18. Austen
18
AUSTEN
I run my fingers through my hair for the hundredth time, staring at the cheerfully decorated entrance of the Boys and Girls Club. Christmas lights twinkle mockingly in the afternoon sun.
"This is bullshit," I mutter, adjusting my guitar strap. "We're musicians, not a church choir."
"Come on, man." Lyle claps me on the shoulder. "Think of the kids."
"Yeah, think of your image too," Quinn chimes in with that irritating know-it-all tone. "Nothing says 'reformed bad boys' like singing carols to orphans."
"Nobody asked you," I snap, but there's less bite in it than usual. Ever since Jarron's half-assed apology, we've been trying to play nice. Trying being the operative word.
"Alright everyone," Monica corrals us toward the door. "Remember - smiles, clean language, and for God's sake, Austen, stop looking like you're being led to execution."
"The wheels on the bus isn't exactly our usual repertoire," I grumble, following the group inside. The walls are plastered with construction paper snowflakes and crayon drawings.
"At least you know the words," Beau says. "Quinn's been practicing all week."
"Have not," she protests, but her cheeks flush pink.
A group of kids comes barreling down the hallway, stopping dead in their tracks when they spot us. One little girl's eyes go wide as saucers.
"Are you really Just South of Mason?" she squeaks.
"No, we're the Mormon Tabernacle Choir," I deadpan, earning an elbow in the ribs from Lyle.
"We sure are, sweetheart," Quinn says, shooting me a warning look. "Want to hear some Christmas songs?"
The kids cheer and I force my face into something resembling a festive spirit. This is going to be a long afternoon of fa-la-la-ing. But watching their excited faces as we set up, I can't quite maintain my sulk. Maybe spreading a little holiday cheer won't kill me. Maybe.
The kids crowd around Quinn as she kneels down, showing a tiny girl with braids how to hold the guitar. My chest tightens at the gentle way she guides those small fingers over the strings.
"Like this?" The girl's face scrunches in concentration.
"Perfect, sweetie. Now strum - just like we practiced."
A wobbly note rings out and Quinn beams like she's just heard Carnegie Hall. "That's it! You're a natural."
My grandma used to look at me that exact same way when I'd fumble through my first chords. The memory hits hard - her patient smile, the way she'd brush my hair back when I'd get frustrated.
"Mr. Austen?" A boy tugs my sleeve. "Can you teach me too?"
I run a hand through my hair, about to make some excuse, but Quinn catches my eye. There's something in her expression - not judgment, just... understanding maybe.
"Sure, kid." The words come out before I can stop them. "Pull up a chair."
More kids gather around as Quinn leads them through "Rudolph," her voice clear and sweet. She's got them all singing along, even the shy ones in the back. Just like Mom did with her music students.
"Earth to Austen," Lyle whispers, nudging me. "You're missing your harmony."
I clear my throat, jumping back in, but I can't take my eyes off Quinn. The way she lights up when a kid gets something right. How she notices the quiet one hanging back and gently draws her into the circle.
Grandma would've liked her.
The thought ambushes me and I hit a wrong note, earning concerned looks from both Lyle and Quinn. I wave them off, focusing on the music. But the parallel's there now and I can't unsee it - that same natural warmth, that gift for making people feel seen.
Maybe I've been a little hard on her.
After the kids' show, I catch Quinn in the hallway as she's packing up her guitar. My fingers twitch with the urge to run through my hair, but I force them still.
"Hey, uh, that thing you did with the kids... it was good."
She looks up, surprise flickering across her face. "Thanks. They're sweet kids."
"Yeah." I shift my weight, searching for words. "Look, I've been a super dick." The words tumble out before I can overthink them. "And not like, the fun kind that makes good stories at bars."
Quinn straightens up, one eyebrow raised. "Is there a fun kind of super dick?"
"You'd have to ask Jarron." A surprised laugh escapes her, and something in my chest loosens. "What I'm trying to say is... I'm gonna aim for mediocre dick from here on out. Baby steps, you know?"
She snorts, shouldering her guitar case. "Mediocre dick? Is that like the store brand version of being an asshole?"
"More like the diet coke of douchebags." I hold the door open for her as we head outside. "All the attitude, half the calories."
"Well, I appreciate the effort to downgrade your dickishness." She steps into the crisp afternoon air, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Though I have to say, watching you with those kids... you might be in danger of dropping below mediocre entirely."
"Don't tell anyone," I stage-whisper. "I have a reputation to maintain."
She laughs again, and this time it reaches her eyes. The sound reminds me of wind chimes - clear and bright against the December chill.
"Your secret's safe with me," she says, heading toward her car. "See you at rehearsal, Diet Douche."