Page 19 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

FIFTEEN

T he South Carolina air hits differently. Heavier. Stickier. More like memories than oxygen. I stand outside the venue, watching the roadies unload our equipment, and know I can’t put this off anymore.

For weeks, I’ve been holding my breath. Through countless states, performances, and numerous times staring at her note, I’ve managed to survive. Some nights better than others. Some shows more present than others. But every mile of highway has been leading here, to Charleston, to her.

To whatever comes next.

“You sure about this?” Keane asks, appearing beside me with two cups of coffee. He hands one to me, steam rising in the early morning air.

“No,” I admit. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

I finally broke down after the show in Asheville.

It was a small intervention. Him, Dana, Hendrix, and Ajay.

Dana called a band meeting in the lounge and tackled me in a death grip hug.

I could’ve continued to shut them out, but I didn’t.

Not with this date circled in my mind since we left the parking lot back in California.

No one judged. No one told me to dump her, to beg for her to stay. They listened, offered a shoulder to cry on, and told me that while they appreciate the music, they’re tired of heartbroken Quinn and want their rocker back.

I think they all knew what today was or what was going to happen. On our last tour, Nola was a staple. She was always around, bopping in rehearsals, shopping with Dana and Chandler, and attached to Elle during shows. Her absence has been noticed. The excuse of having school only goes so far.

“Need company?” Keane asks. He’s a stand-up guy and I’m so thankful we’re not only bandmates but friends.

Even though I’ve let the friend part of my life slide.

Mostly because of Nola. Keane lost his wife to cancer when their daughter was little.

He’s done a great job—not that I would know any better—of raising Chandler.

She’s not one of those annoying tweens who acts obnoxious. She’s one of us.

After today, I won’t put anyone between me and my friends.

I shake my head. “This is something I gotta do alone.”

“Elle know you’re going?”

I take a sip of the bitter coffee and wince. “I haven’t told her or Peyton. I don’t want them to stress while they’re pregnant. Plus, they’d tell our mom and then she’d be on the tour in an instant, probably on the bus. Although having her on the bus might fix Hendrix.” I laugh.

Keane doesn’t argue. “Just be back by four. Soundcheck’s nonnegotiable. Your sister will have your head if you’re late.”

“Don’t be a tattle,” I say, jokingly.

Keane scoffs. “Don’t forget my daughter works for your sister.”

I sigh and shake my head. “Kid . . . I’ll be here.”

He walks away, leaving me staring at the rental car I’ve arranged. It’s nothing fancy, just a basic sedan that won’t draw attention. Charleston isn’t Los Angeles. Here, people might actually recognize me.

My phone vibrates in my pocket.

Justine Floyd

I know what this city means to you. I’m here if you want to chat.

I smile despite the knot in my stomach. She knows because she’s sang all the damn songs I’ve written about Nola.

The drive isn’t long, but it feels eternal.

The GPS guides me through neighborhoods with sprawling oaks draped in Spanish moss, historic homes with wraparound porches, and perfectly manicured gardens that reek of old money and older traditions.

The Boone estate is in one of one of these neighborhoods, with a half-mile long driveway, but I’m not going there.

Not yet.

I’m not ready to see her and need a minute or two.

I turn around and head to the waterfront.

It’s one of Nola’s favorite places. She used to come here when her parents or siblings hounded her about leaving the area for college.

Nola wanted to spread her wings and see other parts of the country.

Her parents weren’t so sure, and they definitely weren’t happy when I showed up at their house one day.

I’m not who her parents want to be with.

She told me she never cared. I think at some point, she started too.

I park several blocks away and walk, keeping my head down, baseball cap pulled low. It’s a beautiful park, with piers stretching into the harbor and a famous pineapple fountain that graces half the postcards in the city. Joggers pass by. Dog-walkers herd their pack. A few tourists pose for photos.

There’s an empty park bench, which is perfect for me.

I sit and look out over the water, letting the ebb and flow of the tide calm me.

I’m torn on what I want to happen. Yesterday, I planned to knock on the front door and tell her it’s over.

But now, the idea of seeing her has my heart racing with anticipation.

For fifteen minutes, I stare out at the water.

Watching the boats trolling by. I probably should’ve called first, but doing so would’ve given her an easy out.

