Page 7 of Four More The Merrier

I glance around my apartment, considering. 'Under the loose brick by my window. The one with the peace sign graffiti.'

'Classy hiding spot. Very 1990s teen movie.'

'Shut up. There's coffee in it for you when I get back. The good stuff I steal from work... stole from work.'

'Deal. When you're famous, remember who watered your dying plants.'

'They're not dying, they're just... dramatic.' I look at my windowsill collection of rescued clearance plants. 'Okay, maybe a little dying.'

'Break a leg out there. Montana's gonna love you.'

'Thanks D. Don't let Mr. Ficus die. He's my favorite.'

I set my alarm for an ungodly hour, triple-checking it's actually set to AM. My suitcase sits ready by the door, guitar casebeside it. Everything I need for the next three months packed into two bags and a backpack.

The train rushes past, but tonight it doesn't bother me. Its rhythm matches the excitement thrumming through my veins. Tomorrow, I'm trading this view of rusty tracks for Montana mountains.

I curl up under my blankets, clutching my phone close. The screen glows with opened tabs - weather forecasts for Montana (freezing), maps of the route (endless), and that luxury resort (intimidating). Sleep feels impossible with tomorrow looming so large, but I force my eyes closed.

"Goodbye, Nashville," I whisper to my ceiling. "Don't miss me too much."

4

QUINN

The sun's barely peeking over the horizon when I pull out of Nashville, my ancient Honda protesting the early start with a concerning rattle. I pat the dashboard like it's one of my dying plants.

"Come on, Betty, we've got this. Just need you to hold it together for a few more states."

The first few hours blur past in a caffeine-fueled haze. I've got my road trip playlist blasting - carefully curated to avoid any country music. Can't risk getting sick of my genre before I even start the tour.

Then somewhere outside Springfield, Missouri, Betty makes a sound no car should ever make. The steering wheel jerks right, and I wrestle it onto the shoulder.

"No, no, no." I jump out, already knowing what I'll find. The front passenger tire looks like it picked a fight with a knife and lost. "Seriously?"

I'm popping the trunk when a pickup slows beside me. The driver, sporting a beard that could house small wildlife, leans out his window.

"Need some help there, sweetheart?"

"I'm good, thanks." I keep my voice firm but polite, the way you learn to after years of dealing with handsy customers at bars.

He parks anyway. Perfect.

"Now, don't be stubborn. Pretty thing like you shouldn't be changing tires."

I pull out my spare and jack, making sure he sees my phone in my hand. "My boyfriend's on his way." The lie rolls off my tongue smooth as honey. "He works for Nascar's pit crew, actually. Should be here any minute."

That does it. His truck roars back to life. "Well, if you're sure..."

"Positive. Thanks though!"

I wait until he's gone before muttering, "Creep," and getting to work. The sun beats down as I loosen lug nuts and position the jack. My hands are black with grime, my favorite sweater's probably ruined, and I've lost at least two hours.

"Some rock star lifestyle this is turning out to be." I grunt, fighting with the last bolt. "Bet Taylor Swift never had to change her own tire on the way to her big break."

Like a bad fucking joke, a couple hundred miles down the road, steam starts to billow from under Betty's hood like she's auditioning for a horror movie. The temperature gauge has been creeping up for the last hour, but I just chalked it up to be malfunctioning, like everything is is in this piece of metal, and now here I am, stranded on some backroad in South Dakota where the corn seems to stretch into infinity.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." I scroll through my phone, searching for the nearest mechanic. The signal keeps dropping in and out. "Of course. Because why would anything go right today?"

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