Page 17 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

FOURTEEN

E ach day, we get closer to Charleston. Closer to where my heart—well, part of it—no, just a piece of it is.

When I boarded this bus, I didn’t think I’d make it past a week, let alone a month or however long we’ve been on the open road.

I was ready to give up on everything. Nothing seemed right without Nola by my side, but now I feel different.

I’m angrier than heartbroken at this point.

Who the fuck shares a life and then one day decides they need space and completely breaks off communication?

Eleanora, that’s who.

Granted, I haven’t called or texted her; she asked for space. I’m honoring her request. Deep down, I’m tempted to forget to call her when I get to South Carolina.

But she knows I wouldn’t do that.

It’s late, the bus humming beneath me as it coasts down the dark highway.

As far as I know, everyone else is sleeping or pretending to be, or if I know Hendrix, scrolling on social media and commenting on posts.

He likes the attention, and he enjoys watching people get riled up in the comments on whether the real Hendrix is replying or if it’s someone else.

He’s a lot like JD. Honestly, they’re two peas in a pod when it comes to their stupid apps.

Above me, the dim overhead light gives enough of a glow for me to see what I’m writing.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve erased song titles, crumpled up overused paper, and restarted.

My sister, once again, wants to change up the setlist, after seeing one too many live streams of the same show.

People commented that the show was predictable, and some other shit that I never wanted to worry about, but I do.

It’s important to me, and to the band, that the reviews of our show are exceptional.

We don’t want fans yawning in the audience or leaving early.

We want to give them the show they paid for.

So, here I sit, with my pencil in hand, erasing and rewriting titles like the setlist owes me the answers, like it’ll fix everything. Not only in my life, but in the minds of our fans.

It’s probably too late in the tour to add songs we haven’t rehearsed, but I’m tempted.

Our entire catalog stares at me, almost mockingly.

The songs we haven’t performed for years or never played because they didn’t fit a show, blinking like they’re have a mega-sale and want my attention.

My mind plays tricks when I lack sleep, and lord knows sleep has evaded me since Nola walked out of my life.

It's easy to start with all the heartbreak songs.

My heart is broken, shattered. Or at least, it was.

Slowly, the jagged edges have smoothed out and stitched back into place.

Still, pain, longing, and love seep through the holes, looking and waiting for some recognition of her familiar face, scent, and voice.

Only at times, it’s not my thoughts of Nola that seem to close the wounds.

It’s Justine.

Which doesn’t make sense because I’m in love with Nola . . .

Was .

My thoughts have me sitting up straight. I look down at my piece of paper and see that I’ve written Justine’s name down.

Why? What does that mean?

It can’t mean anything and it’s my subconscious playing a dirty little trick on me because I’ve spent a lot of time with her.

That’s it.

Nothing more.

Except, it feels like more. Deep down, I know there’s a connection between us and I can easily chalk it up to the way we are when we perform on stage, in front of thousands of people.

It’s an act, a moment we’ve rehearsed over and over until each look is ingrained in our memories.

I won’t deny there’s a tug toward Justine.

I would have to tell the world I’m not a man if I were to say I didn’t find her attractive.

I do. But my heart belongs to Nola and whatever is salvageable of our relationship.

Besides, she’s young. I have almost ten years on her and a world of experience.

And my sister would kill me if I ever did anything with Justine. It’s like the old saying, don’t shit where you eat, or however it goes. The fact that Dana and Hendrix have whatever the fuck it is they have going on drives my sister batty. She hates band drama.

The eraser—what’s left of it—taps against the notepad. Yet, I can’t bring myself to scratch out Justine’s name. Part of me likes it there, likes seeing it in my handwriting, even though the rational part of me says it’s wrong.

Instead of erasing, I rip the sheet of paper from the spiral binding, crumple it, and hold it in my hand.

I know I should toss it into the corner of my bunk or in the heap of other discarded pages, but I don’t.

After smoothing the sheet out, I fold it, slip it under the last page, and pretend like it’s not there.

The task at hand still looms. On a fresh sheet of paper, I write one through eighteen and start placing down, moving new ones to the first, middle and end of the list, and replacing the encore with an older track, one of the first ones I’ve written for the band.

