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)
“Awesome. I’m so glad Elle hired Chandler for this job. Can you send me some of the videos?”
“I’ll airdrop them to your phone later. Right now, I’m going to go support Plum,” Dana says.
I nod as I look at the list and work to memorize the changes. As the others leave, I hang back, strumming my guitar and going over the changes. The order makes sense—we’re opening with “Gravity” instead of “Run Wild, Burn Bright,” and “Flame & Ash” has moved to the encore. Both are good calls.
I’ve just finished tuning when I feel a presence in the doorway. I look up to find Justine leaning against the frame, dressed for her performance in black jeans, combat boots, and a vintage band tee knotted at her waist.
“Hey, stranger,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips.
My heart does an unexpected flip. “Hey yourself.”
“The babies are beautiful,” she says, stepping into the room. “Even through blurry phone pictures.”
“They’re even better in person,” I tell her, setting my guitar aside. “Wait till you see them.”
The words slip out before I realize their implication—that she’ll meet my family, be part of my life in that way. But Justine doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t mind.
“How’s Peyton?”
“Strong. Tired. A little overwhelmed, but my mom and Josie are there, so she’s in good hands.”
Justine sits beside me on the worn sofa, close enough that our knees touch. “Did you get any sleep?”
“A few hours on the plane. I’ll crash tonight after the show.”
“You could have stayed longer,” she says softly. “No one would have blamed you.”
I shrug. “We have commitments. Besides, I’ll see them soon enough.”
“Quinn James, responsible rock star.” Her tone is light, teasing.
“I have my moments.”
Before she can respond, a stagehand appears. “Five minutes, Justine.”
She stands, smoothing her shirt. “Duty calls.”
“Break a leg out there,” I tell her. “I’ll be watching.”
A smile spreads across her face, bright and genuine. “You’d better be. I added something new to the set. See if you can spot it.”
With that cryptic statement, she’s gone, leaving behind the lingering scent of her perfume—something light and floral with an undertone of vanilla.
I make my way to the side of the stage, finding a spot where I can see the show without being seen by the crowd. As promised, I watch Plum’s entire set.
Justine is, as always, captivating. There’s an energy to her performance tonight that feels different, freer, more confident. When they reach their third song, I realize what’s new. She’s incorporated a subtle guitar riff that mirrors one from our napkin song. It’s not obvious enough that anyone else would notice, but to me, it’s unmistakable.
It’s our melody, woven into her band’s song.
A private message meant only for me.
When they finish their set to thunderous applause, Justine doesn’t look to her bandmates or the crowd for validation. Her eyes find mine in the shadows offstage, and she gives me a small, private smile.
Forty minutes later, I’m standing center stage, strumming the opening chords of “Gravity” as the crowd roars. The energy is electric, pulsing through the venue like a living thing.
I lean into the mic, my voice finding its resonance. “Are you ready?”
The response is deafening.
We launch into the set, and everything falls away: the exhaustion, the whirlwind of emotions from the past few days, the lingering questions about what comes next. There’s only the music, the crowd, and this perfect moment of connection.
During “Come Undone,” Justine joins me onstage, and the chemistry between us is undeniable. Our voices blend seamlessly, finding harmonies that feel like they’ve always existed. When the song ends, the crowd demands an encore before we’ve even left the stage.
“I think they liked it,” Justine whispers as we take our bow.
“What’s not to like?” I reply, and she laughs, the sound lost in the roar of the audience.
After the encore, I head straight for the showers. There’s nothing quite like washing away the sweat and adrenaline of a show, letting the hot water soothe tired muscles.
I take longer than usual, replaying moments from the performance in my mind: the way Justine looked at me during our duet, the energy of the crowd during the new arrangement of “Fading Ink,” the perfect harmony we found in the encore.
When I finally emerge from the shower stall, a towel wrapped around my waist, I hear a soft knock on the door.
“Just a sec,” I call, quickly drying off and pulling on a pair of sweatpants. I don’t bother with a shirt, assuming it’s Dana or Keane coming to discuss the show.
I open the door to find Justine standing there, still in her performance clothes but with her makeup freshly removed, her lavender hair damp at the edges.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes briefly dropping to my bare chest before returning to my face. “I thought—”