15. Beau
15
BEAU
T he smell of turkey and all the fixings wafts through our tour bus as I sprawl across the couch, strumming my bass. Outside, the November wind whips against the windows, creating an oddly comforting white noise.
"Hey, Lyle," I call out, setting my bass aside. "What's Quinn doing for Turkey Day?"
Lyle looks up from his phone, sprawled in the chair across from me. "Said she was heading home. Why?"
My eyes drift to the parking lot through the window. That's when I spot it - that beat-up Honda Civic with the dented rear bumper and what looks like duct tape holding the side mirror together. The same car I've seen her climbing out of at every venue.
"That's weird." I scratch my beard, frowning. "Her car's still in the lot."
"What?" Lyle joins me at the window, pressing his face against the glass. "Shit, you're right."
"She told you she was going home?"
"Yeah, but..." Lyle rubs his shaved head. "She got kind of weird when I asked about her plans. Didn't really look me in the eye."
The wind picks up outside, rattling that loose mirror on her car. I can't help but think about her sitting alone in that hotel room while we're all celebrating.
"Man." I shake my head. "That ain't right."
"What's not right?" Lyle asks, though his expression tells me he already knows.
"Her spending Thanksgiving alone. Especially after how dickhead one and dickhead two have been treating her."
"You thinking what I'm thinking?"
I'm already reaching for my jacket. "Get her plate ready."
The hotel lobby's too-bright fluorescent lights make me squint as I approach the front desk. A blonde with perfectly manicured nails taps away at her computer, looking up with practiced charm when I clear my throat.
"Can I help you?" Her eyes widen with recognition.
"Yeah, I'm looking for Quinn Dupree's room number."
She leans forward, batting her lashes. "I'm not really supposed to give out guest information..."
"Please?" I adjust my hat, uncomfortable with the attention. "She's part of our tour. Just want to make sure she's doing okay for the holiday."
"Well..." She draws out the word. "Since you asked so nicely. Room 412."
"Thanks." I turn toward the elevator before she can try to slip me her number.
The hallway on the fourth floor stretches out in both directions, identical doors with brass numbers marching into the distance. My boots sink into the worn carpet as I make my way down, counting numbers.
410... 411... 412.
I raise my hand to knock, but pause at the sound coming from inside. A muffled sob catches in my ears, followed by a shaky breath. Through the door, I can hear her voice, thick with tears.
My hand hovers by the door, caught between knocking and retreating. The sound of her crying makes my chest ache.
I finally rap my knuckles against the door, and the crying stops abruptly. Shuffling sounds come from inside, followed by footsteps.
The door cracks open, revealing Quinn with mascara-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Her hair's pulled up in a messy bun, and she's wearing an oversized Nashville tourist sweatshirt.
"Beau?" She swipes at her eyes. "What are you doing here?"
"Saw your car in the lot. Thought you were heading home for Thanksgiving?"
"Oh. That." She lets out a shaky laugh. "Change of plans."
"Can I come in?" I ask, fully expecting her to decline.
"Sure, I guess…" she says meekly.
Her room's cramped, with clothes scattered across the bed and an open notebook on the desk. The TV's playing some Hallmark movie on mute.
"Sorry about the mess." She kicks a pair of boots under the bed. "Wasn't exactly expecting company."
"Why'd you tell Lyle you were going home?"
She sinks onto the edge of the bed, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Easier than explaining the truth, I guess. My parents..." She shakes her head. "Let's just say they think music is a hobby, not a career."
"Why are you crying?"
"Mostly." She gestures toward the window. "Not that they'd want me there anyway." She wipes fresh tears away. "Last time we talked, my dad said I was throwing my life away chasing pipe dreams in Nashville."
My heart sinks watching her try to hold back tears. The TV flickers silently behind her, showing some happy family gathering around a turkey dinner. The contrast makes this whole situation even more gut-wrenching.
"I'm sorry about your folks." I shift my weight, uncomfortable with seeing her hurt like this. "That's... that's really rough."
She shrugs, but I catch how her shoulders tremble. "It is what it is."
"No, it ain't." The words come out fiercer than I meant them to. "Look, I heard you sing that first night. Hell, I've heard you every night since then. You've got something special, Quinn. Something raw and real that can't be taught."
Her eyes meet mine, glistening with unshed tears. "You're just saying that to be nice."
"When have you known me to just say things?" I crack a small smile. "I'm the quiet one, remember?"
That gets a watery laugh out of her.
"I mean it though." I take off my hat, running a hand through my hair. "Your voice... it's got this way of making people feel things. Making them remember things they thought they'd forgotten. That's a gift."
She wipes at her eyes with her sleeve. "You really think so?"
"Know so." I settle my hat back on my head. "And if it's any consolation... I believe in you. So does Lyle. Hell, even Jarron and Austen are coming around I think, though they'd rather eat glass than admit it."
"Thank you." Her voice is barely above a whisper. "That... that means a lot."
I shift my weight, adjusting my hat. "You should come have dinner with us."
Quinn blinks, mascara-smudged eyes widening. "What?"
"On the bus. We've got enough food to feed a small army." I gesture toward the door. "No one should be alone on Thanksgiving."
"I don't know..." She tugs at her sleeve. "Jarron and Austen-"
"Can kiss my ass." The words come out sharper than intended. "Sorry, but they don't get to decide who I invite to dinner."
A small smile tugs at her lips. "You sure?"
"Positive. Besides, Lyle's already setting you a plate."
She glances down at her sweatshirt. "I'm not exactly dressed for dinner."
"You look fine." I wave off her concern. "Hell, Jarron's probably wearing the same shirt he passed out in last night."
That gets a real laugh out of her. "Alright, just let me wash my face."
While she disappears into the bathroom, I text Lyle: Bringing her down. Tell the cousins to behave or I'm shoving drumsticks somewhere uncomfortable.
The reply comes quick: Already threatened them. They're playing nice. For now.
Quinn emerges, face fresh and hair pulled back neatly. She grabs her room key and phone, then pauses. "Thank you, Beau. Really."
"Don't mention it." I hold the door open. "Now come on, before Lyle stress-eats all the sweet potato casserole."
She follows me out, and I notice her shoulders aren't quite as slumped as before. Maybe this holiday won't be so bad after all.