Page 6 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

FIVE

N ola and I exist. It’s the best way to explain our living situation. She goes to school, and I go to band practice. When we’re home, we sit and watch TV and act like this is normal.

Well, not exactly normal.

Normal would be her sitting next to me, us cuddled under a blanket even when it’s a hundred degrees outside.

The new normal is me asking if she wants to watch something and her agreeing and sitting at the other end of the sofa, angled away from me so I can’t see her texting her “mom.”

She must think I’m a real idiot if she thinks I’m buying this mom crap.

No one texts their mother as much as she does.

I like to think I know everything about her—her body language and tells—and I know that whenever she’s texted or spoken to her mom previously, it has never included flirty giggles or smiles.

Nola used to show me the funny memes her mom would send her, but it’s been ages since she’s shown me anything.

It’s been ages . . . well, since everything. Most noticeably since the reception. That was our turning point. I know Elle is a handful; she always has been. But for Nola to act that way during her and Ben’s reception is inexcusable.

“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to keep my tone friendly.

I look at her, sitting over there in the corner with her knees pulled up.

Her hair is in a messy bun, her finger is in her mouth.

I can’t tell if she’s biting her nail or doing that whole play-with-your-lower-lip thing Elle tells me to do while I’m on stage.

“Just reading,” she says without taking her eyes off her phone.

Okay, so she’s reading. At least she’s not texting. I suppose that’s a win for me right now.

“Do you want to go out tonight?” I ask. “Hit a club or two along the strip?” This isn’t my thing.

In fact, unless I have a gig, I’d rather never go to Hollywood.

Nothing good happens on that stretch of road, where the nightclubs are, but Nola likes it.

She likes to go dancing, so I’m compromising with her.

“No thanks.”

“No? I just offered to take you to a club, and you don’t want to? Are you feeling okay?”

“Fine. Why?” she asks as she looks up.

I give her my best dazzling smile—the one she has said makes her weak in the knees—but this time it doesn’t seem to faze her. Maybe I should just say fuck it and go myself. I’d hate every minute, but it would send a message.

“I don’t know. I just asked if you want to go out to one of those clubs you like, and said no.”

“It’s because I know you wouldn’t have a good time, and when you don’t have a good time, I don’t. Then the night seems like a hassle.”

Okay, she’s not wrong.

“Do you want to do something else?”

“Like what?”

Gah, I already suggested the club. Now I have to come up with something else.

I sigh and run my hand over my hair. My mom made me cut it before the wedding, saying the shaggy, unkempt look isn’t really a thing anymore.

It still takes me by surprise when I go to pull the wispy bits I usually have at the nape at my neck and find it’s been shaved instead.

“I don’t know. Do you want to go for a ride? We can cruise the coastline and stop at that clam shack you like so much.”

“Do you want to go to Mexico for dinner?”

Did I hear her correctly?

“No? Have we ever gone to Mexico for dinner?”

She shrugs, which would indicate that maybe we have, but I swear we haven’t.

“Driving to Mexico doesn’t appeal to me right now. If it’s something you want to do, I need to have a solid plan.”

“Why do you need a plan, Quinn? Why can’t you be spontaneous?”

I thought I was being spontaneous when I asked to go to the club.

“Mexico, particularly Tijuana, because it’s the closest, would take us about four hours, without traffic and border patrol. It’s already . . .” I look at my phone and see that it’s half past seven. “Seven-thirty, so we won’t even be at the border until eleven. None of this sounds safe.”

“Don’t you ever want to escape who you are? To just say fuck it and take off?”

I shake my head slowly. “No, I like who I am. Don’t you like who you are? Who I am?”

“Yes, but I feel like we’re missing so much life by being here all the time.”

“Nola, I’m confused. I’m giving you an opportunity to tour the US, on my dime. You can take a rental and tour whatever city we’re in. You can literally do whatever you want, but you tell me you have school, and now you’re telling me we’re missing so much life by being here all the time.”

“I’m not going on tour with you, Quinn,” she snaps.

She stands and walks toward the stairs that lead to our bedroom and then turns around.

“I love how you take something I want to do and turn it into a tour. Not everything is about you and your stupid band.” She stomps up the steps.

I startle when the bedroom door slams shut, even though I knew it was coming.

“Fucking wonderful,” I mutter to the empty room. “Ugh.” My hands push through my hair roughly, and my fingers instantly miss being able to pull at the ends of my hair.