Showing up is the way to go. Maybe I should wait until after the show.

Maybe I should just leave it alone. It’s not like we’ve been communicating this entire time. Will she really notice a difference?

It’s now or never.

I stand and head toward my car, passing the fountain once again.

And then I see her.

She’s standing there, next to the fountain, her hair pulled back in a loose bun, wisps escaping around her face. She’s wearing white linen pants and a blue tank top, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen her in years. More at home.

My heart catches painfully in my chest. So familiar yet so distant at the same time.

I’m about to call her name when someone approaches her. A man, tall with broad shoulders and a confident stride. He’s carrying two to-go cups, and when he reaches her, she accepts one of the cups with a smile I recognize.

That smile used to be for me.

He leans in and kisses her. Not a friendly peck. A real kiss. The kind that speaks of comfort and familiarity.

And Nola kisses him back.

For a moment, I’m frozen.

I consider turning around. Walking away. Pretending I never saw this.

But I’ve come too far for that.

So I wait until they part, until they’re sitting side by side on the bench, until I can trust my voice not to shake.

And then I approach.

Nola sees me first. Her eyes widen, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ of surprise. The man beside her notices her reaction and turns to look at me, confusion clear on his face.

“Quinn?” Nola stands, coffee forgotten on the bench. “What are you doing here?”

“Tour stop,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Thought I’d take you up on that offer to call when I was in town.”

Her face flushes, and I hate that I still notice how pretty she looks when color rises to her cheeks.

“I . . .” she starts, then glances at the man beside her, who has also risen. “This is Daniel. Daniel, this is Quinn.”

Daniel studies me for a moment, then extends his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

The absurdity of this moment, shaking hands with the man who’s now kissing my fiancée—no make that my ex-fiancée—isn’t lost on me.

But I take his hand anyway. Holding it for longer than necessary so I can study him.

He’s older, with salt and pepper hair near his ears.

He doesn’t dress like me and looks exactly like the prim and proper man her parents want her with.

“Daniel is my . . .” She looks at him for the answer. He nods, as if giving her the permission to tell me he’s her boyfriend. “He’s my professor,” Nola says quickly, as if that explains everything.

It only takes a matter of seconds for every single excuse to flood back into my mind, and then it hits me. I’ve seen this guy before when I’ve picked her up from study sessions. “I see.”

“Quinn.” She reaches for me.

I step back, away from her hand.

Daniel looks between us, sensing the unspoken tension. “I should give you two a minute,” he says, squeezing Nola’s shoulder. “I’ll be by the water when you’re ready.”

He walks away, and suddenly it’s just us. Nola and Quinn. Quinn and Nola. The way it was supposed to be.

Except it isn’t anymore.

“You could have called,” she says softly.

“You could’ve told the damn truth. How long have you been sleeping with your professor?”

She looks at me with unshed tears. There isn’t an urge to pull her into my arms, to touch her, to comfort her. The only thing I want to do is get the fuck out of there and put her behind me.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what part?” I ask. “The part where I brought you into my family? Trusted you? Paid for everything for you? Including the tuition where you screwed your professor?” I pointed toward the water. “Isn’t that against the rules?”

She says nothing.

“How long?”

Nola shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It actually does, Eleanora. Everything matters.”

“You were gone a lot and things just happened.”

“So, over a year? Because that is the last time I was gone for a long time, as you put it.”

We stand there, in silence. I shake my head. “You were a red flag, and I knew to steer clear of you, but I let you in and look at what you’ve done.”

She looks at me sharply, and I see tears forming in her eyes. “That’s not fair, Quinn. I loved you. So much. But I wasn’t happy. I tried to tell you?—”

“Did you?” I interrupt. “Or did I have to prod this out of you for you to then tell me everything was okay?”

“You’re not innocent in all of this.”

“You’re right,” I tell her. “There’s a whole laundry list of things I could’ve done better.”

I sigh deeply, the sounds of the harbor filling the space between us. Seagulls cry overhead. The fountain burbles nearby. A child laughs somewhere behind us.

“Are you happy now?” I finally ask.

Nola doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The simplicity of her answer is what breaks me. Not dramatically. Not with tears or rage. But with quiet acceptance. Because she does look happy. Completely, genuinely happy in a way I can’t remember seeing her look in our final months together.