Four More The Merrier

1. Quinn

1

QUINN

T he blaring horn of the 5 AM train jolts me awake, rattling my windows with its thunderous passing. My teeth chatter as I pull my thin blanket tighter around my shoulders. The radiator must have died again.

"Son of a bitch." I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, knocking over an empty water glass. "Fifty-six degrees? Inside?"

The train's rumble fades into the distance, but the chill settles deeper into my bones. My toes curl against the cold hardwood as I swing my legs out of bed. The floor creaks with each step – this building's probably older than my grandma.

"Come on, come on." I jab at the thermostat. Nothing. "Perfect. Just perfect."

The kitchen's even colder, if that's possible. My breath comes out in visible puffs as I fill the coffee maker with water. The ancient machine gurgles to life, promising warmth in its own sweet time.

"Please tell me I still have..." I yank open the freezer, finding one lone hot pocket hiding behind a layer of frost. "Last resort breakfast, you're up."

The microwave's LED display flickers as I punch in the time. Two minutes feels like forever when you're freezing your ass off in a shit hole Nashville apartment that's practically touching the train tracks.

The microwave dings, and I burn my fingers retrieving my pathetic breakfast. As I blow on the molten filling, my gaze drifts to the framed photo on my counter – me in my graduation cap, my parents flanking me with their picture-perfect smiles.

"Music isn't a real career, Quinn," Dad's voice echoes in my head. "You need something stable, something practical."

I take a scalding bite of the hot pocket, wincing as it burns the roof of my mouth. Three years ago, I'd never have eaten something like this for breakfast. Mom would've had fresh coffee brewing and pancakes on the griddle, the smell wafting up to my cozy bedroom in our suburban house.

"What about marketing?" Mom had suggested over one of those breakfasts. "Your arts degree would be perfect for that. My friend Susan's company is hiring."

The coffee maker sputters its last drops. I dump in sugar – the cheap kind from the dollar store, not the organic stuff Mom used to buy.

"I don't want to market other people's dreams, Mom. I want to chase my own."

That was the last real conversation we had before I loaded up my beat-up Honda Civic with everything that would fit. Left the rest behind, including their expectations.

My phone buzzes against the counter, Abby's face lighting up the screen. I swipe to answer, grateful for any distraction from my frozen morning.

"Quinn! Oh my God, you're never gonna believe this!"

"Abs, indoor voice. It's not even six here." I blow on my coffee, willing the caffeine to kick in faster.

"Check your email. Right now. The Tuesday night video from Rusty's is up on YouTube."

My stomach does a little flip. "The one from last week? When I did the Patsy Cline cover?"

"Yes! And Quinn, it's getting views!"

I juggle my phone and coffee, pulling up my laptop. "Define 'getting views.' Last time you got excited it was because everyone in your book club watched it."

"It's at sixty-three! That's like, viral for Galax, Virginia standards."

The hot pocket turns to lead in my stomach. "Sixty-three? That's... that's it?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

"Abby, I've seen videos of cats walking into walls that get more views than that."

"Oh wait, there's comments too! Some guy named... uh... LocallyH8ted247 says you sound like…. oh, a 'trailer park Wynonna Ryder."

Coffee splashes onto my keyboard as I snort. "Wow. That's... specific. And wrong on multiple levels. Judd, not Ryder."

"I guess I should have proofread before I told you that one, but, whatever, the point is people are watching! This could it!"

I close the laptop, rubbing my temples. "It will involve more than sixty-three people and better comparisons than discount bin country stars."

"At least he didn't say you sound like your Aunt Pam at karaoke night."

"Low blow, Abs. Low blow." But I'm laughing now, because she's right – Aunt Pam's rendition of "I Will Always Love You" at the VFW hall is still legendary for all the wrong reasons.

I sink into my secondhand armchair, the springs groaning under my weight. "I don't know how much longer I can do this, Abs. The heat's out again, I'm living on freezer burnt hot pockets, and my neighbor's cat keeps trying to break in through my bathroom window."

"I thought you signed with that label? What was it... Shooting Star Records?"

"Rising Star." I take another sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste. "And yeah, I did. Three months ago. You know what they've done since then? Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"What do you mean nothing? They're supposed to be like, producing your album, or something, right?"

"They're supposed to be doing a lot of things." The coffee cup trembles in my hand as I set it down. "Every time I call, it's 'next week' or 'we're working on it' or my personal favorite – 'these things take time, Quinn.'"

"But they're a real label, right?"

I laugh, but it comes out more like a wheeze. "If by real you mean they operate out of what I'm pretty sure used to be a dry cleaner's, then yeah, super real. And get this – I'm their only artist. Should've been my first clue something was off."

"Their only... Quinn!"

"I know, I know." I press my forehead against the cold window, watching a pigeon strut across the train tracks. "But they were the only ones who showed any interest. After six months of open mics and dropping demos everywhere, they were it. My big Nashville break.”

"Some break."

"Yeah." The pigeon takes flight as another train approaches. "I've got enough saved for maybe two more months of rent. After that..." The words stick in my throat like day-old bread.

"Quinn, honey..." Abby's voice softens. "You know you can always come home. No one would think less of you."

"Really? Because I can already hear Dad's 'practical career' speech. And Mom would just give me that look – you know the one. Like she's disappointed but trying to be supportive."

"So what? Better than freezing to death in a haunted dry cleaner's recording studio."

I drain the last of my coffee from the mug. "It's not haunted. The weird noises are just rats."

"That's... not better."

"Look, I've got to get ready for work." I stand, joints cracking from the cold. "Can't be late to serve overpriced lattes to wannabe record producers."

"Promise me you'll think about it? Coming home isn't giving up. It's just... regrouping."

"Yeah, sure." I toss my cup in the sink. "Love you, Abs."

"Love you too, you stubborn idiot."

I end the call and shuffle to my closet, pulling out my barista uniform – black pants with coffee stains that won't wash out, and a polo shirt with the Bean Scene logo. The bathroom mirror shows dark circles under my eyes that concealer barely touches.

My fingers fumble with my hair tie as I twist my auburn mess into something resembling a bun. A meow from the window makes me jump – my neighbor's orange tabby is back, pressing its face against the glass.

"Not today, Satan." I tap the window. "Go mooch breakfast somewhere else." The cat just blinks at me, unimpressed.

I grab my guitar case – can't leave it in this cold – and my bag. The apartment door sticks in its frame, requiring a shoulder check to open. As it slams behind me, the cat's meow echoes through the bathroom window, sounding suspiciously like "I told you so."