Page 22 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

SEVENTEEN

The knocking continues, more insistent now.

“Hold on,” I grumble, stumbling out of bed. When I open the door, Justine stands there, already dressed in jeans, a vintage band tee, and a light jacket tied around her waist. Her lavender hair is tucked under a black beanie, and she’s practically bouncing with energy.

“It’s our day off in Boston,” she announces, like I might have forgotten. “Are you planning to sleep through it?”

I run a hand through my disheveled hair. “I was considering it.”

She pushes past me into the room. “Not happening. We have a whole city to explore and exactly twenty-four hours to do it.”

“Coffee first,” I mumble, shuffling toward the hotel room’s pitiful excuse for a coffee maker.

Justine produces a large to-go cup from behind her back. “Already handled.”

The rich aroma hits me as she removes the lid. I accept it gratefully, taking a long sip from the cardboard to go cup. Perfect.

“You remembered how I take it,” I say, surprised even though it’s pretty basic with cream.

“I pay attention,” she replies with a shrug, then perches on the edge of the desk. “So, what’s the plan?”

“The plan was to sleep.”

She rolls her eyes. “New plan. Shower, get dressed, meet me in the lobby in thirty minutes.”

Before I can protest, she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her. I stare at the space she occupied moments ago, a smile tugging at my lips despite my fatigue.

Thirty minutes later, showered and dressed in jeans and a plain black T-shirt, a zip up sweatshirt that despite costing a ridiculous amount looks like I thrifted it, and a beanie covering my hair, I find Justine in the lobby, consulting a map of Boston.

She looks up when I approach, her face lighting up.

“You actually made it,” she says, folding the map into her pocket.

“I keep my promises.”

“I don’t recall you promising anything.”

“It was implied.”

She laughs, the sound bright and clear in the quiet lobby. “Come on, I have our whole day planned.”

Outside, Boston greets us with perfect fall weather—crisp air, brilliant blue sky, and just enough chill to justify the coffee warming my hands. Justine leads us toward the subway, confidently navigating the unfamiliar system like she’s lived here her whole life.

“How do you know where we’re going?” I ask as we board the train.

“Research,” she says simply. “I stayed up late last night mapping everything out.”

“Everything?”

“Well, the important stuff. Record stores, food spots, historical sites. The absolute musts for a day in Boston.”

I study her as she talks, animated and enthusiastic about her plans. It’s contagious, her excitement. I feel myself getting swept up in it despite my initial reluctance.

Our first stop is a record store in Cambridge, nestled between a coffee shop and a bookstore.

The moment we step inside, I understand why Justine chose it.

The place is a vinyl paradise—floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with albums, listening stations scattered throughout, and a small stage in the back for in-store performances.

“How did you find this place?” I ask, running my fingers over a row of classic rock albums.

“The internet is a magical thing,” she says, already flipping through a bin of indie releases. “Plus, I asked the front desk clerk for recommendations.”

We spend over an hour digging through crates, each of us building a small stack of finds.

Justine puts on headphones at one of the listening stations, her eyes closing as she loses herself in whatever she’s discovered.

I watch her for a moment, the way her fingers tap against her thigh, keeping time with music only she can hear.

I turn away before she catches me staring and continue browsing. In a section of rare vinyl, I find an original pressing of one of 4225 West’s early albums. The price tag makes me wince, but I grab it anyway. My dad will get a kick out of it.

At the register, I insist on paying for Justine’s selections too. She protests, but I stand firm.

“Consider it a thank you for getting me out of bed,” I tell her.

“I would have dragged you out regardless.”

“I know. That’s why I’m grateful.”

Outside, we navigate through the bustling streets, stopping at a small café for a late breakfast. Justine steals bites of my avocado toast while telling me about her first concert—a punk show in a dingy basement when she was thirteen.

“I lied to my parents,” she admits, stirring her tea.

“Told them I was staying at a friend’s house for a study session .

. .” She trails off. I know there’s more to the story there, but don’t press.

When Elle and I first saw Justine perform at Trixie’s, she told us she’d run away at fourteen but doesn’t ever talk about it.

“Rebel,” I tease instead of digging deeper. “My first concert was my dad’s. I was probably still in diapers.”

“That doesn’t count. First one you chose yourself?”

I think back. “The Killers. I was thirteen, I think? Elle was obsessed with them and convinced our mom to take us.”

