Where Ethan was the peacemaker and Nixon the entertainer, Jonas was the caretaker. The designated leader by default. When Nixon and I didn’t want to deal with something, like a Grammy acceptance speech or hiring a new keyboardist, Jonas was there, always willing to step up.
Maybe we relied on him too much. Maybe the reason it had been so hard to write new music lately was because I wasn’t sure of my own role anymore.
Drummer? Writer? Token female?
Bitch?
Shorty’s damn voice was stuck in my head. “Some guy from the stage crew came into my dressing room and took my sticks. He was ‘holding them’ for me.”
It was better they think that was the reason I was upset. Ethan wouldn’t ask questions about my trip tomorrow, but Jonas and Nixon would.
“He’s fired.” Jonas looked to Ethan, who held up a hand.
“It’s already done.”
“Good luck, you guys.” Kira gave Jonas another kiss and waved at Nixon. She was a little less friendly toward me—my fault, not hers—but she smiled.
I hadn’t exactly been welcoming when she’d gotten together with Jonas. I’d been wary, rightfully so. His taste in women before Kira was abhorrent.
“Thanks, Kira.” I offered her the warmest smile I could muster before she and Ethan slipped away to where they’d watch the show.
Jonas held out one hand for mine and his other for Nixon’s. As we linked together, we shuffled into a shoulder-to-shoulder circle.
This was a ritual we’d started years ago. I couldn’t remember exactly when or how it had begun, but now it was something we didn’t miss. It was as critical to a performance as my drum kit and their guitars. We stood together, eyes closed and without words, connecting for a quiet moment before we went on stage.
Then Jonas squeezed my hand, signaling it was time.
Here we go.
I dropped their hands and, with my shoulders pinned back and my sticks gripped tight, walked past them to the dark stage. The cheers washed over me. The chanting of Hush Note, Hush Note seeped into my bones. I moved right for my kit, sat on my stool, and put my foot on the bass drum.
Boom.
The crowd went wild.
Nixon walked on stage and lights from thousands of cameras flashed.
Boom.
Jonas strode toward a microphone. “Hello, Boston!”
The screams were deafening.
Boom.
Then we unleashed.
The rhythm of my drums swallowed me up. I escaped into the music and let it numb the pain. I played like my heart wasn’t broken and pretended that the woman who’d supported me from afar these past nine years was clapping in the front row.
Tonight, I’d be the award-winning drummer. The Golden Sticks.
Tomorrow, I’d be Quinn Montgomery.
And tomorrow, I’d have no choice but to go home.
“What are you doing here?”
Nixon shrugged from his seat on our jet. His eyes were shaded with sunglasses, and he was wearing the same clothes he’d changed into after last night’s show. “Heard you were taking a trip. Thought I’d tag along.”
“Have you even been to sleep yet?” I walked to his seat and plucked the glasses off his face, and the sight of his glassy eyes made me cringe. “Nix—”
“Shush.” He took the sunglasses from my hand and returned them to his face. “After nap time.”
I frowned and plopped into the seat across the aisle. His partying was getting out of hand.
The attendant emerged from the galley with a Bloody Mary. “Here you go, Nix.”
First-name basis already? This one wasn’t wasting any time.
“I want an orange juice,” I ordered, drawing her attention. “And a glass of water, no ice. And a cup of coffee.”
“Anything else I can get you?” she asked, her question aimed at Nixon, not me.
He waved her off with a grin.
“Do not get any ideas of taking her to the bedroom,” I said after she was out of earshot. “She’s probably already poked holes in a condom.”
Nixon chuckled. “So cynical this morning.”
“Helpful, not cynical. Think of how many skanks I’ve chased off with my prickly attitude. Think of how many ‘accidental’ pregnancies I’ve help you avoid. You could say you’re welcome.”
He laughed, sipping his drink. “So where are we going?”
“I assumed Ethan told you since you’re sitting here.”
“Okay, let me rephrase. Why are we going to Montana? You never go home.”
I stared out the window, watching the ground crew motioning to our pilots. “Nan died.”
Voicing the words was like a hammer to my chest, and every ounce of my strength went to keeping the tears at bay.
“Fuck.” Nixon’s hand stretched across the aisle, and his fingers closed over my forearm. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I’m so, so sorry. Why didn’t you say anything? We could have canceled last night’s show.”
“I needed it.” Of all people, Nix would understand the need to disappear into something for an hour to avoid reality.
“What can I do?”
“Don’t fuck the attendant until after you drop me off.”
He chuckled. “Done. Anything else?”
“Help me write a song for her. For Nan,” I whispered.
“You got it.” His hand tightened on my arm, then fell away as the attendant returned with my drinks. She set them on a table, leaving us to relax in the plush leather seats as the pilot came back to greet us and confirm our flight schedule.
When he disappeared into the cockpit, I put on my headphones and closed my eyes, listening to nothing as we prepared to depart. Nixon saw it as my signal that I didn’t want to talk and settled deeper into his chair. He was snoring before we were wheels up, soaring above the clouds.
And I was flying home, dreading the return I’d put off for nearly a decade.
The last time I’d seen Nan, or any of my family members, had been nine years ago. I’d left home at eighteen, ready to break free and chase my dreams. The first year had been the hardest, but then I’d found Jonas and Nixon and our band had become my makeshift family. With every passing year, it had been easier and easier to stay away from Montana. It had been easier to avoid the past.
Except the easy way out had also been the coward’s path. I’d missed the chance to tell Nan goodbye.
She wouldn’t call me on Mondays anymore. There would be no more cards in the mail on my birthday, stuffed with a twenty-dollar bill. Nan wouldn’t boast to her water aerobics class that her famous granddaughter had won a People’s Choice Award, then call to tell me exactly what she’d bragged.
Tears welled as the sunlight streamed through my window. I blinked them away, refusing to cry with the flight attendant checking on us constantly, waiting for Nixon to wake up. I turned on my music and cranked the volume so loud the sound was nearly painful. Then I tapped my foot, matching the tempo. My fingers drummed on the armrests of my chair.
I lost myself in the rhythm, like I had last night, only this was someone else’s beat.
My own seemed fragile at the moment, like a pane of glass that would shatter if I hit it too hard. I was tiptoeing around my own talent, avoiding it, because lately I’d been questioning my ability to craft something new.