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)
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.