Page 14 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

TWELVE

T he napkin lyrics from last night are smoothed out on the three stools in front of me, ink smudged from the weight of two hands scribbling something honest, and edges curled from the humidity and being stuffed into a pocket.

As a musician, one prone to writing his own songs, you’d think I’d carry remember to put my notebook in my pocket before I leave the house or the bus in this case. But nope.

I haven't stopped thinking about the words on the somewhat dirty napkin, covered in mine and Justine’s handwriting. Hers is loopy and flowery, while mine is messy and jagged.

These lyrics, the making of a new song—they’re not about Nola—not entirely. And that’s how I know they matter. How this song will be different. It’s something Justine and I created together, through our own experiences, heartache, and whatever else we have going on inside of ourselves.

Justine hums beside me while tuning her guitar, her short lavender hair in braids with daisies woven in.

This morning, she and her bandmates, along with Dana and Chandler, went to some farmer’s market not far from where our hotel is.

They came back right before we were about to leave and stocked the crap out of our kitchenette with fresh fruits, veggies, and set up numerous bouquets, claiming the men on the bus made the place stink.

Sadly, they’re not wrong.

I watched as Dana braided Justine’s hair while she braided Chandler’s. It was an assembly line of girliness.

There’s a quiet between us, but not the uncomfortable kind. It’s . . . focused.

Grounded.

Productive.

She taps a soft rhythm on the body of her guitar. “You want to try it with the progression you came up with, or do you want to hear mine first?”

“Yours,” I say. “I’ve been hearing my own voice too long.”

She nods and strums a chord. Gentle, unsure. It’s clear she’s not used to taking the lead, but something in her fingers tells me she’s got it. The melody’s simple, just enough space between notes to let the lyrics breathe.

By the time she hits the chorus, I already hear the harmony in my head.

I step in, vocal cords still warming up, and find the line above hers. It lands in the air perfectly, like we meant to write this together from the beginning.

She stops playing, eyes wide, a little stunned.

“Holy shit,” she whispers. “That was . . .”

“Right,” I say.

She blushes, looking down like maybe she wasn’t expecting me to agree.

We try it again, from the top. This time, there’s less hesitation in her voice and more grit.

When we hit the final chorus, she closes her eyes, pushing past whatever nerves she’s still holding on to, and then her voice cracks.

Not bad, just vulnerable. It shakes a little. She opens her eyes and shakes her head.

“Damn it,” she mutters, voice tight.

“It was good,” I tell her.

“I can’t get through that note. It’s too exposed.”

“Close your eyes again and imagine you’re the only one here. Like it’s just you and that napkin.”

She lets out a breath and looks at me, her gaze penetrating mine.

“You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not. It’s just necessary. We live on a tour bus and are in bands. We have people constantly around us. Sometimes you just have to shut everyone and everything out. Make yourself as vulnerable as you can to your words.”

She tries again. This time, she nails it.

The final note lingers in the room for a beat too long, and when it fades, we’re both sitting there, frozen in the quiet hum of the bus as it travels down the interstate.

She slides closer, slowly, her eyes still locked on mine. There’s something in the air—charged, subtle, shifting. Her hand brushes mine when she lowers her guitar.

I don’t move.

Neither does she.

Just for a moment she glances at my lips, and I think she might kiss me.

And maybe, if my heart and head weren’t such a fucking mess, I might let her.

But then the door to the lounge swings open, and Elle walks in, holding two coffees and talking into her phone. She doesn’t miss a beat as she walks toward us, her growing belly leading the way. If she saw what I was considering a moment between us, she doesn’t say anything.

Justine moves back first, grabbing her guitar and clearing her throat. “We were just . . . working on the napkin song,” she says as Elle hangs up.

“The napkin song?” Elle hands each of us a coffee. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

I shake my head.

“Well, whatever you end up titling it, you two sounded incredible.”

I mutter a thank you and glance at Justine, who’s suddenly very busy with her cup.

The moment’s gone.

And I shouldn’t be concerned or even sad because my heart belongs elsewhere, and leading Justine on is the worst thing I could do to her.

But the lyrics are still there.

And so is the feeling I can’t quite name yet.

