Page 21 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

SIXTEEN

T he stage lights dim after our incredible show.

Charleston’s crowd is electric tonight, somehow sensing the shift in my relationship status and my mindset.

I played with renewed passion, tapping into the freedom I’ve held back for months.

I sit there, on my stool, staring out into the crowd, with their phones and lighters guiding a path toward us.

Keane, Hendrix, Ajay, and Dana join me in the middle of the stage. We wave and take our bow then bolt to the side where Chandler greets each of us with her phone. Elle’s on video chat, beaming. Her grin spreading from ear-to-ear. She wanted a change, and I think we nailed it.

“Thank God for live streams and my new personal assistant. You guys nailed it!” Elle throws her hands up in the air. I’m glad she had the foresight to hire Chandler. It gives her something to do and keeps her busy. Mostly, it keeps Keane sane and not worried during the show.

Backstage, the atmosphere is celebratory.

Road crew members high-five as they break down equipment.

Dana uncorks a bottle of champagne, foam cascading over her fingers.

She passes plastic cups around the green room.

This isn’t new. We always celebrate after every show, but until now I have felt like I was living with my head in the sand.

My life is clearer with closure, and I’m here for it.

“To our best show yet,” she says, raising her cup.

I accept the drink with a genuine smile. I scan the room, noticing everyone but one person.

Justine.

She slips in moments later, hair damp from a post-show shower, wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings. Her eyes find mine across the crowded room, and she offers a small, private smile before joining Priscilla and Wynonna.

“You killed it tonight,” Keane says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Something shifted out there.”

“Yeah,” I agree, taking a sip. “I guess it did.”

Hendrix approaches with a suspicious grin. “So . . . no more brooding poet act? Because I was just starting to perfect my Quinn James impression.” He hunches his shoulders and mimics a deep, mournful voice. “Life is pain, and my guitar is my only solace.”

The room erupts with laughter, and I find myself joining in. “God, was I really that bad?”

“Worse,” Dana confirms, topping off my drink. “But we loved you anyway.”

As the celebration continues, I notice Justine drifting toward the door. Without thinking, I follow.

The hallway is quiet compared to the raucous green room. Justine leans against the wall, eyes closed, humming a melody I recognize as our napkin song.

“Escaping the madness?” I ask, leaning against the opposite wall.

Her eyes open. “Just needed a minute. Shows like this leave me wired but also drained. It’s a weird combination.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, long legs stretched out in front of me. “It’s like your body wants to sleep but your mind is still on stage.”

Justine mirrors my position across the narrow hallway. “So,” she says, studying me. “You look different.”

“Different how?”

“Lighter.” She tilts her head. “Like you put something down that you’ve been carrying a while.”

I consider this. “More like threw it in the park.” I smirk, knowing my comment is odd.

Someday, I’ll tell her, just like I’ll tell my sisters.

I know I should probably be all emo and want to talk about my feelings, but I’ve done that enough in my music since this tour started.

Even the songs need a break from my mellow drama.

We sit in comfortable silence, the muffled sounds of celebration filtering through the walls. Justine stretches her legs out so her feet rest near mine.

“I don’t want to pry, but is Nola joining the rest of the tour?”

Her eyes don’t meet mine when she asks. Justine picks at something on her leggings. I’m tempted to nudge her with my boot, but I don’t.

“Nah,” I say, shaking my head.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says softly. “But if you want to, I’m a pretty good listener.”

I find myself wanting to tell her everything—about the fountain, the ring, the professor. About how seeing Nola with someone else didn’t destroy me like I thought it would.

Instead, I say, “Maybe later? On the bus?”

“Sure,” she agrees easily. “We’ve got nothing but time and highway ahead of us.”

When we return to the green room, no one comments on our absence. The night winds down, and soon we’re boarding the bus for the overnight drive to the next venue.

I settle into my usual spot near Canson.

The familiar hum of the bus engine has become a comfort, a constant in the chaos of tour life.

I pull out my notebook, but don’t open it.

Instead, I stare at the highway stretching endlessly before us, wondering how a day that started with such dread ended with such . . . possibility .

An hour into the drive, most of the band has retreated to their bunks. I move to the lounge, spreading out on the couch with my guitar, softly picking out melodies. I don’t expect anyone to join me this late.

