Page 2 of Four More The Merrier

I close the laptop, rubbing my temples. "It will involve more than sixty-three people and better comparisons than discount bin country stars."

"At least he didn't say you sound like your Aunt Pam at karaoke night."

"Low blow, Abs. Low blow." But I'm laughing now, because she's right – Aunt Pam's rendition of "I Will Always Love You" at the VFW hall is still legendary for all the wrong reasons.

I sink into my secondhand armchair, the springs groaning under my weight. "I don't know how much longer I can do this, Abs. The heat's out again, I'm living on freezer burnt hotpockets, and my neighbor's cat keeps trying to break in through my bathroom window."

"I thought you signed with that label? What was it... Shooting Star Records?"

"Rising Star." I take another sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste. "And yeah, I did. Three months ago. You know what they've done since then? Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"What do you mean nothing? They're supposed to be like, producing your album, or something, right?"

"They're supposed to be doing a lot of things." The coffee cup trembles in my hand as I set it down. "Every time I call, it's 'next week' or 'we're working on it' or my personal favorite – 'these things take time, Quinn.'"

"But they're a real label, right?"

I laugh, but it comes out more like a wheeze. "If by real you mean they operate out of what I'm pretty sure used to be a dry cleaner's, then yeah, super real. And get this – I'm their only artist. Should've been my first clue something was off."

"Their only... Quinn!"

"I know, I know." I press my forehead against the cold window, watching a pigeon strut across the train tracks. "But they were the only ones who showed any interest. After six months of open mics and dropping demos everywhere, they were it. My big Nashville break.”

"Some break."

"Yeah." The pigeon takes flight as another train approaches. "I've got enough saved for maybe two more months of rent. After that..." The words stick in my throat like day-old bread.

"Quinn, honey..." Abby's voice softens. "You know you can always come home. No one would think less of you."

"Really? Because I can already hear Dad's 'practical career' speech. And Mom would just give me that look – you know the one. Like she's disappointed but trying to be supportive."

"So what? Better than freezing to death in a haunted dry cleaner's recording studio."

I drain the last of my coffee from the mug. "It's not haunted. The weird noises are just rats."

"That's... not better."

"Look, I've got to get ready for work." I stand, joints cracking from the cold. "Can't be late to serve overpriced lattes to wannabe record producers."

"Promise me you'll think about it? Coming home isn't giving up. It's just... regrouping."

"Yeah, sure." I toss my cup in the sink. "Love you, Abs."

"Love you too, you stubborn idiot."

I end the call and shuffle to my closet, pulling out my barista uniform – black pants with coffee stains that won't wash out, and a polo shirt with the Bean Scene logo. The bathroom mirror shows dark circles under my eyes that concealer barely touches.

My fingers fumble with my hair tie as I twist my auburn mess into something resembling a bun. A meow from the window makes me jump – my neighbor's orange tabby is back, pressing its face against the glass.

"Not today, Satan." I tap the window. "Go mooch breakfast somewhere else." The cat just blinks at me, unimpressed.

I grab my guitar case – can't leave it in this cold – and my bag. The apartment door sticks in its frame, requiring a shoulder check to open. As it slams behind me, the cat's meow echoes through the bathroom window, sounding suspiciously like "I told you so."

2

QUINN

Ibalance on the rickety stepladder, trying to hang a paper turkey that looks like it was made by kindergarteners with questionable artistic skills. The Bean Scene's attempt at holiday cheer feels as hollow as my plans for actual Thanksgiving.

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