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“I’ll airdrop them to your phone later. Right now, I’m going to go support Plum,” Dana says.
I nod as I look at the list and work to memorize the changes. As the others leave, I hang back, strumming my guitar and going over the changes. The order makes sense—we’re opening with “Gravity” instead of “Run Wild, Burn Bright,” and “Flame & Ash” has moved to the encore. Both are good calls.
I’ve just finished tuning when I feel a presence in the doorway. I look up to find Justine leaning against the frame, dressed for her performance in black jeans, combat boots, and a vintage band tee knotted at her waist.
“Hey, stranger,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips.
My heart does an unexpected flip. “Hey yourself.”
“The babies are beautiful,” she says, stepping into the room. “Even through blurry phone pictures.”
“They’re even better in person,” I tell her, setting my guitar aside. “Wait till you see them.”
The words slip out before I realize their implication—that she’ll meet my family, be part of my life in that way. But Justine doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t mind.
“How’s Peyton?”
“Strong. Tired. A little overwhelmed, but my mom and Josie are there, so she’s in good hands.”
Justine sits beside me on the worn sofa, close enough that our knees touch. “Did you get any sleep?”
“A few hours on the plane. I’ll crash tonight after the show.”
“You could have stayed longer,” she says softly. “No one would have blamed you.”
I shrug. “We have commitments. Besides, I’ll see them soon enough.”
“Quinn James, responsible rock star.” Her tone is light, teasing.
“I have my moments.”
Before she can respond, a stagehand appears. “Five minutes, Justine.”
She stands, smoothing her shirt. “Duty calls.”
“Break a leg out there,” I tell her. “I’ll be watching.”
A smile spreads across her face, bright and genuine. “You’d better be. I added something new to the set. See if you can spot it.”
With that cryptic statement, she’s gone, leaving behind the lingering scent of her perfume—something light and floral with an undertone of vanilla.
I make my way to the side of the stage, finding a spot where I can see the show without being seen by the crowd. As promised, I watch Plum’s entire set.
Justine is, as always, captivating. There’s an energy to her performance tonight that feels different, freer, more confident. When they reach their third song, I realize what’s new. She’s incorporated a subtle guitar riff that mirrors one from our napkin song. It’s not obvious enough that anyone else would notice, but to me, it’s unmistakable.
It’s our melody, woven into her band’s song.
A private message meant only for me.
When they finish their set to thunderous applause, Justine doesn’t look to her bandmates or the crowd for validation. Her eyes find mine in the shadows offstage, and she gives me a small, private smile.
Forty minutes later, I’m standing center stage, strumming the opening chords of “Gravity” as the crowd roars. The energy is electric, pulsing through the venue like a living thing.
I lean into the mic, my voice finding its resonance. “Are you ready?”
The response is deafening.
We launch into the set, and everything falls away: the exhaustion, the whirlwind of emotions from the past few days, the lingering questions about what comes next. There’s only the music, the crowd, and this perfect moment of connection.