Chapter Four
Jack
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I CAN’T STOP SMILING . My cheeks hurt, but hell, I don’t care. Jinnie said she’s proud of me.
Those words loop in my head like a chorus I never want to end.
She’s proud of me.
After all the years I spent chasing scraps of validation, from anyone who’d throw me a nod, hearing her say that? It hits different. It’s not just words. It’s Jinnie. And she means them—at least, I think she does.
Maybe a little off. Her eyes weren’t glowing with the same excitement that’s bubbling inside me, but I chalk it up to sadness. I did see the sadness in her eyes, but she said the right things.
I glance at my phone again, rereading Liz Belfer’s last message: Let’s talk logistics tomorrow. Contract is ready. Memphis is excited.
Memphis . The word sounds like a damn miracle.
Since I called her, she’s been blowing up my phone. I think Liz might be more excited than I am.
No. Impossible.
I think about the studio—real soundproof walls, a producer who knows my name, maybe even a live band. Actual fans. Paychecks. Hell, I might finally be able to buy something more than gas station coffee and new strings. Maybe even fix the old truck.
Shit. The truck. I’ve got to ask Aggie if I can leave it here. Or maybe I can park it at Jinnie’s place.
I picture Jinnie in the front row of some venue, lit up by stage lights, smiling wide while I play the songs I wrote for her. Songs she inspired. That’s how it’s supposed to go, right?
She just needs time. That’s what I keep telling myself.
I think back to how she looked when I first told her about the offer. She didn’t jump into my arms or pop champagne, but she hugged me. Said she was proud. Said she knew how hard I worked.
But there was something behind her eyes. Something I couldn’t quite place. Not fear, exactly. Not disappointment. Just... hesitation.
I try not to let it get to me. She’s probably just thinking about logistics, too. The distance. The time apart. The what-ifs. But those are small things in the grand scheme. Once the checks start coming in, once the crowds are singing my lyrics back to me, she’ll see.
This is my shot. I’ve fought hard to get this. My father’s voice in my head telling me I’d never be anything but a joke was still there. But it was getting much quieter these days. And when I’m there on the stage, it’s going to be drowned out. He’s going to be eating his words.
Jinnie believes in me. She just needs to see what I already know—this is going to work.
And when it does, when the music takes off and I’m not just “Jumping Jack” from nowhere, but someone people actually recognize, I’ll make it up to her. I’ll build her something real. A home. A future.
Because all I want—besides the music—is her.
And I’m not going to lose either.
My phone vibrates in my hand again.
Liz: Make a list of your original songs in order of strongest to weakest. We’ll start recording the top three first.
A grin splits my face. Recording. Actual studio time. I grab my battered notebook I keep all my lyrics in. The pages are dog-eared, coffee-stained, filled with scribbles and cross-outs—years of work about to pay off.
Jinnie’s face flashes in my mind—how she’d smiled at me this morning, how she’d said she wanted this for me. I grab another notebook. One that’s mostly clean. I’ve been keeping track of my tips and jotting down some of the things I need to do around here for Aggie.
Shit.
Aggie. I feel bad that I’m not going to have time to finish all the chores. I’ll make it up to her one day as well. I’ll hire a team of contractors to do all the things around here.
My pen hovers over the first page. Which song to lead with?
A memory barges in, sharp as a knife—Dad’s voice, rough from years of yelling over tractor engines: “Music don’t feed you, boy. You’ll starve with that guitar.”
I’m thirteen again, standing barefoot in the barn, sweat slicking my neck, arms burning from lifting hay bales too heavy for a kid my size. My shirt’s stuck to me, my hands blistered raw, and I’m blinking back tears, trying to hide them before he sees.
Dad’s voice slices through the dusty air like a blade. “You think music’s gonna feed you?” he sneers. “You’ll starve before you ever make a damn dime with that guitar. Your mother fed into that nonsense. I blame her for making you weak.”
“I’m not weak,” I retort with all my teen bravado.
“You don’t learn to work, you won’t survive,” he said, like it was law. Like the only way to be worth anything was to bleed for it on some damn farm.
I wanted to scream that I didn’t want to survive. I wanted to live. I needed a chance. Just one.
“I am working,” I argue.
“Get your damn boots on. You’re going to be helping with the branding.”
I wanted to cry. I hated branding. It was cruel and I hated the smell.
I can still hear the cows crying. It’s a sound that follows me, even years later.
I tap my pen against the paper. What song to lead with? “Midnight Drive” has the catchiest hook, but “Southern Cross” has the better lyrics. “Whiskey Confession” always gets the biggest reaction at shows. Not that I’ve ever had a drop of whiskey. Had my share of beer and even tried some moonshine once, but never whiskey.
I grab my song lyric notebook and flip through the songs. It’s funny how things changed. There’s a before-Jinnie era and an after-Jinnie era. I went from writing about open fields, haying and farming to love.
