28. Beau
28
BEAU
I t's Christmas Eve, and the mall bustles with last-minute shoppers, but Quinn's silence weighs heavy between us. She's barely said two words since we left the venue, and watching her drift through the crowd like a ghost breaks my heart. Last night's show was electric - the kind that usually has her bouncing off walls for hours after.
Something is going on in that beautiful head of hers, and I've got to find out.
"Look at that," I nudge her shoulder, pointing to a display of singing snowmen. "Reminds me of your backup dancers."
A weak smile flickers across her face. "At least they'd show up on time for rehearsal."
"All I'm saying is Jarron's getting coal this year," Lyle announces, pulling a Santa hat lower over his bald head. "Man's been worse than naughty."
"Hey, those tabloid photos were taken completely out of context," Jarron protests, adjusting his sunglasses indoors like the douche he is.
"Sure, because everyone accidentally falls into a pool with three Hooters waitresses." I shake my head, watching Quinn's shoulders shake with silent laughter.
"Speaking of lonely nights," Jarron deflects, "what's Santa bringing you, Lyle? Maybe one of those fancy inflatable-"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence," Lyle warns, but he's grinning. "Some of us have standards."
"Is that what we're calling it now?" Quinn pipes up, then breaks into a weird coughing fit.
I place my hand on her back. "You okay there, darlin'?"
She waves me off, but her cheeks are flushed. "Fine, fine. Just remembered I need to grab something from that store over there."
"Perfect timing - I need new drumsticks anyway," Lyle says. "Meet back here in an hour?"
"Try not to get mobbed by teenage girls this time," Jarron calls after him.
"That was you last week!" Lyle shouts back.
Quinn's already disappeared into Bath & Body Works, leaving me wondering what's got her acting so strange. But Christmas shopping calls, and I've got a certain songwriter to shop for.
"Don't buy anything stupid," I warn Jarron as he heads toward the liquor store.
"When have I ever?" he asks with that shit-eating grin of his.
"You want that list alphabetically or chronologically?"
The music store tucked away in the corner of the mall calls to me like a beacon. Through the window, I spot the perfect gift - a vintage leather-bound songwriting journal, its pages edged in gold. Quinn's been scribbling in a spiral notebook since she joined the tour, keeping her words close like precious secrets.
My fingers trace the soft leather as I pick it up. The shop owner, an older man with callused guitarist's hands, nods approvingly.
"That's a special piece," he says. "Made in Nashville, back when everything wasn't mass-produced."
"Does it come with the pen holder?" I ask, noticing the leather loop on the spine.
"Sure does. Here-" He reaches under the counter and pulls out a silver fountain pen. "These were popular with the old country writers. They say Hank Williams used one just like it."
The price tag makes me wince, but Quinn's worth every penny. I think about how her eyes light up when she's working on a new song, how she hums melodies under her breath when she thinks no one's listening.
"I'll take it," I say, pulling out my wallet. "Could you engrave something on the pen?"
"What'd you have in mind?"
I smile, remembering the first time I heard her sing. "'Keep writing your story.'"
The owner starts working on the engraving, and I notice a small brass key hanging from the journal's ribbon bookmark.
"That's for the lock," he explains. "So she can keep her dreams safe until she's ready to share them."
My chest tightens. Quinn's always guarding her heart, her music - like she's afraid someone might steal them away. Maybe this will show her she doesn't have to anymore.
Now to find my moronic brothers something.
Back on the bus, Quinn ties a candy cane-striped apron over her new reindeer pajamas. "Who's ready to destroy my grandmother's sugar cookie recipe?"
"As long as they're better than those hockey pucks Lyle made last year," I tease, pulling on my matching PJs. The flannel is soft against my skin, and Quinn's eyes light up seeing us all coordinated.
"Those weren't hockey pucks," Lyle protests, measuring flour with surprising precision. "They were... rustic."
"They set off the smoke alarm," I remind him.
Jarron emerges from his bunk in his usual leather jacket, Austen close behind. "You three look like a Hallmark movie threw up on you."
"And you look like you're about to make some questionable life choices," Quinn fires back, not missing a beat.
"The best kind." Jarron grabs his keys. "Speaking of which, I've got some mistletoe with a very specific purpose-"
"If you finish that sentence, I'm adding laxatives to your coffee tomorrow," Lyle warns.
Austen snorts. "Come on, man. There's a bar downtown calling our names."
"Don't wait up, children or Santa won't come." Jarron winks, heading for the door. "Try not to burn down the bus with your Norman Rockwell routine."
The door slams behind them, and Quinn rolls her eyes. "How does he make everything sound dirty?"
"It's his superpower," I say,
Less chit chat, more mixing," Lyle commands, wielding a wooden spoon like a conductor's baton. "These cookies aren't going to bake themselves."
"Yes, sir." Quinn salutes with a flour-covered hand, leaving a white streak across her forehead. "What Christmas movie are we starting with?"
"Die Hard," Lyle and I say in unison.
Quinn groans. "That is not a Christmas movie!"
"Sounds like someone needs a holiday education," I say, reaching for the remote.