But Justine appears, holding two mugs of something steaming.

“Hot chocolate,” she explains, handing me one. “I hear it’s good for thinking.”

I accept the mug gratefully. “Does it work?”

“Only one way to find out.” She sits beside me, closer than strictly necessary, her knee brushing mine.

I take a sip, the rich sweetness coating my tongue. “This is really good.”

“Secret ingredient is cinnamon,” she whispers conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

The bus rumbles through the night, headlights illuminating patches of dark highway. I find myself relaxing, the tension of the day finally draining away.

“So,” Justine says after a while. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I set my mug down and turn toward her. “She was with someone else.”

Justine doesn’t react with shock or pity, just nods for me to continue.

“Her professor,” I add. “It’s been going on a while.”

“That explains a lot,” Justine says softly.

“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. “The weird thing is, I thought I’d fall apart seeing her. But instead, I just felt . . . free.” I shrug.

“Because you finally got closure?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ve been holding onto something that was already gone.”

Justine takes a sip of her hot chocolate. “Songs have a way of keeping things alive long after they should be over.”

I glance at her sharply. “You think I’ve been using music to hold onto her?”

“Not consciously,” she clarifies. “But when you write about someone, sing about them every night . . . it’s like they’re never really gone.”

I consider this. It makes sense. I’ve been pouring Nola into every lyric, every chord. Keeping her present even in her absence.

“Tonight was different though,” Justine continues. “You sang like someone who was finally letting go. You definitely had the rocker vibe I’m used to.”

I laugh and nod slowly because she’s right. “I realized something today. All this time, I’ve been afraid of who I am without her. Like somehow, she defined me, which is wild when I think about it because I was me long before she came along.”

“And now?”

“Now I think maybe I need to find out who I am now. I’ve spent too much time trying to be the person her parents wanted her to be with. When I walked away from her, it felt like I didn’t have to walk on eggshells anymore, and it was a fucking relief.”

Justine smiles, and in the dim light of the bus, her eyes seem to hold answers to questions I haven’t even thought to ask.

“For what it’s worth,” she says quietly, “I like the Quinn I’ve gotten to know these past few months.”

A warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the hot chocolate. I bump her shoulder lightly with mine. “Even brooding, emo Quinn?”

She laughs. “Especially him. The depth looks good on you.”

“Well, hopefully less brooding Quinn is also acceptable.”

“I suppose I can adapt,” she teases, leaning into me slightly.

We sit like that, shoulders touching, watching the night roll by. Eventually, her head tilts toward my shoulder, and her breathing deepens. I stay perfectly still, not wanting to disturb her.

When I’m sure she’s asleep, I carefully reach for my notebook and open it to a blank page. The words come easily tonight.

In the quiet after storm, when lightning’s ceased to flash

When thunder’s distant memory, and rain has turned to mist

I find myself still standing, feet planted on the ground

Not broken, only weathered—somehow safer now than sound

I write until my eyes grow heavy, Justine’s warmth against my side a steady anchor in the rolling bus. For the first time in months, when sleep claims me, there are no ghosts waiting in my dreams.

The days blur together in the rhythm of the tour.

Sound checks, performances, late nights on the bus.

But now there are new patterns emerging.

Justine seeking me out during downtime. Me saving the seat next to me when we go out to dinner.

Small moments that seem insignificant but somehow add up to something neither of us can ignore.

Five days after Charleston, we stop for a rare full day off. The hotel has a small movie theater for guests, and Justine convinces me to watch some indie film that’s “supposedly brilliant but probably pretentious.”

We grab snacks from the vending machine and claim a row in the back.

The movie is everything Justine predicted—artsy, slow-paced, occasionally beautiful.

Halfway through, when I look over, her head is resting on her hand, her eyes are closed and her lips are slightly parted.

There’s one thing I’ve learned in the past couple of days with Justine, she can fall asleep anywhere.

Instead of letting her head do the whole bob thing where she’s either going to jolt herself awake or she’s going to fall over, I pull her toward my shoulder and let her use it as a pillow.

The other night when she did this, I didn’t mind.

And I don’t mind now.

I don’t move until the credits roll, even though my arm has long since gone numb.

When she wakes, she blinks up at me in confusion before realization dawns on her face.

