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“Quinn.” Ajay stops walking and tries not to laugh. He grabs my arm, forcing me to face him. I sigh heavily. “It’s okay, you know. To move on. To be happy.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Maybe not yet,” Ajay concedes. “But the way you look at her . . . it could be.”
I groan and run my hand through my hair. “We work together a lot, that’s it. She’s a nice kid, but there’s nothing there and I’m okay. You guys can stop worrying about me.”
Ajay smiles and briefly rests his hand on my shoulder. “We all just want you happy.” He nods and heads down the hall toward his room.
As soon as I walk in, it’s my intention to take a shower, but my notebook sits on the table, like a bright beacon. I sit down, flip open to a new page and let my pencil go to work. The words come without effort, flowing from some place inside me that feels new and familiar at the same time.
I read it over, then tuck the notebook away. These lyrics aren’t for anyone else yet. They’re just for me, a private map of this unfamiliar territory I’m beginning to explore.
My phone buzzes.
Justine Floyd
Still awake?
Yes
Justine Floyd
Want company?
I stare at the message for a long moment before typing my response.
Always.
A few minutes later, she appears in the doorway, wearing pajama pants and a faded band T-shirt. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean of makeup.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she explains, sitting in the chair.
“Me neither.”
“Were you writing?” she asks, gesturing to the notebook on the table.
“Just some new ideas.”
“About?”
I hesitate. “About feeling safe again.”
Her expression softens. “That’s good, Quinn. Really good.”
“It’s different this time,” I admit. “The words. They’re not coming from a place of pain or loss.”
“Where are they coming from?”
I look at her, really look at her, taking in the warmth of her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the way she waits patiently for my answer without demanding it.
“Hope, maybe,” I say finally. “I’m not sure yet.”
Justine nods like she understands completely. “The best songs are the ones that surprise even you.”
She shifts on the couch, drawing her knees up to her chest. “So, what’s next for Quinn James? Now that you’re free?”
The question strikes me as odd because I thought I was the only one who saw myself as free. “Free?”