What in the hell did I do wrong now?

I replay the conversation back in my mind; it went from me asking to take her out to Nola wanting to go to Mexico without a plan and then telling me we’re missing so much life. Yet, all of it is my fault.

Somehow.

Women are confusing.

I think about going upstairs but can’t bring myself to be near her right now.

She’s going through something, and whatever it is, she doesn’t want to confide in me.

To some extent, I get it. I don’t need to be her only confidant, but we’re engaged and hopefully soon to be married, shouldn’t she tell me what’s bothering her so I can try and fix it?

I’ve tried asking her what’s wrong. I sat with her for hours, encouraging her to speak to me and tell me how she feels, wanting to understand what’s going on, but she never says anything.

At first, I was patient, but there is only so much you can take, only so many times you can bite your tongue, before the patience runs thin and dissolves into nothing.

Now, I’m running on tension and frustration.

Instead of going upstairs to bed, I pull a blanket from the stack we keep in the closet and spread it out on the couch while I mindlessly watch TV.

“Where are you going?” Nola asks as I come out of the walk-in closet, dressed in literally the same thing I wear every day—shorts, a T-shirt, and my black Doc Martin boots. I only have those on because I plan to take my bike out today.

“My parents.”

“Did you want to tell me?”

After sleeping on the couch the night before, I wasn’t sure we were on speaking terms this morning. It’s hard to tell where I fall in her daily life.

This morning, she never even asked me why I didn’t come to bed. Hell, she didn’t even say good morning.

“I’m pretty sure you know what today is, Nola. You are in the group chat my mother created.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I know when you’re leaving.”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I didn’t know you were going,” I tell her.

“You haven’t replied to my mom once about the party.

You didn’t mention it to me. I’m sorry, but this back-and-forth with you is giving me whiplash.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to say something to you so you can tell me to stop expecting the world to revolve around me or just assume you’re going so you can tell me how selfish I am. ”

“I never said you’re selfish.”

I roll my eyes. “Right, but you said last night that the world revolves around me and the tour so what am I supposed to think?”

“Don’t you think it’ll be odd if I’m not there?”

I shrug. “I can tell everyone you’re studying.”

“Quinn . . .” She says my name softly and then wipes at her cheek. Great, I made her cry. “It’s my time of the month, and I’m just emotional. I think I need a different birth control because I feel like this one is making me wacky.”

“Stop taking it.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I didn’t want to say that, at least not now. Our relationship is rocky, and a baby isn’t going to fix it. We need to do the work.

“What are you saying?”

“If it’s making you sick, stop taking it.”

“Quinn, I don’t know if I’m ready to be a mother.”

“I’ll use condoms, Nola. It’s not that big of a deal. If the shit’s making you feel like crap, stop taking it.”

“Okay.”

I shrug. “See? Simple. All you had to do was tell me what was bothering you instead of all of . . . shit, I don’t even know what you call it.”

“I was being a bitch. You can say it.”

Shaking my head, I move past her and head into our bedroom. “I’m not saying that. So, are you coming with me to the gender reveal for Peyton?”

She nods. “Are we taking the bike?”

“Yeah, we are.” I don’t ask her if she’s okay with it. If not, she can drive. It’s too nice out to sit in a car. I tell her I’ll be in the garage when she’s ready.

Nola gets dressed and meets me downstairs. “Were we supposed to bring a gift?”

“No, it’s just a luncheon thing.” I hold her helmet out for her.

“You know where we need to go?”

“Not Mexico,” I say, laughing.

“I was craving tacos.”

I spread my arms out. “We live in California. Do you know how many authentic hole-in-the-wall places there are to get tacos? All you had to say was you wanted tacos, and we would’ve gone.”

“Sorry.”

I kiss her lightly and then climb onto my bike. Once I have it out of the garage, Nola puts our code into the panel to close the garage door and then climbs on the back. Within seconds, we’re cruising down the highway, with the ocean in our view, toward my parents.

We barely have a chance to speak with everyone when Noah and Peyton arrive. Noah pulls all the men into the kitchen and gives us all a white T-shirt, a balloon filled with water, and instructions.

Every one of us groans, except for me and Liam.

“Remind me not to have you plan any reveals for Elle and me,” Ben says as he shakes his head.

“What on earth?” Josie asks as Noah parades us out.

