Page 9 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

EIGHT

T he tour feels longer this time. It’s as if the road continues to stretch out in front of us, with no end in sight.

I’ve lost count of how many days I’ve sat at the front of the bus, getting to know Canson, the bus driver, listening to him tell me about his life while the air shimmers in front of us, making it look like the road has disappeared.

I know it’s all an optical illusion because the shimmer moves, keeping the same distance no matter how many miles we travel.

So many miles. Each one passing in a blur and keeping time from moving faster than at a snail’s pace. I feel like I’m stuck in a loop: wake up, play my guitar, take a nap, play my guitar, drink coffee and more coffee, play my guitar, take another nap, perform.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

The days drag with no end in sight. We’re in the desert, where it’s hotter than anything I’ve ever experienced. The sign for Phoenix brings back a flush of memories.

The woman who gave birth to me lives here, along with her daughter. Neither of whom needs any other classification, unless it’s something derogatory I can’t bring myself to say.

I don’t want to be here. What if they’re at the show?

At the meet-and-greet? Then what? My sister isn’t here to protect me, not that I need her to, but I do need her expertise and professionalism if I have to confront those two people.

I should’ve reminded Elle of this when I saw the city and state on the tour list.

Will Nola be with them? Was our relationship nothing but a joke to her?

Was I nothing but a financial means to satisfy some sick, twisted agenda?

She was friends with the daughter. I didn’t know this until I’d already fallen for Nola.

I’ll never understand why I didn’t think this was a red flag and stay far away from her.

But I didn’t and now look at me. I’m wearing her engagement ring around my neck and carrying around this scrap of paper, unfolding it so often that the creases are starting to tear and the ink is fading.

The words are etched in my mind but seeing her handwriting and her first name there—not the nickname she desperately wanted to be called when she came to Los Angeles—has an air of finality to it.

I won’t believe it. Not when she told me to call her when I got totown.

No, I refuse to believe those thoughts. Nola loved me.

Loves .

Again, with the finality of everything. Why isn’t she home, in the house we picked together, dancing around in one of my T-shirts with her headphones on? The questions run through my head repeatedly, but I’ve yet to find any feasible answers.

Ajay stands in the narrow hall, hollering for me. I could ignore him, but then he’ll just continue. It’s a habit he’s picked up from his adorable son. Cute, but annoying.

“What?” I yell back.

“Come up to the lounge.”

I groan, not wanting to leave my comfy spot in the leather chair. It’s almost like it’s mine. Mostly because everyone else has seen me sitting in it, and no one wants to challenge me for it.

Upstairs is a different story. It’s a free-for-all.

“I’ll be back, Canson.”

He gives me a wave and turns the dial of his radio back up.

Ajay waits for me at the end of the hall, with a shit-eating grin on his face.

I’m surprised his wife and kids aren’t on the tour with us, but also happy they’re not because toddlers are out of control.

My little brother is proof. Ollie is a walking, talking hurricane, leaving a path of destruction in his wake.

Until he wants love, and then he's a cuddly little boy who has no idea how lucky he is that our mom was in the hospital, loving him when his own mother couldn’t.

After the first of the year, he’ll officially be ours.

No more surprise visits from the state or my parents wondering if each time the phone rings or a letter appears, it’s Ollie’s biological parents wanting him back.

The state likes to reunite foster kids with their parents, which I understand, but Oliver is ours and has been since he was weeks old.

I take my sweet time getting to the lounge.

Ajay’s there, sitting on a stool and tapping out a beat on the leather armrest of the sofa.

Dana, along with the gals from Plum and Keane, are also in here.

Hendrix decided he wanted to ride on the other bus today, under the guise that he’s trying to get to know the members of Talking Til Dawn.

He's not wrong; we should probably all do that. Maybe when the tour's over, because they’re only doing the West Coast portion.

Keane’s on his laptop, headphones on, ignoring everything around him.

Dana’s face is lit by the soft glow of her phone, her thumb swiping aggressively across the screen.

She types something out and then goes back to swiping.

Casually, I take mine out of my pocket and hit the screen, hoping to see a message from Nola.

No new messages.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve looked today. At least one hundred, if not more.

She said to call her when I’m in town.

But I’m not in town. I’m in fucking Arizona, two thousand miles away from her. The tour schedule takes us east, but not for a bit.

Ajay motions for me to sit down.

“What’s up?”

“Thought we could jam,” he says as he continues to tap his sticks against the armrest.

I should go back downstairs and take up residence in the chair, but Ajay’s my bandmate, and he hasn’t done anything to deserve my piss-poor attitude.

I sit on the edge of the couch, closest to the footrest. On it sits a pad of paper with a pen. Briefly, I flip through the pages and smile at the doodles on each page.

“I did that,” Justine from Plum says from the other side of the room.

“These are cute,” I tell her as I flip to a clean page.

If I’m going to jam, I might as well work on some new music.

Once I’m situated, I pluck at the strings of my guitar until a sound forms, and then I start humming.

It doesn’t take long for Ajay to pick up on the beat. It’s not heavy, but softer.

I don’t know the lyrics, at least not yet.

They’ll come eventually. Right now, all I can think about is Nola, the situationship we’re in, and how much I miss her.

If I tell myself this is exactly how things would’ve been regardless because she never planned on coming with me, then I’ll survive this shit until I can see her.

Keane takes his headphones off and adds to the harmony with the keyboard app he has on his computer. Technology is a wonderful thing to have on a tour bus and in general. It’s not like he can set up an actual keyboard. One quick brake check and the thing would go flying.