I flip to one of the ballads I wrote about losing something you love. It was a combination of a song about my mom and the many pets on the farm we lost. It was a ballad that was well-received when I sang it at the bar. My dad heard me play it once. He lost his shit. He hated it. Called it sappy and weak-kneed.
But looking back, he could have only made that judgement after he’d listened to the whole thing without me realizing he was there.
I smile thinking about the song and one of the many dogs it was written about. Rusty . Mangy old thing when we first found him limping near the edge of the property, ribs showing through his coat, one ear torn like he’d lost a few fights and didn’t mind losing more. I was maybe ten, and I begged to keep him. My dad said no, flat out, but Mama snuck him scraps and let him sleep in the barn. He followed me everywhere after that. Wouldn’t even eat unless I was sitting with him.
Rusty didn’t care when I came home muddy or when I cried because I’d flunked a math test or taken a punch at school. That dog was loyal in a way people never were. After Mom died, Rusty seemed to know. He got more protective of me. He stuck by me, even when I was bottle-feeding calves.
The day he didn’t get up, I thought maybe he was just tired. He was old. Moved slower every year. But by dusk, I knew. I sat with him all night in the hay, holding his head in my lap while he took his last few breaths. I buried him myself the next morning behind the shed, even though Dad told me to just toss him in the woods. Said he was just a dog.
And then there was Beans.
Scrappy little barn cat with half a tail and a death wish. Always picking fights with raccoons twice her size. She’d curl up on my chest when I lay out in the grass after chores, purring like a damn engine. She got into the grain silo one day and didn’t come out. I looked for her for hours. Days. But she was gone, just like that.
I remember thinking—I can’t keep doing this. Loving things just to lose them. That kind of hurt sticks. Gets into your bones.
I swore I’d never let anything matter that much again.
Then Jinnie came along.
And now I’m starting to think I was full of shit.
My grip tightens on the pen. Not anymore. With this contract, I’ll never have to stand by helpless while something I love gets taken away.
I jot down a couple more songs I know will be worthy of being recorded. I have heard stories about artists being denied creative control over their albums. I think that might partially be because the artist’s music wasn’t good enough. The industry experts would know what worked best. I wanted to present the best of my catalog.
Catalog.
The thought made me smile. I had a catalog. Some of my earlier songs were pretty silly. The musings of an adolescent boy who didn’t know the first thing about life. I wrote about tractors and farming equipment because that’s all I knew. I wrote a particularly embarrassing song about my first kiss. It wasn’t technically my first kiss, but it’s the one that should have been. The other one doesn’t count in my book.
I, of course, add the songs Jinnie helped me with. And I definitely add the one that I wrote about her. When I’ve got fifteen songs that I love and have been audience tested, I start the task of putting them in order. I’ve got some practice doing that with my set lists. I’m getting a lot better but again, I’m sure Liz and the experts are going to have an opinion. But I don’t want them to think I’m a total novice. “Jack? You alive in there?” Aggie’s calls out.
“Yeah, come in.”
She opens the door and smiles. “Writing your next big hit for the bar tonight?”
Shit.
I haven’t told her.
This is going to be a difficult conversation. I owe her the truth.
“Actually, Aggie, I need to talk to you about something.”
She steps into the room. “Why do I feel like I’m not going to like what comes next?”
I set my notebook aside and stand up. “Remember that woman at the bar the other night? The blonde in the fancy clothes?”
Aggie nods slowly. “The one who couldn’t take her eyes off you? Hard to forget.”
“She’s a talent scout. For Rockline Records.”
Aggie’s mouth falls open slightly. “No kidding?”
“No kidding. She wants to sign me. Full deal. Studio time. Tour. Everything.”
For a moment, Aggie just stares at me. Then her face breaks into the biggest smile I’ve seen since I moved in. “Jack! That’s incredible!”
Before I can say anything else, she’s across the room, pulling me into a hug that nearly cracks my ribs. For such a small woman, she’s surprisingly strong.
“Congratulations! I knew you had star power!”
“Thank you.”
“How’s Jinnie handling it?”
“Good! Great, actually.” The words come out too fast. “She’s happy for me.”
“That right?”
“Yeah. I mean, she was a little worried at first, but—” I shrug. “She’ll see. Once things get rolling, I’ll bring her out for shows. It’s gonna be amazing.”
Aggie studies me for a long moment, her dark eyes seeing way too much. “Well, I’m happy for you, kid. You’ve earned this.”
“Thanks, Aggie. For everything. Letting me play at the bar, giving me a place to stay—”
“Don’t get mushy on me now,” she says, waving a hand, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. She turns to leave, then pauses in the doorway. “Just remember—half those songs in that book? Wouldn’t exist without that girl.”
The door clicks shut behind her before I can respond. Of course I know that. Jinnie’s been my biggest supporter from day one. That’s why this is going to work—because she believes in me.
My phone buzzes again.
Liz: Also need a list of covers you do best. We’ll want a mix for live shows.
I tap out a quick reply, then flip to a fresh page in my notebook.