Page 60

I study her as she talks, animated and enthusiastic about her plans. It’s contagious, her excitement. I feel myself getting swept up in it despite my initial reluctance.
Our first stop is a record store in Cambridge, nestled between a coffee shop and a bookstore. The moment we step inside, I understand why Justine chose it. The place is a vinyl paradise—floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with albums, listening stations scattered throughout, and a small stage in the back for in-store performances.
“How did you find this place?” I ask, running my fingers over a row of classic rock albums.
“The internet is a magical thing,” she says, already flipping through a bin of indie releases. “Plus, I asked the front desk clerk for recommendations.”
We spend over an hour digging through crates, each of us building a small stack of finds. Justine puts on headphones at one of the listening stations, her eyes closing as she loses herself in whatever she’s discovered. I watch her for a moment, the way her fingers tap against her thigh, keeping time with music only she can hear.
I turn away before she catches me staring and continue browsing. In a section of rare vinyl, I find an original pressing of one of 4225 West’s early albums. The price tag makes me wince, but I grab it anyway. My dad will get a kick out of it.
At the register, I insist on paying for Justine’s selections too. She protests, but I stand firm.
“Consider it a thank you for getting me out of bed,” I tell her.
“I would have dragged you out regardless.”
“I know. That’s why I’m grateful.”
Outside, we navigate through the bustling streets, stopping at a small café for a late breakfast. Justine steals bites of my avocado toast while telling me about her first concert—a punk show in a dingy basement when she was thirteen.
“I lied to my parents,” she admits, stirring her tea. “Told them I was staying at a friend’s house for a study session . . .” She trails off. I know there’s more to the story there, but don’t press. When Elle and I first saw Justine perform at Trixie’s, she told us she’d run away at fourteen but doesn’t ever talk about it.
“Rebel,” I tease instead of digging deeper. “My first concert was my dad’s. I was probably still in diapers.”
“That doesn’t count. First one you chose yourself?”
I think back. “The Killers. I was thirteen, I think? Elle was obsessed with them and convinced our mom to take us.”
“I can picture teenage Elle freaking out over Brandon Flowers,” Justine laughs. “It’s always the front man that gets fans weak in the knees.”
Her statement gives me pause. Is she flirting with me? No, there’s no way.
“Oh, she absolutely lost her mind. Screamed so loud she was hoarse for days.”
After breakfast, we take the train across the river and follow the Freedom Trail, a red brick path that winds through the city, connecting historical sites. Justine reads facts from her phone at each stop, sometimes in an exaggerated tour guide voice that has me laughing so hard my sides hurt. A few times we actually try to tag on to a tour but the Revolutionary re-enactment soldier caught on and booted us.
At Faneuil Hall, we stop to watch a street performer, a guitarist playing acoustic covers. The crowd around him is small but appreciative. When he finishes a song, Justine applauds enthusiastically.
“You should join him,” she whispers to me.
I shake my head. “No way.”
“Come on! How often do you get to just play with no expectations? No arena, no fans, just music.”
Her challenge hangs in the air between us. The guitarist is starting a new song, “Blackbird” by The Beatles. Before I can overthink it, I step forward.
“Mind if I join?”
The busker looks up, surprised, then grins and nods. I take a seat on the edge of the statue beside him, and he restarts the intro. I start singing, keeping my voice soft to blend with his guitar. After the first verse, the busker joins in with harmonies, our voices finding each other instinctively.
A small crowd gathers, phones recording. I don’t care. For once, I’m not Quinn James, lead singer of Sinful Distraction. I’m just another musician, playing in a public square on a beautiful day. When the song ends, there’s applause, and the busker and I fist-bump.
“You’ve got pipes, man,” he says.
“You’ve got skills,” I reply, gesturing to his guitar. “Thanks for letting me crash your set.”
I rejoin Justine, who’s beaming at me. “That was amazing,” she says. “Spontaneous Quinn is my favorite Quinn.”