“As you can see, the men in your family look pregnant. Each of them has a balloon under their shirt, filled with either blue or pink water.”

“Ooh, a wet T-shirt contest. Sign me up,” Elle says.

“I’m with you,” Yvie adds.

“My first adult time fun,” Paige says.

“Leave, now,” Liam points to the house while everyone laughs.

“You too, Little One. You’re still a baby in my eyes,” JD says.

Poor Rush seems embarrassed.

“I’ve seen him without a shirt on, Daddy,” Eden says.

“I didn’t need to hear that!” JD sighs.

I can’t help but laugh. Eden is going to give JD a heart attack.

“Anyway, Peyton and I know the gender,” Noah says, interrupting everyone. “Here’s what’s going to happen; I’m going to count to three and the men in our family will pop their balloons. Their shirts will either turn blue, pink, or remain white.”

“Wait, what?” Mack asks.

“What did you think was going to happen?” Nick asks him.

“Ah, man.” He shakes his head as he looks to the ground.

Everyone laughs at him.

Noah holds his phone out to video our family. I eye Nola and am surprised to find her paying attention.

“Guys, are you ready?” We all hold up our safety pins. “Assume the position.”

Noah drags this out while I mentally prepare for cold water to seep into places I don’t want cold water to seep.

“Go.”

So much for him counting to three.

“You’re having a . . .”

“Boy.”

“Girl.”

“Wait.”

“Oh my God.”

“Peyton, what’s going on?” Mom asks.

My sister puts her hand on her stomach and beams at Noah.

“You tell them,” he says to her.

“Yesterday, we found out we’re having triplets,” she says excitedly. “Two boys and one girl. The boys are identical.”

Holy shit, I’m going to be an uncle of triplets.

I hold my arms out and imagine what it’s going to be like to hold three babies at once.

I’m not sure I can do it, but I’m sure as hell going to try.

I’m happy for my sister. Over the moon, actually.

She and Noah have struggled for so long, trying to get pregnant, and now they are. They’re like super pregnant.

Elle’s pregnant too.

And then there’s me, wanting to get married and I suppose start a family. I almost said as much earlier when Nola said her birth control made her sick. As soon as she said she wasn’t ready to be a mother, I mentioned condoms, because whatever she wants, I’ll do.

Nola and I have to wait our turn to give Peyton and Noah our congratulations. I hold her hand and she looks at me. When she does that, it makes me think everything is fine and I’m imagining shit.

Finally, I get to hug my sister. My arms wrap around her tightly, and I whisper that I love her before I step over to Noah. It’s then I hear Nola ask if she can touch Peyton’s stomach.

They have a conversation, which I’m trying not to pay attention to.

“Things good?” Noah asks.

Are they?

Probably. Maybe. Could they be better—yes, they could—but I suppose everything is manageable at the moment.

I give him a face, one that he understands. This isn’t the place to talk about whatever it is that’s going on.

Nola and I stay for about two hours. After a series of goodbyes, we get to the bike. “How about tacos?”

She smiles and then shakes her head. “I’m full. Did you have any of the cake?”

I shake my head. “The pink and blue freaked me out a bit.” We both get on before I start my motorcycle. “What would you like to do?”

“How about we take some snacks down to the beach? I think I really want to sit on the beach for a bit.”

But too full for tacos.

Thankfully, my parents don’t live that far, and we’re back at the house in record time. I move about the house, gathering things before she changes her mind.

She doesn’t.

We lay a blanket out and sit, watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean.

“It’s so pretty here.”

“It really is,” I tell her. “I think everyone is going to end up moving back to Beaumont.”

“Why would they want to do that?”

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s a different life there. It’s slow, community-oriented. It’s where we grew up.”

“Yes, I remember. It’s boring.”

That’s my sign to change the subject. I lie on my side and pull her to me, her back pressing into my chest.

“Today was fun.”

She nods. “Three babies will be a lot, and they’ll be tiny. They’ll have to stay in the hospital for a bit.”

“If they’re tiny, that means I can hold all three at the same time.”

“True,” she says, laughing.

I rest my hand on her stomach. “Do you ever think about having a baby? I know we just talked about you stopping your birth control. Maybe we try. It’s not like we’re not getting married when my tour stops in South Carolina.”

Her hand covers mine. It takes her a minute to answer. “Yeah, definitely.”