Page 6 of Four More The Merrier

"I guess." I sit up, surveying the chaos I've created. "Though I was hoping for more than two days' notice."

"That's showbiz, baby." She attempts a terrible accent that makes me laugh despite myself.

My phone chimes with a notification, interrupting our conversation.

"Hold on, Abs." I check the screen. "Oh my god, you didn't."

"I absolutely did. Consider it an early Christmas present."

"A hundred dollars? I can't take this." The PayPal notification glows accusingly on my screen.

"You can and you will. Get yourself something nice for that meeting. Something that says 'I'm a professional artist who definitely doesn't live next to train tracks.'"

I laugh, but my throat tightens. "You're the best friend ever, you know that?"

"Tell me something I don't already know."

"I'll hit up some shops tomorrow on the drive up. Maybe find something that doesn't scream 'I microwave my meals.'"

"That's the spirit." She yawns. "Call me when you get there?"

"Of course. Love you, Abs."

"Love you too. Break a leg, superstar."

The call ends and I stare at my phone, at the PayPal notification still showing on my screen. The amount isn't huge, but from Abby - who's still paying off her student loans - it means everything.

I tap out a quick thank you message, adding about fifteen heart emojis, then turn back to the disaster zone that is my bedroom. Clothes everywhere, an open suitcase that's seen better days, and somewhere in this mess is my guitar case.

My thumb hovers over Mom's contact photo - one from happier times, both of us grinning at my debutante ball. I should be elated to call my parents and tell them I may have struck gold. In a perfect scenario, I imagine they would be proud of me, maybe order some t-shirts with my face on them.

But yeah right, that would only be my parents if they were abducted by aliens or some shit. The train rumbles past, rattling my windows, making the decision for me. I lock my phone screen.

"Not today, guilt trip," I mutter, tossing it onto my bed.

My laptop chimes with a new email. Tommy's actually followed through with something for once - hotel details for Montana. I click the link, expecting some roadside motel with questionable sheets and even more questionable neighbors.

"Holy shit."

The Resort at Paws Up spans my screen - rustic luxury rooms nestled in Montana wilderness. My living room could fit in their bathroom. Hell, my entire apartment could probably fit in their bathroom.

I pull up Google Maps, zooming in on the resort's location. "Greenough, Montana." The name rolls off my tongue, foreign and exciting.

Another email from Tommy rolls in:

'Quinn - Attached itinerary for first week. Room's covered by tour budget. Bring warm clothes. And your guitar better not have any more stickers on it. -T'

"Sure thing, boss." I glance at my guitar case, covered in band stickers and song lyrics written in Sharpie. "What he doesn't know won't hurt him."

I grab my phone again, this time texting Derek:

'You'll never believe what happened. Got a tour gig. Leaving tomorrow for Montana.'

His response comes quickly: 'No shit! That's amazing Q! Finally escaping the coffee plantation?'

'Already quit. Listen, weird favor - could you check on my place sometimes? Water Mr. Ficus and his friends?'

'Your sad collection of barely alive plants? Sure. Where's the key?'

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