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)
“Quinn.” Ajay stops walking and tries not to laugh. He grabs my arm, forcing me to face him. I sigh heavily. “It’s okay, you know. To move on. To be happy.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Maybe not yet,” Ajay concedes. “But the way you look at her . . . it could be.”
I groan and run my hand through my hair. “We work together a lot, that’s it. She’s a nice kid, but there’s nothing there and I’m okay. You guys can stop worrying about me.”
Ajay smiles and briefly rests his hand on my shoulder. “We all just want you happy.” He nods and heads down the hall toward his room.
As soon as I walk in, it’s my intention to take a shower, but my notebook sits on the table, like a bright beacon. I sit down, flip open to a new page and let my pencil go to work. The words come without effort, flowing from some place inside me that feels new and familiar at the same time.
I read it over, then tuck the notebook away. These lyrics aren’t for anyone else yet. They’re just for me, a private map of this unfamiliar territory I’m beginning to explore.
My phone buzzes.
Justine Floyd
Still awake?
Yes
Justine Floyd
Want company?
I stare at the message for a long moment before typing my response.
Always.
A few minutes later, she appears in the doorway, wearing pajama pants and a faded band T-shirt. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean of makeup.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she explains, sitting in the chair.
“Me neither.”
“Were you writing?” she asks, gesturing to the notebook on the table.
“Just some new ideas.”
“About?”
I hesitate. “About feeling safe again.”
Her expression softens. “That’s good, Quinn. Really good.”
“It’s different this time,” I admit. “The words. They’re not coming from a place of pain or loss.”
“Where are they coming from?”
I look at her, really look at her, taking in the warmth of her eyes, the curve of her cheek, the way she waits patiently for my answer without demanding it.
“Hope, maybe,” I say finally. “I’m not sure yet.”
Justine nods like she understands completely. “The best songs are the ones that surprise even you.”
She shifts on the couch, drawing her knees up to her chest. “So, what’s next for Quinn James? Now that you’re free?”
The question strikes me as odd because I thought I was the only one who saw myself as free. “Free?”
“From carrying around all that weight. From trying to find something that was already gone?”
I consider this. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“Maybe just be present,” she suggests. “Maybe not so lost.”
Her words linger in the air. I hadn’t thought of myself as lost until now. I suppose, in a way, I was. Lost and always chasing what I though was my forever.
SEVENTEEN
The sound of excited knocking pulls me from a deep sleep. I roll over, reaching blindly for my phone to check the time: 8:17 a.m. Far too early for a day off.
The knocking continues, more insistent now.
“Hold on,” I grumble, stumbling out of bed. When I open the door, Justine stands there, already dressed in jeans, a vintage band tee, and a light jacket tied around her waist. Her lavender hair is tucked under a black beanie, and she’s practically bouncing with energy.
“It’s our day off in Boston,” she announces, like I might have forgotten. “Are you planning to sleep through it?”
I run a hand through my disheveled hair. “I was considering it.”
She pushes past me into the room. “Not happening. We have a whole city to explore and exactly twenty-four hours to do it.”
“Coffee first,” I mumble, shuffling toward the hotel room’s pitiful excuse for a coffee maker.
Justine produces a large to-go cup from behind her back. “Already handled.”
The rich aroma hits me as she removes the lid. I accept it gratefully, taking a long sip from the cardboard to go cup. Perfect.
“You remembered how I take it,” I say, surprised even though it’s pretty basic with cream.
“I pay attention,” she replies with a shrug, then perches on the edge of the desk. “So, what’s the plan?”
“The plan was to sleep.”
She rolls her eyes. “New plan. Shower, get dressed, meet me in the lobby in thirty minutes.”
Before I can protest, she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her. I stare at the space she occupied moments ago, a smile tugging at my lips despite my fatigue.
Thirty minutes later, showered and dressed in jeans and a plain black T-shirt, a zip up sweatshirt that despite costing a ridiculous amount looks like I thrifted it, and a beanie covering my hair, I find Justine in the lobby, consulting a map of Boston. She looks up when I approach, her face lighting up.
“You actually made it,” she says, folding the map into her pocket.
“I keep my promises.”
“I don’t recall you promising anything.”
“It was implied.”