Sitting here, I realize I’ve spent my entire Sinful Distraction career writing about Nola. She’s been my muse for all of it.

Every lyric is about her, us, and our relationship. The good, the bad, and now the ugly. Each night, I sit on my stool or stand at the microphone and sing for her. Wondering if she’s still watching, still following us online, listening.

Maybe she’ll hearmein the lyrics again and remember.

That I waited.

That I’m still waiting.

Each night, when my phone doesn’t show a missed call or text, I know she’s not.

And yet, I still hope.

I sigh heavily and write out the last of the list. This is going to have to be it. I can’t do this anymore. Not tonight, at least.

Fading Ink

I Still Do (acoustic)

Come Undone (feat. Justine)

Stayed Too Long in Goodbye(unplugged teaser)

Something Real

I need one more and my mind screams at me to add it, to add the one I haven’t shown anyone. I tell myself it’s a secret, still under wraps because it’s not finished or because I’m not ready.

But I’m considering it because if Nola were to hear it, then maybe, just maybe things can go back to normal. A new normal.

And that’s bargaining, isn’t it? Thinking that if I say the right words, in the right key, at the right venue . . . she might hear me. And she might change her mind.

If that’s what I really want.

“Seriously?” Dana’s voice startles me from outside my bunk. I didn’t know, until now, that I’d left the drape open.

I glance up. She’s rubbing her eyes, hoodie twisted off one shoulder. “You’re bumping ‘Break the Silence’ again?”

“It didn’t land last show,” I say, as if this is just about performance.

“You mean it didn’t landfor you.” She sighs heavily and shifts from foot to foot. “You’re programming the set like it’s a damn apology.”

And the secret is out, even though I won’t confirm anything. My friends have assumed because Nola’s missing from the tour, from video chats, and I’m never on my phone, unless I’m caught staring at it, willing it to fucking ring or chime.

I roll my pencil between my fingers. “You think she’s still listening?”

Dana sighs. “I think you’re still hoping. And that’s not the same thing.”

I want to argue, but I can’t.

She walks past me, pausing just past my bunk.

“I told you, you’re not writing for her anymore, Quinn,” she says quietly over her shoulder. “You’re writing for you. You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

She descends the stairs, leaving me with not only my thoughts but hers as well. I sit there a while longer, erasing one more line. Then writing it back in.

Just in case.

The next morning, we roll into Asheville with just enough fog hanging over the hills to make the town feel like a movie set. Elle’s voice cuts through the bus like a teacher on the last day of school.

“We have no press today. No soundcheck. No obligations until six p.m. Don’t screw this up.”

The cheer that erupts from all of us sounds like a group of teenagers getting out for summer break.

Ajay claps his hands. “First stop, coffee strong enough to raise the dead.” He rubs his chest and then his stomach. He misses Jamie and the kids but will get to see them soon.

“I’m already up, so mission accomplished,” I say enthusiastically. I should be dead tired being as I only slept for a few hours, but I’m energized and ready to have some fun.

Dana throws a hoodie at my face. “Don’t let your brooding fade to fast. I’ll miss it.”

“Har, har.” I toss the hoodie back at her. “Don’t get used to it. I’m still debating which depressing songs to add to the list.

“Let’s just see if you survive walking more than two blocks without someone asking for a selfie,” Keane says as he points to me. He’s right, so I reach for the hoodie and slip it over me, leaving the hood up.

One by one, we get off the bus and go our separate ways. Most of us have plans. Well, my band mates do. I don’t. I’m about to go up to my sister and brother-in-law when someone tugs at my hand.

“Wanna hang?” Justine asks. I’m nodding before I can say no.

Saying no is the right thing to do. My head is messed up when it comes to her because I like her when I shouldn’t.

The thousand watts smile she gives me makes my knees wobble and my heart race slightly.

I motion toward a building, the street, anywhere but in the parking lot with my sister throwing daggers at my back.

Asheville is quiet and colorful. Murals on brick buildings, vinyl stores next to crystal shops, bookstores with crooked spines in the windows. It’s the kind of place Nola would’ve loved.

But today, I don’t want to think of her.

I’ll think about the new song.

And think about the half-finished lyrics in my pocket that sound more likemethan this emo side of Quinn I’ve been writing for months.