Elle sits down and puts her feet up, barely giving me any time to move my laptop. I glare at her, but her raised eyebrow issues me a challenge. Am I going to begrudge a pregnant woman a footrest?

Unlikely.

“Let me hear this napkin song from the beginning,” she says.

I nod to Justine, and she begins singing. When Justine hits the final note, we both stare at our boss.

“Wow,” Elle says. “You guys wrote that before the show the other night?”

Justine and I nod. “On napkins,” I add for humor as I show my sister one of them.

Elle laughs. “Dad is going to be hella impressed. I know I am. I know the answer, but I have to ask; when can I book a studio? I want to lay down ten to fifteen tracks. You’re going to be the next Stevie and Lindsey. Minus the whole love affair turned sour thing.”

“Bad analogy,” I tell my sister. Justine and I aren’t in the same band. Nor are either of our respective bands anywhere near the global sensation Fleetwood Mac was and continues to be.

She lifts her shoulder and offers us a weak smile. “This baby is sucking the creativity out of my brain. You know what I mean.”

“I do.” I pause and look at Justine before turning my attention back to Elle. “I fear if Justine and I cut an album, our respective bands will feel left out or hurt.”

“I get it,” Elle says as she stands. “I’ll work out the logistics. As is, this is what, your fifth collab?”

I hadn’t counted, but I nod in agreement.

“Right, so it comes down to performing for the audience or making money. Let me know, and I’ll figure out the rest for you.”

As soon as she shuts the door, Justine speaks up. “I’m not like you, Quinn,” she says quietly.

I don’t need her to tell me our financial situation is different. I know it is.

“How will Wynonna and Priscilla feel?”

Justine shrugs. “I think they’d do the same thing, given a chance.”

I think anyone would, and it’s not like I’m turning my back on Sinful Distraction.

They’ll always be my band. If I were to do something with Justine, it would be a side gig.

And I wouldn’t be the first musician to do something like this.

Besides, it’s not like this would be out of the ordinary.

Many artists have collaborated or even started other bands while still leading their own.

“I think we should get through the tour first. This needs to be our priority, and then we’ll get into the studio when we get back. We can record in Beaumont, and Liam will produce the record for us.”

Justine beams. “Sounds like a plan.”

Our tour bus stops in front of an Italian restaurant. Elle leads us off, like schoolchildren told to follow in a single-file line. Only, we’re adults who are in a rock band who are not able to obey a simple rule, scattering on the sidewalk while we wait for everyone to disembark.

We huddle together and wait for the manager or owner to come out. “I’m going to lead you to the back room, where you’ll have privacy,” he says. “We’ll have security at the door, and the only people allowed back will be the four servers assigned to you for the night.”

“Thank you,” Elle says. She follows behind the manager, with our own security team bringing up the rear.

Everyone’s having dinner tonight with us: our road crew, bus driver, security team, and any friends and family who are at this stop.

This is something Elle’s wanted to do for a while now, but it’s not always easy finding a restaurant that can host all of us for three to four hours.

It takes a moment for someone to recognize one of us. The first one who does calls out Dana’s name, and then it’s Justine’s, Hendrix’s, and finally mine. I’m at least a bit jealous it took someone a handful of minutes to recognize me.

We’re shown to the back room, where the servers wait. We also have our own bartender. While Elle talks to the manager, we scatter and pick seats, like we’re the first ones in the cafeteria and need to beat everyone.

I choose a table nearest the bar, determined to drink away my worries.

The almost moment with Justine earlier weighs heavily on my mind.

I’m in love with Nola . . . or am I? I entertained the idea of letting another woman kiss me, and my recollection tells me I had zero intention of moving away from her.

What does that say about me? And my professed love and longing for a woman who left me a measly note and her engagement ring? A woman who hasn’t called or texted, who hasn’t cared about me, my well-being, or even my state of mind?

Not that I’ve put in an effort, but in my defense, I’m giving her the space she asked for.

Space I didn’t ask for.

I asked for none of this.

Ben sits down next to me, as does Keane. I’m relieved. I’ll have the chill table, the one with the boss, whom everyone wants to avoid, which isn’t fair to my sister. She’s a damn good manager and has definitely made a name for herself in the business.

