“Shush.” He took the sunglasses from my hand and returned them to his face. “After nap time.”
I frowned and plopped into the seat across the aisle. His partying was getting out of hand.
The attendant emerged from the galley with a Bloody Mary. “Here you go, Nix.”
First-name basis already? This one wasn’t wasting any time.
“I want an orange juice,” I ordered, drawing her attention. “And a glass of water, no ice. And a cup of coffee.”
“Anything else I can get you?” she asked, her question aimed at Nixon, not me.
He waved her off with a grin.
“Do not get any ideas of taking her to the bedroom,” I said after she was out of earshot. “She’s probably already poked holes in a condom.”
Nixon chuckled. “So cynical this morning.”
“Helpful, not cynical. Think of how many skanks I’ve chased off with my prickly attitude. Think of how many ‘accidental’ pregnancies I’ve help you avoid. You could say you’re welcome.”
He laughed, sipping his drink. “So where are we going?”
“I assumed Ethan told you since you’re sitting here.”
“Okay, let me rephrase. Why are we going to Montana? You never go home.”
I stared out the window, watching the ground crew motioning to our pilots. “Nan died.”
Voicing the words was like a hammer to my chest, and every ounce of my strength went to keeping the tears at bay.
“Fuck.” Nixon’s hand stretched across the aisle, and his fingers closed over my forearm. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I’m so, so sorry. Why didn’t you say anything? We could have canceled last night’s show.”
“I needed it.” Of all people, Nix would understand the need to disappear into something for an hour to avoid reality.
“What can I do?”
“Don’t fuck the attendant until after you drop me off.”
He chuckled. “Done. Anything else?”
“Help me write a song for her. For Nan,” I whispered.
“You got it.” His hand tightened on my arm, then fell away as the attendant returned with my drinks. She set them on a table, leaving us to relax in the plush leather seats as the pilot came back to greet us and confirm our flight schedule.
When he disappeared into the cockpit, I put on my headphones and closed my eyes, listening to nothing as we prepared to depart. Nixon saw it as my signal that I didn’t want to talk and settled deeper into his chair. He was snoring before we were wheels up, soaring above the clouds.
And I was flying home, dreading the return I’d put off for nearly a decade.
The last time I’d seen Nan, or any of my family members, had been nine years ago. I’d left home at eighteen, ready to break free and chase my dreams. The first year had been the hardest, but then I’d found Jonas and Nixon and our band had become my makeshift family. With every passing year, it had been easier and easier to stay away from Montana. It had been easier to avoid the past.
Except the easy way out had also been the coward’s path. I’d missed the chance to tell Nan goodbye.
She wouldn’t call me on Mondays anymore. There would be no more cards in the mail on my birthday, stuffed with a twenty-dollar bill. Nan wouldn’t boast to her water aerobics class that her famous granddaughter had won a People’s Choice Award, then call to tell me exactly what she’d bragged.
Tears welled as the sunlight streamed through my window. I blinked them away, refusing to cry with the flight attendant checking on us constantly, waiting for Nixon to wake up. I turned on my music and cranked the volume so loud the sound was nearly painful. Then I tapped my foot, matching the tempo. My fingers drummed on the armrests of my chair.
I lost myself in the rhythm, like I had last night, only this was someone else’s beat.
My own seemed fragile at the moment, like a pane of glass that would shatter if I hit it too hard. I was tiptoeing around my own talent, avoiding it, because lately I’d been questioning my ability to craft something new.
This creative block was crushing me.
Nixon’s deepening love affair with cocaine, alcohol and whatever other substances he was putting into his body had hindered his creative prowess as of late too.
Our record label had been hounding us for months to get going on the next album. Jonas was flying home to Maine to write new lyrics. Since he’d found Kira this past year—his muse—most of his recent songs were fluffier than we’d recorded on previous albums. Nixon