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“Mr. James,” he says as I approach.
“Canson, you know you can call me Quinn. Actually,” I say as I pause with my hand on the top of the door, “call me Uncle Quinn.”
Canson’s smile beams. “Congratulations.”
I slide into the backseat, the fine Italian leather encasing my body. I sigh and sink into the cushion.
“Boy? Girl?” He meets my gaze in the rearview mirror.
“Two boys, one girl,” I say, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “They’re tiny but perfect.” I show him a few pictures before he starts driving.
“Those are some lucky kids to have such a devoted uncle.”
I settle back in my seat, letting his words wash over me. For the better part of a year, I’ve defined myself by what I’ve lost—Nola, the future I thought we’d have. But now, I’m starting to see what I have—two sisters I adore, my parents, and a little brother, and what I’ve gained—two nephews and a niece, with Elle’s baby on the way.
My family has grown, and with it, my world has expanded.
By the time I reach the venue, soundcheck is long over. I text Dana to let her know I’ve arrived, and she responds with a thumbs-up emoji and a reminder that stage time is in ninety minutes.
Backstage is organized chaos—roadies rushing past with equipment, lighting techs adjusting last-minute cues, caterers setting up the post-show spread. I weave through it all, nodding at familiar faces, my guitar case bumping against my leg.
The door to our makeshift dressing room swings open, and four heads turn in unison.
“The prodigal rockstar returns!” Ajay announces, drumsticks spinning between his fingers.
“Just in time,” Keane adds, glancing at his watch.
Dana crosses the room and pulls me into a tight hug. “How are the babies?”
“Perfect,” I say, setting my guitar down. “They’re tiny.” I hold out my arm as a makeshift ruler for their length.
“And Peyton?” Hendrix asks, surprising me with his concern.
“Exhausted but so damn happy.”
“Names?” Dana demands.
“Maverick, Jace, and Juniper.”
“Solid rock star names,” Hendrix approves.
“How’s Elle?” Keane asks, looking past me.
“She’s good,” I say. “Although I think she’s restless and missing this side of her job.” I scan the room, not wanting to be obvious. “Everyone else good?”
“If by ‘everyone else’ you mean a certain lavender-haired vocalist,” Dana says with a smirk, “she’s warming up with her band. They’re on in twenty.”
I pretend to ignore her implication and unzip my guitar case. “I should probably get ready myself.”
“Uh-huh,” Dana says, clearly unconvinced. “Well, when you’re done pretending you weren’t asking about Justine, maybe you could look over the setlist. We made a few tweaks.”
She hands me a sheet of paper with notes scribbled in the margins. “I texted Elle about them, and she was fine with it.”
“Yeah, she said you’ve been sending her clips of the shows?”
Dana nods. “Chandler’s been videoing and editing. She sends everything to Paige for social media and I think Elle plans to use the footage for a video or two.”
“Awesome. I’m so glad Elle hired Chandler for this job. Can you send me some of the videos?”