Page 78

“Justine,” I catch her arm gently. “This doesn’t change anything between us. You know that, right?”
Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course. See you out there, rock star.”
Hours later, I’m stepping onto the red carpet in a tailored black suit that probably costs more than most people’s first car. The flashes are blinding, the shouted questions a cacophony I’ve never fully adjusted to despite years in the industry.
I pose with the band, answer the usual questions about the album, our tour, and the upcoming holiday break. No one asks about Nola, which is a relief.
Inside, we’re seated near the front, with Plum a few rows behind us. I resist the urge to turn around and find her, focusing instead on the opening performance and the host’s monologue.
When “Come Undone” is announced, the butterflies finally hit. Dana and I take the stage first, with the band setting up the intro. When Justine joins us, emerging from stage left in a floor-length silver gown that catches the light with every movement, the crowd reacts with enthusiasm.
We’ve performed this song countless times but tonight feels different. More significant. The energy between us is electric, impossible to disguise. When our voices blend on the chorus, it’s like we’re the only two people in the arena.
The performance ends to thunderous applause. As we exit the stage, Justine catches my eye, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. No matter what complexities lie ahead, this—the music we create together—is real and undeniable.
We don’t win Best Rock Album, but we take home Best Rock Performance for “Fading Ink,” a song I wrote during those early, raw days after Nola left. The irony isn’t lost on me as I clutch the award, thanking our fans, my sister, and the band.
At the after-party, I do my duty of networking, accepting congratulations, and discussing potential collaborations. But my eyes keep finding Justine across the room, where she’s deep in conversation with a producer I recognize from the Grammy committee.
“Just go talk to her,” Dana says, appearing at my elbow with two champagne flutes. “Your pining is becoming embarrassing.”
I accept the champagne. “I’m not pining.”
“Please. You’ve looked at her seventeen times in the last ten minutes. I counted.”
I take a sip to hide my smile. “I’m just being professional.”
Dana rolls her eyes. “Some things can’t be controlled, Quinn.” She nods toward Justine. “Some people are worth the risk.”
Before I can respond, Justine looks up and catches me watching her. A slow smile spreads across her face, and sheexcuses herself from her conversation, making her way toward us.
“Congratulations on the win,” she says when she reaches us.
“Thanks,” I reply, hyper aware of Dana watching us with amusement. “You were incredible tonight.”
“We were incredible,” she corrects. “We make a good team.”
The double meaning isn’t lost on any of us. Dana clears her throat dramatically. “And that’s my cue to find Keane. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She winks before disappearing into the crowd.
Justine laughs softly. “Subtle.”
“She’s not known for subtlety,” I agree, stepping closer. “You really did look amazing up there.”
“So did you,” she says, her voice dropping slightly. “That suit is . . . distracting.”
“Bad pun,” I tease, but the compliment sends warmth through me.
She shrugs, unrepentant. “I’ve been thinking about tonight.”
“What about it?”
Justine’s voice softens. “I don’t want to hide how I feel about you forever.”
The simple honesty of her statement takes my breath away. “Neither do I.”
“So, what do we do?”
“We find a balance,” I tell her. “Professional in public, but no more pretending there’s nothing between us when it’s just us. And when the tour’s over . . .”