25. Twenty-Five
Twenty-Five
Quinn
The notification chimes just as I’m putting the finishing touches on my surprise. My finger hovers over the ‘Confirm Purchase’ button for the airline ticket to New York—a spontaneous decision to join Vince for the final days of the tour. Three days away from Jasmine will be hard, but Grace assures me she can handle it, and the thought of seeing Vince’s face when I show up at the venue makes the trip worth it.
Then my phone chimes again. And again.
‘Call Vince ASAP,’ from Emily. ‘Don’t overreact until you talk to him.’
‘Quinn, have you seen TMZ?’ Lacey’s text reads.
My stomach drops as I open the link Lacey sent. The headline screams at me in bold, sensationalistic type: WILD GUITARIST VINCE SAVAGE RETURNS TO OLD WAYS—SPOTTED WITH MULTIPLE WOMEN AT NASHVILLE NIGHTCLUB.
The photos load one by one, each like a punch to the gut. Vince in a dark club, a stunning brunette pressed against him in a booth. Another shows the woman looking adoringly into his eyes while her hand rests intimately on his thigh. The third photo shows Davis Matthews with a curvy blonde practically in his lap at the same table.
I sink back against my chair, my hands suddenly cold. Last night, when Vince called, he’d seemed off, distracted. He’d mentioned running into an old friend but nothing about a club, nothing about women. He’d said he was tired, that he missed us.
The ‘Confirm Purchase’ screen times out on my laptop; the decision made for me.
My phone rings—Vince. For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail. But that’s not who we are. That’s not who I want to be.
“Hey,” I answer, hating the tightness in my voice.
“Quinn.” He sounds relieved, then immediately tense. “Have you seen them? The photos?”
“Just now.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” he says quickly. “I ran into Davis after the show, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer about getting a drink. I was there for maybe twenty minutes, tops. Nothing happened.”
I close my eyes, trying to sort through the jumble of emotions. Hurt. Disappointment. A strange, hollow ache that feels too much like the beginning of heartbreak.
“I believe you,” I say, and I mean it. The photos don’t show anything beyond Vince sitting with these women. No kissing, no obvious flirting. Just proximity.
“You do?” The surprise in his voice stings a little.
“Yes. But what I don’t understand is why you went in the first place. And why you didn’t mention it last night.” I run my hand through my hair, frustration building. “Why put yourself in that position at all, Vince?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t know,” he finally admits. “Davis caught me off guard. We have history, and I... I guess part of me wanted to prove that I’m not that guy anymore.”
“By going with him to pick up women?” The words come out sharper than I intended.
“That wasn’t the plan. I just agreed to one drink.” His tone hardens slightly. “And you know what? I did walk away. I was there for less than half an hour. I even told that woman I was taken. The photos don’t show me leaving, do they? They don’t show me turning down multiple offers.”
“So I should be grateful you didn’t actually cheat?” I ask, caught off guard by his defensive shift.
“That’s not—“ He sighs heavily. “I’m just saying it wasn’t as bad as it looks. And honestly, Quinn, I’m on tour. I can’t exactly lock myself in the tour bus every night. There are going to be clubs and parties and women. That doesn’t mean I’m doing anything wrong.”
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my runaway emotions. “Look, I said I believe you, and I do. But this feels... it feels like you’re straddling two worlds, Vince. And I don’t know where I fit in that picture.”
“You know exactly where you fit,” he says, his voice dropping lower, more intense. “You and Jasmine are important to me. This was a mistake, one stupid mistake that I walked away from. The photos don’t show that part—me leaving after less than half a drink, me turning down that woman repeatedly.”
“Why agree to go at all?”
The silence stretches between us, filled with all the things neither of us wants to voice. The fear that maybe he’s not really ready for this life—this relationship—this depth of commitment. The doubt that anyone can change so fundamentally in such a short time. The whispers that say we rushed into something neither of us fully understood.
“I don’t have a good answer for that,” he finally says. “I fucked up. I should have just told Davis no.”
My phone chimes with another incoming call—Bridgett. Of course. My cousin has probably seen the photos, too, ready with a healthy dose of ‘I told you so’ about rockstars and their inability to change their stripes. I send it to voicemail. Whatever doubts I’m having, I don’t need her amplifying them.
“Quinn? Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” I sigh, rubbing the space between my eyebrows. “I just... I need some time to process this.”
“What can I do?” he asks, and I hear the genuine frustration in his voice. “Tell me what you need.”
What I need—such a simple question with such a complicated answer. What I need is to know that I haven’t been completely naive. What I need is to not fall in love with someone who’s going to break my heart. What I need is to believe that the Vince I know—the one who reads bedtime stories to Jasmine and makes me laugh until my sides hurt—is the real one, not the one splashed across TMZ.
“Just... be honest with me. Always. Even about the things you think might hurt me.” I close the laptop with the uncompleted flight purchase. “And give me a little space right now. I’m not going anywhere. I just need to think.”
“Space,” he repeats, the word sounding hollow. “Right.”
“Not space like that,” I clarify, hearing the strange edge in his voice. “I mean a few hours to sort through my feelings without you trying to fix it. We’re okay, Vince—at least we will be okay.”
