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)
But I don’t knock on her door and invite her over. I can’t. Not without inviting everyone else in.
As inviting as the bed looks, I head over to the small, two-person table near the window, and sit down. Briefly, I look out the window, staring down at the party happening on the street. Nashville is such a lively city. People from all walks of life come here, just to say they’ve been to Lower Broadway or Honky Tonk Highway. Some of the best musicians have played in the dive bars along Music Row.
My spiral steno pad sits on the table, with my pencil next to it. I’ve used this pad since we boarded the bus. It’s almost full, and I make a note to buy another one before we leave again.
The first few songs came easy. They’re upbeat crowd favorites to get the adrenaline going. But the back half?
That’s where my story hides.
That’s where my truth leaks out.
Setlist:
Track 1: Run Wild, Burn Bright – D & Q
Track 2: Red Lights & Late Nights - D
Track 3: Sinful Distraction – D & Q
Track 4: Gravity – Q & D
Track 5: No Apologies Tonight - D
Track 6: In Your Wake – D & Q
Track 7: Crescent Moon - Q
Track 8: Echoes on the Stairs – Q & D
Track 9: I Still Do (Acoustic) - Q
Track 10: Come Undone (duet with Justine)
Track 11: Stayed Too Long in Goodbye (Chorus Teaser) – H tease the crowd and flow right into 12.
Track 12: Hollow Days - D
Track 13: Fading Ink – Q & D
Track 14: Second Wind – Q
Track 15: Flame & Ash – Q & J
Track 16: Break the Silence – D
Track 17: Midnight Revival – D
Encore: Stayed Too Long in Goodbye – Q & J
I study the list I put together and realize almost every one of our songs is about her.
About Nola.
And if I line them up just right, maybe she’ll hear it. Maybe whatever she’s doing at her parents’, she’ll see a clip online, recognize the melody, and remember who we used to be.
Who we can still be.
It’s a long shot. A stupid, desperate hope.
But hope’s all I’ve got left.
My door creaks open, and I realize I never made sure it was latched or even bolted. It’s a good thing it's Dana and not some stalker. Elle would’ve killed me.
Dana hands me one of the two bottles of water she’s holding and sits down in the chair across from me. She reaches for the setlist, reads it over, and then gives me the “I’m going to call you on your bullshit” look she’s learned from my sister.
“You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You know when I suggested we move some songs around, I didn’t mean rewrite the entire thing.”
“I’m trying to make them flow better,” I tell her, which is a massive lie.
“I don’t usually care what order the songs go in. But this?” She nods toward the paper in my hand. “This feels like a therapy session set to music.”
I raise a brow. “That a complaint?”
“No,” she says honestly. “Just an observation. One that screams you’re writing for her.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off.
“Don’t lie to me, Quinn. I sing these songs with you. I can feel it when you’re somewhere else, and lately you’ve been everywhere, but rarely on the stage.”
I look down at the page, the graphite slightly smudged from where my hand has smeared over the words. Dana has never given me a reason not to trust her. I sigh heavily and scrub my hand over my face.
“She left,” I finally say. “She didn’t say much. Just that she needed space. And that she’d be with her parents.”
Dana leans back, studying me. “And this is your way of getting her back?”
I hesitate.
Then shrug.
“Maybe,” I say, voice low. “Maybe if she hears something . . . she’ll remember what we had.”
Dana’s voice softens, but her words don’t pull punches. “You’re not writing for her anymore, Quinn. You’re writing for you. You just don’t want to admit it yet. Writing about life, love, and shit we’ve lost, it’s therapeutic.”
There’s a beat of silence before she stands, tossing her water bottle in the trash. “I’m going to raid your minibar,” she says as she crouches in front of the cabinet. “Then I’m going to go get the guys, and we’re going to start playing those songs. We need to be perfect before the show tomorrow, and I don’t want to spend hours at rehearsal in the morning.”
Before I can protest, she has a bottle cracked open, poured into one of the plastic cups offered by the hotel, and she’s adding cranberry juice. She walks to the door and looks back at me. “It goes without saying that I think you’re a lyrical genius and I love singing, not only with you but with the songs you write . . .”