Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
“What’s going on?”
“Elle asked my dad to sing their wedding song,” Noah says.
“No shit?”
My mom smacks my hand, and Josie laughs.
“What?”
“Don’t what me,” she says.
“Oliver isn’t here, Mom.”
She rolls her eyes, and I do the same. I sit down next to Noah and tell the waiter what kind of beer I want. Shoutout to my parents for paying for an open bar. Something tells me I’m going to need it tonight.
The DJ—because why use any of your own bands or your father’s band to play at your wedding—welcomes Elle and Ben to the dance floor.
“Introducing for not the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin Miller.”
Everyone laughs. It would’ve been better if he introduced them as Mr. and Mrs. Benjamin James, since we all know Elle wears the pants in the family.
My dad starts with a low melodic rhythm on the cymbals before moving to the snare, and then Liam strums his acoustic while Justine holds the microphone in her hand. She keeps her eyes on Liam, watching for her cue. I’ve been working with her extensively on duets for our upcoming tour.
As soon as Justine starts singing, I know exactly what song this is. Our parents used to dance to it in the living room. “It’s Your Love” by Tim McGraw with Faith Hill.
I wait for my mom to recognize it, and when she does, her mouth drops open and tears well in her eyes. I wish I could take her out on the dance floor, but this is Elle and Ben’s moment.
Justine sings the first two verses, and then Liam comes in on the chorus. His voice is gritty and low, and everyone loves it. He gets so many requests for duets, but rarely does any. It was his idea to sing on Plum’s album, hoping to catapult them into stardom.
By the time they finish, there isn’t a dry eye in the house. Elle and Ben hug and thank my dad, Liam, and Justine, and the DJ starts playing music.
I’m not shocked to see Mack and Betty Paige out there first, doing the latest fad dance. Elle and Ben stay out there, and everyone starts to follow.
I stay in my seat because, honestly, I’m not sure where Nola and I stand. But because my family is here and they see everything, I move to the seat next to her.
It’s not unusual for my parents to see me sitting out of things. I’m not as outgoing as Elle, and Noah brings it out of Peyton. Sometimes I feel like I’m the outlier.
The song shifts and my voice comes through the speakers. It’s a new one, and one I recorded with Justine. I know Elle’s done this on purpose, to test the audience.
I wait to see if Nola notices, but she doesn’t because, once again, she’s on her phone, and not even paying attention to the action around her. Across the dance floor, I see Justine. She’s dancing to our song. She looks over and waves excitedly. I tip my bottle of beer toward her and take a long swig, emptying the contents, and signal the waiter for another.
It's going to be a long night and an even longer ride home. I’m tempted to tell Nola to go on without me since this isn’t where she wants to be. She doesn’t need to stay here on my behalf or even my sisters'. There’s always the excuse of having to study, so I’m not sure why she doesn’t use it now.
My next beer comes, and I immediately order another. I sit back and watch everyone dance to a song I wrote and am singing on. I’m pretty damn proud of what Justine and I created.
“Are you planning to get drunk?”
I don’t bother to look at her. “Yep.”
“Lovely.”
Elle comes to the table, grabs my hand, and forces me to stand. “It’s your song, Quinny! Everyone loves it.”
I glance at Nola, and it’s like another kick in the gut when I see the realization all over her face. She was so engrossed in her phone she didn’t even realize her fiancé’s song was playing.
FIVE
Nola 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.