humming a melody I recognize as our napkin song.
“Escaping the madness?” I ask, leaning against the opposite wall.
Her eyes open. “Just needed a minute. Shows like this leave me wired but also drained. It’s a weird combination.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, long legs stretched out in front of me. “It’s like your body wants to sleep but your mind is still on stage.”
Justine mirrors my position across the narrow hallway. “So,” she says, studying me. “You look different.”
“Different how?”
“Lighter.” She tilts her head. “Like you put something down that you’ve been carrying a while.”
I consider this. “More like threw it in the park.” I smirk, knowing my comment is odd. Someday, I’ll tell her, just like I’ll tell my sisters. I know I should probably be all emo and want to talk about my feelings, but I’ve done that enough in my music since this tour started. Even the songs need a break from my mellow drama.
We sit in comfortable silence, the muffled sounds of celebration filtering through the walls. Justine stretches her legs out so her feet rest near mine.
“I don’t want to pry, but is Nola joining the rest of the tour?”
Her eyes don’t meet mine when she asks. Justine picks at something on her leggings. I’m tempted to nudge her with my boot, but I don’t.
“Nah,” I say, shaking my head.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says softly. “But if you want to, I’m a pretty good listener.”
I find myself wanting to tell her everything—about the fountain, the ring, the professor. About how seeing Nola with someone else didn’t destroy me like I thought it would.
Instead, I say, “Maybe later? On the bus?”
“Sure,” she agrees easily. “We’ve got nothing but time and highway ahead of us.”
When we return to the green room, no one comments on our absence. The night winds down, and soon we’re boarding the bus for the overnight drive to the next venue.
I settle into my usual spot near Canson. The familiar hum of the bus engine has become a comfort, a constant in the chaos of tour life. I pull out my notebook, but don’t open it. Instead, I stare at the highway stretching endlessly before us, wondering how a day that started with such dread ended with such . . .possibility.
An hour into the drive, most of the band has retreated to their bunks. I move to the lounge, spreading out on the couch with my guitar, softly picking out melodies. I don’t expect anyone to join me this late.
But Justine appears, holding two mugs of something steaming.
“Hot chocolate,” she explains, handing me one. “I hear it’s good for thinking.”
I accept the mug gratefully. “Does it work?”
“Only one way to find out.” She sits beside me, closer than strictly necessary, her knee brushing mine.
I take a sip, the rich sweetness coating my tongue. “This is really good.”
“Secret ingredient is cinnamon,” she whispers conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”