“Did I miss the ending?”

“Only the part where everyone died and it was all a dream,” I deadpan.

Her eyes widen before she catches the teasing in my expression. She swats my arm lightly. “Jerk!”

“You didn’t miss much,” I admit. “Just more artful staring and meaningful silences. I swear, every Robert Pattinson movie I’ve seen is weird.”

“Twilight wasn’t weird.”

My eyes widen. “You’re joking, right? He sparkled! In the sunlight!”

“You forgot about the music that played when the sun hit his skin.” Justine covers her mouth in a giggle.

I shake my head. “Even you agree.”

“Fine, yes. But honestly that’s how it is on the bus every night, artful staring and meaningful silences.”

“Accurate.” I laugh.

Back in the hotel lobby, we find Ajay and Dana playing a heated game of chess. Ajay looks up when we approach, his eyebrows lifting at our proximity. He’s refreshed after spending time with his family.

“Movie date?” he asks innocently.

“Just killing time,” I respond, ignoring the heat rising in my neck.

Dana studies us over the chessboard. “Uh-huh. And how was this not-date?”

“Boring,” Justine answers. “Quinn was the only thing keeping me awake.”

“I wasn’t doing a very good job of it,” I say. “You were out cold within thirty minutes.”

“You let me sleep on you for an hour?” Justine looks mortified.

“More like two,” I admit.

Dana and Ajay exchange knowing looks that I pretend not to see.

“I’m hitting the sack,” I tell them and head toward my room. Ajay falls into step beside me.

“So, you and Justine seem close.”

“We’re friends,” I say automatically.

“Right,” Ajay says, unconvinced. “I mean, Dana and I are friends too, but she doesn’t fall asleep on my shoulder.”

“She was tired. We’re all tired. Hendrix fell asleep taking a shit last week. Are him and the toilet in a relationship? If so, can I come up with their name? Something like LetDix or HenToi but said with a French accent.”

“Quinn.” Ajay stops walking and tries not to laugh. He grabs my arm, forcing me to face him. I sigh heavily. “It’s okay, you know. To move on. To be happy.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Maybe not yet,” Ajay concedes. “But the way you look at her . . . it could be.”

I groan and run my hand through my hair. “We work together a lot, that’s it. She’s a nice kid, but there’s nothing there and I’m okay. You guys can stop worrying about me.”

Ajay smiles and briefly rests his hand on my shoulder. “We all just want you happy.” He nods and heads down the hall toward his room.

As soon as I walk in, it’s my intention to take a shower, but my notebook sits on the table, like a bright beacon. I sit down, flip open to a new page and let my pencil go to work. The words come without effort, flowing from some place inside me that feels new and familiar at the same time.

I read it over, then tuck the notebook away. These lyrics aren’t for anyone else yet. They’re just for me, a private map of this unfamiliar territory I’m beginning to explore.

My phone buzzes.

Justine Floyd

Still awake?

Yes

Justine Floyd

Want company?

I stare at the message for a long moment before typing my response.

Always.

A few minutes later, she appears in the doorway, wearing pajama pants and a faded band T-shirt. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean of makeup.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she explains, sitting in the chair.

“Me neither.”

“Were you writing?” she asks, gesturing to the notebook on the table.

“Just some new ideas.”

“About?”

I hesitate. “About feeling safe again.”

Her expression softens. “That’s good, Quinn. Really good.”

“It’s different this time,” I admit. “The words. They’re not coming from a place of pain or loss.”

“Where are they coming from?”

I look at her, really look at her, taking in the warmth of her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the way she waits patiently for my answer without demanding it.

“Hope, maybe,” I say finally. “I’m not sure yet.”

Justine nods like she understands completely. “The best songs are the ones that surprise even you.”

She shifts on the couch, drawing her knees up to her chest. “So, what’s next for Quinn James? Now that you’re free?”

The question strikes me as odd because I thought I was the only one who saw myself as free. “Free?”

“From carrying around all that weight. From trying to find something that was already gone?”

I consider this. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Maybe just be present,” she suggests. “Maybe not so lost.”

Her words linger in the air. I hadn’t thought of myself as lost until now. I suppose, in a way, I was. Lost and always chasing what I though was my forever.