3. Quinn
3
QUINN
I juggle my phone and keys, nearly dropping both as I burst into my apartment. The call connects on the third ring.
"Abby, you're not going to freaking believe this."
"Let me guess - you finally killed that cockroach family living in your kitchen?"
"No, they're still thriving. Thanks for bringing that up." I yank my suitcase from under my bed, sending dust bunnies scattering. "I got a tour gig. Twelve cities."
"Shut up!" Her squeal makes me pull the phone away from my ear. "Like, a real tour?"
"Three thousand per show." I start throwing clothes onto my bed. "But I have to leave for Montana in two days."
"Montana? In November?" Abby snorts. "Pack your thermal underwear."
"Thanks for that stellar advice." I hold up a faded t-shirt, grimacing at the coffee stains. "Oh god, my wardrobe is a disaster. Everything I own screams 'struggling artist who lives on ramen.'"
"Ever the drama queen. So, I can count you out for Thanksgiving at Grandma's then?"
"Unless Grandma moved to Montana, yeah." I toss another shirt into the growing 'absolutely not' pile. "Seriously, what do you wear on tour with a country band?"
"Wait, you don't know who you're touring with?"
"Tommy was... vague on the details."
"Classic balding manager." She pauses. "Don't stress about clothes. They usually dress the performers on these tours don't they? You know, image consistency and all that?"
"I fucking hope so" The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. "Because right now I'm looking at three pairs of jeans, all with holes in unfortunate places."
"Those aren't holes, they're strategic ventilation."
"Yeah, strategically placed to show my underwear." I flop onto my bed, scattering clothes everywhere. "What if this is a mistake?"
"What if it's not?" Abby's voice softens. "This is what you moved to Nashville for, right? To take chances?"
"I guess." I sit up, surveying the chaos I've created. "Though I was hoping for more than two days' notice."
"That's showbiz, baby." She attempts a terrible accent that makes me laugh despite myself.
My phone chimes with a notification, interrupting our conversation.
"Hold on, Abs." I check the screen. "Oh my god, you didn't."
"I absolutely did. Consider it an early Christmas present."
"A hundred dollars? I can't take this." The PayPal notification glows accusingly on my screen.
"You can and you will. Get yourself something nice for that meeting. Something that says 'I'm a professional artist who definitely doesn't live next to train tracks.'"
I laugh, but my throat tightens. "You're the best friend ever, you know that?"
"Tell me something I don't already know."
"I'll hit up some shops tomorrow on the drive up. Maybe find something that doesn't scream 'I microwave my meals.'"
"That's the spirit." She yawns. "Call me when you get there?"
"Of course. Love you, Abs."
"Love you too. Break a leg, superstar."
The call ends and I stare at my phone, at the PayPal notification still showing on my screen. The amount isn't huge, but from Abby - who's still paying off her student loans - it means everything.
I tap out a quick thank you message, adding about fifteen heart emojis, then turn back to the disaster zone that is my bedroom. Clothes everywhere, an open suitcase that's seen better days, and somewhere in this mess is my guitar case.
My thumb hovers over Mom's contact photo - one from happier times, both of us grinning at my debutante ball. I should be elated to call my parents and tell them I may have struck gold. In a perfect scenario, I imagine they would be proud of me, maybe order some t-shirts with my face on them.
But yeah right, that would only be my parents if they were abducted by aliens or some shit. The train rumbles past, rattling my windows, making the decision for me. I lock my phone screen.
"Not today, guilt trip," I mutter, tossing it onto my bed.
My laptop chimes with a new email. Tommy's actually followed through with something for once - hotel details for Montana. I click the link, expecting some roadside motel with questionable sheets and even more questionable neighbors.
"Holy shit."
The Resort at Paws Up spans my screen - rustic luxury rooms nestled in Montana wilderness. My living room could fit in their bathroom. Hell, my entire apartment could probably fit in their bathroom.
I pull up Google Maps, zooming in on the resort's location. "Greenough, Montana." The name rolls off my tongue, foreign and exciting.
Another email from Tommy rolls in:
'Quinn - Attached itinerary for first week. Room's covered by tour budget. Bring warm clothes. And your guitar better not have any more stickers on it. -T'
"Sure thing, boss." I glance at my guitar case, covered in band stickers and song lyrics written in Sharpie. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."
I grab my phone again, this time texting Derek:
'You'll never believe what happened. Got a tour gig. Leaving tomorrow for Montana.'
His response comes quickly: 'No shit! That's amazing Q! Finally escaping the coffee plantation?'
'Already quit. Listen, weird favor - could you check on my place sometimes? Water Mr. Ficus and his friends?'
'Your sad collection of barely alive plants? Sure. Where's the key?'
I glance around my apartment, considering. 'Under the loose brick by my window. The one with the peace sign graffiti.'
'Classy hiding spot. Very 1990s teen movie.'
'Shut up. There's coffee in it for you when I get back. The good stuff I steal from work... stole from work.'
'Deal. When you're famous, remember who watered your dying plants.'
'They're not dying, they're just... dramatic.' I look at my windowsill collection of rescued clearance plants. 'Okay, maybe a little dying.'
'Break a leg out there. Montana's gonna love you.'
'Thanks D. Don't let Mr. Ficus die. He's my favorite.'
I set my alarm for an ungodly hour, triple-checking it's actually set to AM. My suitcase sits ready by the door, guitar case beside it. Everything I need for the next three months packed into two bags and a backpack.
The train rushes past, but tonight it doesn't bother me. Its rhythm matches the excitement thrumming through my veins. Tomorrow, I'm trading this view of rusty tracks for Montana mountains.
I curl up under my blankets, clutching my phone close. The screen glows with opened tabs - weather forecasts for Montana (freezing), maps of the route (endless), and that luxury resort (intimidating). Sleep feels impossible with tomorrow looming so large, but I force my eyes closed.
"Goodbye, Nashville," I whisper to my ceiling. "Don't miss me too much."