Page 1 of Four More The Merrier

1

QUINN

The blaring horn of the 5 AM train jolts me awake, rattling my windows with its thunderous passing. My teeth chatter as I pull my thin blanket tighter around my shoulders. The radiator must have died again.

"Son of a bitch." I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, knocking over an empty water glass. "Fifty-six degrees? Inside?"

The train's rumble fades into the distance, but the chill settles deeper into my bones. My toes curl against the cold hardwood as I swing my legs out of bed. The floor creaks with each step – this building's probably older than my grandma.

"Come on, come on." I jab at the thermostat. Nothing. "Perfect. Just perfect."

The kitchen's even colder, if that's possible. My breath comes out in visible puffs as I fill the coffee maker with water. The ancient machine gurgles to life, promising warmth in its own sweet time.

"Please tell me I still have..." I yank open the freezer, finding one lone hot pocket hiding behind a layer of frost. "Last resort breakfast, you're up."

The microwave's LED display flickers as I punch in the time. Two minutes feels like forever when you're freezing your ass off in a shit hole Nashville apartment that's practically touching the train tracks.

The microwave dings, and I burn my fingers retrieving my pathetic breakfast. As I blow on the molten filling, my gaze drifts to the framed photo on my counter – me in my graduation cap, my parents flanking me with their picture-perfect smiles.

"Music isn't a real career, Quinn," Dad's voice echoes in my head. "You need something stable, something practical."

I take a scalding bite of the hot pocket, wincing as it burns the roof of my mouth. Three years ago, I'd never have eaten something like this for breakfast. Mom would've had fresh coffee brewing and pancakes on the griddle, the smell wafting up to my cozy bedroom in our suburban house.

"What about marketing?" Mom had suggested over one of those breakfasts. "Your arts degree would be perfect for that. My friend Susan's company is hiring."

The coffee maker sputters its last drops. I dump in sugar – the cheap kind from the dollar store, not the organic stuff Mom used to buy.

"I don't want to market other people's dreams, Mom. I want to chase my own."

That was the last real conversation we had before I loaded up my beat-up Honda Civic with everything that would fit. Left the rest behind, including their expectations.

My phone buzzes against the counter, Abby's face lighting up the screen. I swipe to answer, grateful for any distraction from my frozen morning.

"Quinn! Oh my God, you're never gonna believe this!"

"Abs, indoor voice. It's not even six here." I blow on my coffee, willing the caffeine to kick in faster.

"Check your email. Right now. The Tuesday night video from Rusty's is up on YouTube."

My stomach does a little flip. "The one from last week? When I did the Patsy Cline cover?"

"Yes! And Quinn, it's getting views!"

I juggle my phone and coffee, pulling up my laptop. "Define 'getting views.' Last time you got excited it was because everyone in your book club watched it."

"It's at sixty-three! That's like, viral for Galax, Virginia standards."

The hot pocket turns to lead in my stomach. "Sixty-three? That's... that's it?"

"Well, yeah, but-"

"Abby, I've seen videos of cats walking into walls that get more views than that."

"Oh wait, there's comments too! Some guy named... uh... LocallyH8ted247 says you sound like…. oh, a 'trailer park Wynonna Ryder."

Coffee splashes onto my keyboard as I snort. "Wow. That's... specific. And wrong on multiple levels. Judd, not Ryder."

"I guess I should have proofread before I told you that one, but, whatever, the point is people are watching! This could it!"

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