Dana puts her phone down and leans forward. “What are you thinking? Ballad?”

I nod and write the progression of notes down. “It’s where my head is right now,” I say, without realizing my statement could open an assortment of questions.

“I’m going to record if that’s okay,” Justine says.

She doesn’t wait for an answer and sets her phone on the footrest in front of her, pushing it toward the middle of the room.

Ajay moves closer to me, putting the members of Sinful Distraction in a semi-circle.

Missing Hendrix right now sucks, but he’s so damn good on the strings, he’ll pick this up right away.

After a three, maybe four-hour jam session, we’re pulling into the venue. I’m tired as shit and should’ve taken a nap. Such is the life of a musician, I suppose.

Tonight, I sit through Talking Til Dawn and Plum’s set.

Elle decided that for our first show, Justine will join Sinful Distraction on stage, and then tomorrow night, I’ll join her.

Elle wants to keep the fans on their toes.

Secretly, I know it’s her way of sticking it to them for not being in their seats during both performances.

It's annoying, people who don’t show up for the opening act. I know what it feels like to look out at the crowd and see so many empty seats. It’s bullshit.

You pay for three concerts; be there for three concerts. I get that sometimes you’re running late, but when it’s a majority of the venue, it’s fucked. It makes me want to put Sinful Distraction out first, just to prove the point.

Elle would never.

Speaking of which, my sister stands next to me, shocking the crap out of me.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought you could need a little extra . . .” she shrugs, leaving her words to interpretation. I know exactly what she means—support—we’re always had each other’s backs, no matter what.

I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her to me, kissing the top of her head. It’s my way of saying thank you, especially when my voice fails. “How are you feeling?”

She rests her hand on her stomach. “I’m waiting for the kicking to start.”

“Why? That seems like it would hurt.”

Elle looks at me with a glint of happiness in her eyes. I can’t recall a time when I’ve ever seen her glowing like this. She shakes her head slightly. “I can’t wait for it to happen. I know it’s going to be the best feeling ever.”

“Are you going to tell me what you’re having?”

Peyton and Noah had a wet T-shirt contest to reveal the gender of their babies: two boys and one girl, who I already know is going to be the most spoiled baby in the world.

Unless Elle has a girl.

Good thing I have two arms.

My sister smiles, winks, and then shakes her head. “Ben and I want to surprise everyone.”

“Ugh,” I groan. “How am I supposed to buy the baby a present if I don’t know what you’re having?”

She lifts one shoulder. “You being there will be enough, Quinny.”

“Thank you for being here.”

Elle squeezes me tightly. “The only way I’m not here is when the doctor says no more traveling. I’ll be on the bus tonight.”

This surprises me, but I don’t say anything. She’s traveled on the bus before, but not while pregnant. I hope she’s not uncomfortable.

“Dinner first, though?”

She nods and then steps away when someone says something in her headset. It must be close to showtime.

I take a deep breath and brace myself as the lights dim and the crowd erupts.

Suddenly, anxiety overtakes my body. This is supposed to be the moment I live for, and yet, I want to bail.

One by one, we enter onto the stage. The crowd can’t see us, just our silhouettes, and for all they know, we’re the stage crew. There’s a screen between us and the crowd.

I grip the neck of my guitar, nod to Ajay behind the kit, and take my place at center stage. The first note pulses through my fingers, vibrating into my bones like second nature. It should feel good—it always has—but tonight, it’s hollow.

The screen lifts, and the lights come on.

The fans scream louder as Dana steps to the mic and belts the opening of our first song. I close my eyes and let the rhythm pull me under, praying the stage lights and the noise will drown out the silence Nola left behind.

But even up here, I can feel her absence, which is ridiculous. She’s missed shows before, but this one hurts. It feels more final because she’s not even at home, on the bus, or backstage waiting for me.

I used to look stage left and see her—arms crossed, soft smile, swaying to the beat, mouthing every damn word I wrote. Now it’s just some security guard and a line of VIPs I couldn’t care less about.

The second verse hits. My part.

I step forward, mouth to the mic, and deliver the lines I wrote for her.

She said forever, but forever came undone . . .

My voice catches, just slightly. Probably no one notices, but I do.

Every lyric feels like a lie now. Every chord is a reminder.

Keane glances over, gives me that subtle nod, the one that says, You okay, man? I nod back like it’s fine, like I’m fine, like I’m not two seconds from unraveling in front of thousands of people who paid to see something I can barely give.

I force my focus to the music. To the roar of the crowd. To the way Dana moves like the stage was made for her. Ajay’s backbeat thunders like a heartbeat—steady, relentless. Hendrix rips into a solo, and I feel the crowd swell, arms in the air, pulsing with energy.

This is the high. This is what they came for.

Thousands of people remind me that no matter what, they’re here because of what we give them. While they’re my high, I’m theirs as well.

But all I can think about is the ring tucked inside my shirt, swaying back and forth as I move around the stage, pushing into my chest from my guitar strap. The one that should still be on her finger.

I shift to the edge of the stage and drop to one knee, playing straight into the front row, letting the spotlight and feedback wash over me. The fans scream my name. I flash them a smile, but it’s muscle memory. There’s nothing real behind it.

Nola used to call this my rockstar moment. The way I’d drop to the edge of the stage and shred like it was my lifeline.

Now? It's the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

We finish the song. The house lights flicker, and the crowd chants our name—Sin-ful. Dis-trac-tion.

I step back, out of the light, and let Dana take over. I shake out my hands, trying to release the tension locked in my chest.

One song down. Seventeen to go.

One show down. How many ever to go.

God help me.