Even as I say it, I wonder if it’s true. If we’ll navigate this small hiccup that somehow feels like a preview of bigger storms to come.
“I miss you,” he says softly. “Both of you. So much it physically hurts.”
“We miss you too.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Jasmine keeps searching for you every time a door opens. She gets this confused look when you’re not actually there.”
“She does? I hate missing all these little moments.”
“I know.”
It’s just one more sweet experience he’s missing. Another reminder of the reality we’ve chosen—him on the road, me at home trying to capture his lost moments with his daughter. A modern family built on the shakiest of foundations.
“I should let you go,” he says after a long pause. “Give you that space. But Quinn... I meant what I said before. You’re important to me.”
After we hang up, I sit on the edge of the chair, staring at the phone in my hand. Bridgett has left a voicemail, but I don’t listen to it. I don’t need her judgment right now, her certainty that this is exactly what happens when you get involved with someone with a reputation like Vince Savage’s.
My phone chimes again with a text from Vince: ‘I would have said no to Davis if I’d been thinking clearly. The person I am with you is the real me. I promise.’
I don’t reply immediately, still sorting through my tangled emotions. It’s not that I don’t believe him. It’s that I’m scared by how easily his past self can reclaim him, even briefly. It’s that I’m terrified of building a life with someone who might always have one foot in a world that has no place for me—a woman who values herself too much to spend her life wondering who’s warming her man’s bed when he’s on the road. I’ve worked too hard on myself to settle for being someone’s home base while they explore greener pastures, even if only in their mind.
I don’t want my emotions to cloud my thinking. I begin listing the facts, separated from the feelings. Vince went to a club with a known womanizer and didn’t tell me about it. Period.
The rest—the photos and speculation—they don’t mean anything.
The facts, laid out this way, seem almost trivial. But it’s the implications that gnaw at me. The ease with which he slipped back into his old patterns, even if only for a short time. The life he leads on the road is filled with temptations and opportunities I can’t even imagine. The fundamental question is if someone can ‘really change’ who they are, or do they just learn to suppress it better?
I glance at my watch. It’s time to head back to Vince’s place. I scoop up Luna from her perch on the windowsill, earning a disgruntled meow for my efforts.
“I know you’re mad at me for being gone so much,” I tell her, scratching under her chin despite her attempt to look aloof. “But try to understand—there’s a baby who needs me.”
Luna blinks her yellow eyes, supremely unimpressed by my explanation. She squirms out of my arms and stalks to her food bowl, tail twitching with disapproval.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I promise, filling her automated feeder. “Try not to punish me by knocking over the remaining houseplants.”
The drive to Vince’s—a route that’s become so familiar I could navigate it blindfolded—gives me time to center myself. Whatever is happening between Vince and me, Jasmine shouldn’t have to feel the tension. She’s innocent in all this, a baby girl who just wants both people who care for her to be happy.
Grace appears in the doorway as I arrive, her expression sympathetic. “I’ve seen the photos,” she says quietly. “Would you like to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. I’m still... processing.”
She nods, understanding as always. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. And for what it’s worth, I believe in what I see here, in this house. Not what some gossip site tries to sensationalize.”
I check on Jasmine, napping peacefully in her crib, completely unaware of the adult complications swirling around her. She’s wearing the little music note onesie Vince bought. She looks so sweet just lying there.
“What am I doing, sweet girl?” I whisper, gently touching her cheek. “Am I in over my head here?”
As I leave the nursery, I pull out my phone, scrolling through the recent photos Vince and I have exchanged. Him backstage before a show, looking nervous and excited. Jasmine and I on the deck, her asleep in my arms. The three of us on the beach before he left, a selfie of us looking like a family with the sunset turning everything golden.
These are real, too. These moments exist alongside whatever drew him to that club with Davis. The question is which version will ultimately win out.
My screen lights up with another incoming call—Bridgett again. This time, I answer. Not because I want her advice but because staying silent feels too much like hiding.
“I saw the photos,” she says immediately, not bothering with hello. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I tell her, and it’s mostly true. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“It never is with guys like him,” she says with a sigh. “Quinn, I don’t want to say I told you so, but—“
“Then don’t,” I cut her off, surprising us both with my sharpness. “Look, I know you’re worried about me, but I need you to trust that I know what I’m doing. Vince and I are figuring things out. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours.”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she says, her voice softening. “I care about you.”
“I know. And I love you for that. But right now, I need support more than warnings.”
After we hang up, I feel a strange sense of clarity. Defending Vince to my cousin has somehow clarified my own feelings. Yes, I’m hurt. Yes, I’m worried about what it means. But I’m not ready to throw away what we’re building over one misguided decision.
What I don’t know—what sends a chill down my spine as I stare at the photos again—is whether Vince’s past behavior is truly behind him or if he’s destined never to outrun it.
As I look at Vince playing his guitar for a sleepy Jasmine in one of my favorite photos, I realize this is what matters—not some blurry nightclub photos, Bridgett’s doubts, or even Vince’s momentary lapse in judgment. What matters is that I’m strong enough to demand the respect I deserve while still leaving room for someone to prove they can be better than their past mistakes.