Page 40 of Four More The Merrier

"I swear to God, Austen, if you forgot your wallet again..." I stumble to the door, yanking it open.

Quinn stands there holding a paper bag, her hair still styled from the show. "Hey. I, uh, brought you some stuff for your stomach."

"What are you doing here? Thought you were buying rounds."

"Changed my mind." She pushes past me into the bus. "My grandma's cure-all for upset stomachs."

"You didn't have to-"

"I know." She sets the bag on the counter. "Consider it a thank you for letting me sing your parts tonight."

"Letting you? Pretty sure I was face-down in the bathroom when that decision was made."

She laughs, and it hits different than her stage laugh. More real. "True. But still. Thanks for not being mad about it."

"Hard to be mad when you didn't totally suck."

"Wow. High praise from the great Jarron Haynes."

Quinn sets down a steaming bowl of soup and a blue Gatorade on the small table. The aroma hits my nose - chicken noodle, but not the canned stuff. Something about it smells homemade.

"You really didn't have to do all this." I push myself up straighter on the couch, trying not to look as pathetic as I feel.

"Well, I figured being sick and alone sucks." She tucks a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "I mean, if you want me to go, I can. But I thought maybe you'd like some company?"

I should say no. I should maintain that wall I've built. But the bus feels too quiet, too empty, and my stomach doing backflips. "You're not afraid I'll puke on you?"

"Please. I worked at a daycare during college. I've been puked on by professionals." She perches on the arm of the couch, keeping a safe distance. "Besides, you look marginally less green than earlier."

"Gee, thanks." I reach for the Gatorade, my hand shaking slightly. "Shouldn't you be out celebrating with everyone else?"

"Bars aren't really my scene." She shrugs. "And honestly? After tonight, I kind of need to process everything. It's a lot, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." I take a careful sip. "You did good up there. Really good."

Her eyes widened slightly at the compliment. "Was that actual praise from Jarron Haynes? Quick, someone check if hell froze over."

"Don't get used to it. It's probably just the fever talking."

She laughs, and for the first time, I find myself actually wanting her to stay. Maybe it's the sickness making me soft, or maybe there's more to her than I've let myself see.

"So," she says, reaching for the TV remote. "What terrible movie are we watching while you try not to die?"

"You can choose, but I draw the line at chick flicks." I shift on the couch, making room as Quinn settles in with her own bowl of soup.

She flips through Netflix. "Too late. 'Santa's Secret Songwriter' it is."

"You're evil." I grab another cracker. "Taking advantage of a sick man."

"Hey, you're the one who ate gas station sushi. Your judgment's already questionable."

The movie starts, and it's exactly the cheesy disaster I expected. Some struggling musician moves to a small town and falls for the local Christmas tree farmer. Quinn provides running commentary that actually makes it bearable.

"Oh come on," she groans at the screen. "No one writes a hit song that fast."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Please. I once spent three weeks writing about my neighbor's cat."

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