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“Is that so?”
“Definitely. Way better than brooding Quinn or sad Quinn.”
“Wow, who knew I have so many versions of myself.”
“I like all of them,” she says quietly, then quickly adds, “But some more than others.”
“Really?” I ask and she nods. “So, emo broody melodramatic Quinn is someone you like?”
Justine shrugs. “That side of Quinn makes amazing music, and this side of Quinn . . . well, he makes me smile. I’m glad I get to experience all sides.”
Totally flirting.
And I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about it.
We continue exploring, stopping at a row of food trucks for lunch. Justine insists we try a little from each, resulting in a makeshift picnic of lobster rolls, gourmet grilled cheese, and Korean tacos shared on a park bench.
“Dana texted,” Justine says, checking her phone. “She and Keane are taking Chandler to the aquarium. Asked if we want to meet up later.”
“Sounds good to me.”
After lunch, we wander through Boston Common, watching street performers and taking ridiculous selfies with statues. Justine discovers a henna artist and immediately pulls me aside.
“I’ve always wanted to try this,” she says excitedly.
The artist, an older woman with intricate designs covering her own hands, explains that the henna will last about two weeks. Justine sits patiently as the woman applies the paste in delicate patterns across her inner wrist and palm.
“What does it mean?” I ask, watching the design take shape.
“It’s a design for creativity and expression,” the artist explains. “Very fitting for a musician.”
When she finishes, Justine examines her hand in awe. Among the swirling patterns, I notice something familiar—words worked into the design.
“Are those our lyrics?” I ask, leaning closer.
Justine nods, a shy smile playing on her lips. “From the napkin song. I asked her to include them.”
I read the line aloud: “Your voice is smoke in morning light, not meant to stay but warm enough to hold.”
“Is that okay?” she asks, suddenly uncertain. “I should have asked first.”
“It’s more than okay,” I assure her. “It’s . . . perfect.”
Our eyes lock, and something shifts in the air between us. The moment stretches, electric and fragile, until the artist clears her throat.
“You should avoid water for at least twelve hours,” she advises, breaking the spell. “The longer it stays on, the darker the stain will be.”
As we walk toward the waterfront, Justine holds her hand up, angling it so she can see the design. When we meet up with Dana, Keane, and Chandler at the aquarium, the ladies gush over Justine’s henna and Chandler begs Keane for one. I point in the direction we just came and apologize because I remember my father having to do the same type of shit with the twins.
As soon as we’re inside, Chandler immediately bombards us with facts about sharks she’s learned, barely pausing for breath.
“Did you know some sharks have to keep swimming or they’ll die?” she asks, eyes wide with excitement.
“Like some people have to keep talking?” Keane teases, ruffling her hair.
“Dad!” she protests, ducking away from his hand.
Dana laughs, linking arms with Chandler. “Ignore him. Tell me more about the jellyfish.”