We’d fucking done it.
Max and I had saved The Red Room.
My cocky bad boy, however, was nowhere to be found. He was definitely here, and from time to time he’d swing through for a filthy kiss. But his mom had blown him off, and I could tell he was rattled tonight.
So I gave him a little space and stayed with Roxy. Even Edward had tossed his suit jacket and torn off his tie. For a British aristocrat, the man sure could own a mosh pit.
I hadn’t laughed this hard in a long time. I hadn’t felt this much like myself in a long, long time. Whatever fears that had gripped me since Roxy had gotten engaged, I was now basically sweating out on the dance floor. And as much as I wanted to give Max the credit—dating him had, absolutely, pushed me to embrace my own inner chaos—I knew that Max wasn’t necessarily the point.
I was the point.
It was time to give up a little bit of my hyper-control and live again.
Mom was murdering a drum solo when Dad crouched down at the edge of the stage, guitar slung behind his back. “Do you girls want to come up with us? Like the old days?”
“Oh my god, let’s crowd surf,” Roxy yelled, jumping up and down.
Edward turned to me. Mouthed crowd surf?
I shrugged. “You in or you out, Cavendish?”
“Bloody well out, thank you,” he said. “I believe I’ll have Jett make me his finest gin and tonic, which I shall enjoy while my fiancée leaps into a pit of strangers.”
Roxy winked at Edward before pulling herself up onto the stage. She reached down, yanked me up. I immediately turned to look for Max but couldn’t find him and didn’t see him.
The first real moment of dread spread through me. I realized just how fucking vulnerable I’d made this newly open heart of mine.
I suddenly got the feeling. The feeling. The one you get before everything turns to shit and you can practically see it coming.
But then Roxy grabbed my hand. And my Dad squeezed my shoulders once before singing into the microphone, “Give a round of applause for my brilliant and brave daughters, Roxy and Fiona!”
“Are we doing this, Fi?” she yelled into my ear.
I looked out into the crowd, the outstretched hands, ready to lift us up. Fuck, it had been literal years since I’d risked not being caught like this. But I remembered the adrenaline rush, the total high.
And whatever happened between Max and me, complicated or not, I couldn’t turn back. I could only push forward.
“I’m ready if you are,” I said, grabbing her hand. We looked at my dad and gave him dual thumbs-up. He howled like a wolf, launching into a fast guitar solo, and nodded at the crowd.
“You can do it,” he yelled.
Shimmying her shoulders, Roxy dragged us right up to the edge. I looked down at our boots—hers were appropriately scuffed and covered in metal buckles that looked heavy and dangerous. Mine were still dangerous but also sleek, trendy, and a little bit expensive.
The crowd knew what we were going to do. We were the Quinn sisters, after all. They raised their hands, called our names. Heart racing in my throat, we turned as one, backs to the audience. My parents waved at us, and we waved back.
Once, when Roxy and I were in middle school, our closest neighbor—an older woman named Wanda—confessed to my parents that she was struggling to get enough to eat every day. Her pension wasn’t stretching far enough. Wanda used to give Roxy and me Popsicles on hot summer days and had a lurid collection of romance novels she’d secretly loan us from her back window. We adored her.
My parents had fed her for an entire year until her daughter moved back home and was able to help provide meals more often. But until then, my parents bought a little extra at the grocery store every week and delivered it to her with a smile and a cheerful wave. On Sunday nights, she’d join band practice, and my dad would sing Frank Sinatra per her request.
Punk rock, to my parents, wasn’t just about music. It was a lifestyle that valued community and the collective. It was a way of life, a guiding light—some people worshiped at churches or synagogues. My parents worshiped on the stage. It kept them grounded and rooted in what they believed to be true justice.
What they did for Wanda, they’d done for many friends and loved ones over the years. Just as the same kindness had been repaid to us when we needed a little support.
You fell. People caught you.
“Ready?” Roxy asked.
I exhaled. “Ready.”
“Three. Two. One.”
I dropped backward.
My stomach lurched in the free fall. But then an army of strong hands held me. I flung my arms over my head and squealed as they carried my sister and me across the crowd. I could hear her laughter, could hear people calling our names with surprise and glee. The red lights of the ceiling floated overhead, and I stopped worrying that someone would drop me. I knew they wouldn’t.
And they didn’t.
Crowd surfing is a little bit like flying and a little bit ticklish. It’s like being in the song, hovering above the crowd, a goddess being worshiped by the people. I could never be a musician like my parents, but these brief moments of adoration must be what they felt like. An entire audience surging towards you to protect you from falling.
An exhilarating minute later, and we were both set down gently on our feet—out of breath and shaking. I hugged my sister, held her tight. I was Fiona Quinn. I was Roxy’s sister. I was an accomplished lawyer and a punk rock wild child. I was both, and everything, all at once. I didn’t have to compromise a single thing for something as important as marriage.
If I wanted an authentic partnership—my true soul mate—I was going to have to work just as hard at being authentic myself.
Anything less and I’d only end up unhappy.
“I love you, Fi,” Roxy said, hugging me back. “And I know you’ll figure things out. You always do.”
I nodded, then gave her to Edward, who was staring at her with utter delight and admiration. “Once again, the Quinn sisters defy gravity, and in combat boots no less.”
“Our reputation precedes us, naturally,” I said with a wink.
Roxy turned to Edward, and I gave them privacy to do their Roxy-and-Edward thing. I’d already been scandalized too much by their past flirting.
I waved to my parents. Waved to Pop, who was giving me a cheesy thumbs-up. From the bar, Mateo and Rafael were clapping towards me. I bowed, again.
I searched for Max.
Didn’t see him.
The dread deepened.
40
Max
Technically speaking, it didn’t count as a good fucking night unless it ended at the Westway Diner right before dawn.
And it was right before dawn as the group of us slid into various cracked, vinyl booths, calling for coffee and eggs, bacon and toast.
At a booth near us, Lou and Sandy sat with Edward and Roxy. They were talking about their set, voices hoarse, Edward falling asleep a little against Roxy’s shoulder.
Mateo and Rafael were squeezed in with me and Fiona. Pop and Angela sat on stools, facing us. We were all loose, exhausted, punch-drunk. Sore and dehydrated.
And grinning from ear to ear.
Well, most of us. Although I was ecstatic over everything that had happened—the money, the music, the night of community—my mom blowing me off was making me edgy and upset for reasons I really, really didn’t want to think about.