“I can picture teenage Elle freaking out over Brandon Flowers,” Justine laughs. “It’s always the front man that gets fans weak in the knees.”

Her statement gives me pause. Is she flirting with me? No, there’s no way.

“Oh, she absolutely lost her mind. Screamed so loud she was hoarse for days.”

After breakfast, we take the train across the river and follow the Freedom Trail, a red brick path that winds through the city, connecting historical sites.

Justine reads facts from her phone at each stop, sometimes in an exaggerated tour guide voice that has me laughing so hard my sides hurt.

A few times we actually try to tag on to a tour but the Revolutionary re-enactment soldier caught on and booted us.

At Faneuil Hall, we stop to watch a street performer, a guitarist playing acoustic covers. The crowd around him is small but appreciative. When he finishes a song, Justine applauds enthusiastically.

“You should join him,” she whispers to me.

I shake my head. “No way.”

“Come on! How often do you get to just play with no expectations? No arena, no fans, just music.”

Her challenge hangs in the air between us. The guitarist is starting a new song, “Blackbird” by The Beatles. Before I can overthink it, I step forward.

“Mind if I join?”

The busker looks up, surprised, then grins and nods.

I take a seat on the edge of the statue beside him, and he restarts the intro.

I start singing, keeping my voice soft to blend with his guitar.

After the first verse, the busker joins in with harmonies, our voices finding each other instinctively.

A small crowd gathers, phones recording. I don’t care. For once, I’m not Quinn James, lead singer of Sinful Distraction. I’m just another musician, playing in a public square on a beautiful day. When the song ends, there’s applause, and the busker and I fist-bump.

“You’ve got pipes, man,” he says.

“You’ve got skills,” I reply, gesturing to his guitar. “Thanks for letting me crash your set.”

I rejoin Justine, who’s beaming at me. “That was amazing,” she says. “Spontaneous Quinn is my favorite Quinn.”

“Is that so?”

“Definitely. Way better than brooding Quinn or sad Quinn.”

“Wow, who knew I have so many versions of myself.”

“I like all of them,” she says quietly, then quickly adds, “But some more than others.”

“Really?” I ask and she nods. “So, emo broody melodramatic Quinn is someone you like?”

Justine shrugs. “That side of Quinn makes amazing music, and this side of Quinn . . . well, he makes me smile. I’m glad I get to experience all sides.”

Totally flirting.

And I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about it.

We continue exploring, stopping at a row of food trucks for lunch. Justine insists we try a little from each, resulting in a makeshift picnic of lobster rolls, gourmet grilled cheese, and Korean tacos shared on a park bench.

“Dana texted,” Justine says, checking her phone. “She and Keane are taking Chandler to the aquarium. Asked if we want to meet up later.”

“Sounds good to me.”

After lunch, we wander through Boston Common, watching street performers and taking ridiculous selfies with statues. Justine discovers a henna artist and immediately pulls me aside.

“I’ve always wanted to try this,” she says excitedly.

The artist, an older woman with intricate designs covering her own hands, explains that the henna will last about two weeks. Justine sits patiently as the woman applies the paste in delicate patterns across her inner wrist and palm.

“What does it mean?” I ask, watching the design take shape.

“It’s a design for creativity and expression,” the artist explains. “Very fitting for a musician.”

When she finishes, Justine examines her hand in awe. Among the swirling patterns, I notice something familiar—words worked into the design.

“Are those our lyrics?” I ask, leaning closer.

Justine nods, a shy smile playing on her lips. “From the napkin song. I asked her to include them.”

I read the line aloud: “Your voice is smoke in morning light, not meant to stay but warm enough to hold.”

“Is that okay?” she asks, suddenly uncertain. “I should have asked first.”

“It’s more than okay,” I assure her. “It’s . . . perfect.”

Our eyes lock, and something shifts in the air between us. The moment stretches, electric and fragile, until the artist clears her throat.

“You should avoid water for at least twelve hours,” she advises, breaking the spell. “The longer it stays on, the darker the stain will be.”

As we walk toward the waterfront, Justine holds her hand up, angling it so she can see the design.

When we meet up with Dana, Keane, and Chandler at the aquarium, the ladies gush over Justine’s henna and Chandler begs Keane for one.

I point in the direction we just came and apologize because I remember my father having to do the same type of shit with the twins.