And not a single time has she used our dad’s name to further her career or mine. Still, that doesn’t keep the tabloids and social media influencers from calling us nepo babies. While, yes, our dad is famous, we didn’t use him.

Or did we?

The server comes to the table and takes our drink orders. Elle sighs heavily and rubs her bump.

“Is my niece or nephew kicking?”

Elle nods. “And giving me indigestion. I never knew what heartburn was until I woke up in the middle of the night gagging. My throat was on fire.”

“Chandler’s mom had a bad case of heartburn when she was pregnant with her. She couldn’t eat or drink anything without acid building up. She was miserable,” Keane says.

“Where is Chandler?” Elle sits up and looks around the room.

“With Dana and the girls,” Keane says.

Elle smiles at the sight. “I love that for her.”

“They’ve really taken her under their wing,” Keane says. “Treating her like she’s their little sister.”

“Family,” Elle adds before turning back to the table. She smiles at me. “I’ve really created a whole new family, haven’t I?”

I don’t know who she’s directing the statement to, but I nod in agreement. It does help that Chandler’s a minor. It keeps our on-the-bus antics kid-friendly.

Drinks, appetizers, dinner, and dessert are served.

We laugh, tell corny jokes, reminiscing about earlier stops, and tease the road crew, who take our jabs about their minor blunders with jest. They know we love them, and we show them at the end of the show, before Justine and I come back for the encore.

Five hours later, after we pose for photos and sign merchandise Elle put together for the restaurant staff, we’re walking through the lobby of our hotel for the next two nights.

In my room, while the bed is inviting, I’m not tired. My mind is revved, energized with the thought of writing more music. I open my worn guitar case and take out the notepad that certainly won’t fit into my pocket and flip to a clean page, bypassing every lyric or note I’ve written about Nola.

The lighting in my room isn’t the best and casts a yellowish hue over everything. I don’t know if this is purposeful because it’s so late and white light could be blinding this time of night or what, but I don’t like it. It’s dull and makes my tired eyes strain.

Nola’s ring knocks against the table as I lean forward.

The sound and feeling of it hitting give me pause.

On instinct, I grab it and hold it between my fingers, and then slowly undo the clasp around my neck.

My chain dangles from my fingers, the ring swaying softly.

Without another thought, I let go and watch the ring drop to the table, clanging against the wood, and put my chain around my neck again.

The ring sits there, missing the finger it used to be on, but as I try to imagine it on Nola’s finger, I can’t.

Even as I recall memories of it being there, they seem out of place.

I don’t want to stare at it anymore or feel it press against my skin, night after night.

I take it and slip it into the pocket of my guitar case, where it’ll have to stay until .

. . well, who knows when. I don’t see myself slipping it back on her finger when I see her in Charleston.

I don’t care if all the happy, lovey feelings come rushing back; we’re not in the same place we once were and will need to work on that if we have any semblance of a future.

For weeks, everything I’ve written has come out like static. Grief on a never-ending loop. The same lines reworded a million different ways, all of them leading back to the same girl.

A girl who walked away.

But tonight, the pen moves differently.

I’m not writing about Nola.

I’m writing about now .

About stage lights and cracked harmonies. About shaky confidence and the way a single voice can split open a moment and stitch it back together in three chords.

Her voice is smoke in morning light

Not meant to stay, but warm enough to hold

I pause, read it back, then underline it.

It’s not a love song. Not even close.

It’s a song about presence. About being heard when you least expect it. About how sometimes, healing doesn’t come from the person who broke you but from someone who stands quietly beside you and refuses to look away.

I scribble out a chorus—just an idea, nothing solid—but the melody is forming in my head already. And this time, it’s not Nola’s face I see when I hum it.

It’s hers.

Not because I want it to be.

But because it just is .

I close the notebook and slide it under my pillow like a secret.

No one needs to see it. Not yet.

Not until I know what it means—or who it’s really about.

For now, it’s just ink on paper. A verse without a chorus. A thought that might never become a song.

But it’s the first thing I’ve written in weeks that doesn’t hurt.

And maybe that’s something.