Chapter Eight
Jack
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A GGIE IS SITTING AT the kitchen table, drinking her coffee when I walk in the door.
“So, you’re really going,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Is Jinnie doing okay?”
I nod. “I think so. We’re both sad but I know I’m going to see her again. I’ll get established in Memphis and have her come for a visit.”
“I think I understand why she’s sad,” Aggie says softly. “You two...your romance was fast and furious. That kind of thing burns hot, and I don’t think it was anywhere near burning out. You’re leaving right at the beginning of something really amazing.”
“It’s not like I’m dying, Aggie. It’s just Memphis.”
She turns then, finally meeting my eyes. “You think you’ll be back?”
The question hangs between us. We both know the answer.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “This deal—it’s everything I’ve been working for.”
She nods. “I know. And I’m thrilled for you. I know you don’t have any reason to come back here, but you always have a place here, Jack. Even if it’s to get away from the spotlight, you can come here and hide. I know you want the fame and fortune, but I think there are a few people who might tell you it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’m not trying to discourage you, but I want you to go into this with your eyes wide open.”
“I’m not na?ve, Aggie.” I try to keep the defensiveness out of my voice.
“I know you’re not.” She smiles, but there’s something sad in her eyes. “I just want you to remember that success isn’t always what we think it’ll be.”
I grab a mug from the cabinet and pour myself some coffee, even though I don’t need the caffeine. My nerves are already firing on all cylinders with the anticipation of what’s ahead.
“You sound like my mom,” I say, then immediately wish I hadn’t. The memory of her still hits like a punch to the gut sometimes.
Aggie doesn’t seem offended. “Your mom was a wise woman.”
“Yeah.” I stare into my coffee. “She would’ve been proud, I think.”
“Oh, Jack, she would’ve been over the moon. But she also would’ve told you not to lose yourself in the process.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
“Have you told your dad yet?” she asks.
“No, he doesn’t care.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter, but we both know it does.
“He might surprise you.”
“Doubt it.” I take a sip of coffee. “He made it pretty clear what he thinks about my pipe dreams.”
Aggie sighs. “You know, Jack, sometimes parents don’t know how to show they care. Your dad might not understand your dreams, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you.”
I roll my eyes. “You didn’t hear what he said when I told him I wanted to play music for a living.”
“No, I didn’t,” she admits. “But I know loss changes people. You said your dad’s been a different since your mother passed away. Maybe he’s crapping all over your dreams because he doesn’t want you to leave.”
She makes a good point. I’ve been so focused on my own grief, my own dreams, that sometimes I forget Dad was left alone with three sons to raise.
“He’s still wrong,” I mutter.
“Maybe,” Aggie says, standing up to refill her mug. “But being wrong doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you.”
I look out the window and see a sleek black car pulling down the driveway. My belly does a flip-flop. “She’s here,” I say.
Aggie takes a deep breath. “Take care of yourself, Jack.”
She gives me a hug. It’s wild because I’m sadder about leaving Aggie’s house than I was about leaving home.
“Thank you, Aggie. You saved me. I was lost and you were there when I needed someone.”
“Don’t think about it,” she says. “I’m glad I could help.”
Liz honks the horn.
Aggie snorts. “Good to see she has manners.”
I grab my guitar and duffel bag and walk to the door. I pause and take one last look at the place I’ve called home for the last couple of months.
It hurts.
I know I’m moving on to bigger and better things, but it still hurts. “Bye, Aggie.”
“Bye, Jack. Take care of yourself.”
I step outside and glance at my truck parked out of the way. Aggie didn’t mind it staying at her place.
I open the back door and put my stuff in the backseat before sliding into the front seat.
Liz flashes me a megawatt smile. “Ready for the first day of the rest of your life?”
“I think so.”
She laughs and hits the gas, throwing up gravel as she speeds down the driveway, leaving a trail of dust.
“I’m changing your life, Jack,” she says. “You are going to be rich beyond your wildest dreams. People are going to know your face everywhere you go. They’re going to scream your name and follow you around.”
I’m not sure that’s a selling point, but I take it. She talks all the way to the airstrip where a private jet is waiting for us. This is wild. I feel like I need to pinch myself.
This is really happening.
We board the jet and I sit down in one of the leather chairs. This is weird. Wild. I fight the urge to take a picture; I need to play it cool. Ten minutes later, we’re taking off. The leather seat is so soft it feels like sinking into a cloud. I press my forehead against the oval window, watching the patchwork of fields and highways shrink below us.
“First time flying private?” Liz asks from across the aisle, swirling amber liquid in her crystal glass.
I grin. “First time flying, period.”
She laughs. “Get used to this, kid. This is your life now.”
The words send a thrill through me. My life now. No more singing on a small stage I built myself. Or painting decks in the middle of a hot day. Or milking cows. All of that is over.
“We’ll get you settled,” Liz says. “Tomorrow, we’ll go straight to the label. They’re eager to meet their new star. Everyone is looking forward to the money you are going to generate.”
Star.
I can’t resist pulling out my phone and snapping a picture of the clouds below.
“You should see the studio,” Liz says, pulling my attention back. “State-of-the-art equipment. Producers who’ve worked with Taylor, Beyoncé, and some of the biggest bands in the industry.”
My fingers itch for my guitar just thinking about it. I glance down at my phone, my thumb hovering over Jinnie’s name in my contacts. I should text her, let her know I made it onto the plane safely. But what would I say? That I’m flying in a private jet while she’s probably sitting at home missing me?
“You can call your girlfriend when we land,” Liz says, noticing my hesitation. “Right now, we should talk about your image.”
I look up, confused. “My image?”
“How we’re going to market you.” She pulls out a sleek tablet and swipes through some photos. “The label’s thinking rugged country boy with an edge. The voice of small-town America with enough bad boy appeal to make the girls swoon.”
“I’m just me,” I say, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I write songs about what I know.”
Liz’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Everyone’s ‘just them,’ Jack. But to make it in this business, you need to be the version of you that sells records.”
The plane hits a patch of turbulence, and my stomach lurches. I grip the armrests, unsure if it’s the altitude or Liz’s words making me queasy.
“Don’t worry,” she says, mistaking my silence for nerves about flying. “We’re not going to change you too much. Just enhance what’s already there. That rawness is what’s going to make people go crazy for you. Our stylist will tap into that rawness.”
I nod deciding to trust the process. I knew there would be some style changes. That was cool with me. As long as they didn’t put me in flashy jumpsuits or tight jeans and big belt buckle I was pretty cool with things.
The flight was over before I knew it. When we touched down, Liz ushered me to a waiting car. I’ve never been chauffeured anywhere. This is wild.
The city hits me like a live wire. I was staring out the window trying to take it all in. I have never been to an actual city. Our town car glides past Beale Street, where crowds spill onto sidewalks, drinks in hand, moving to music I can feel in my bones.
I can’t help but smile. I can feel the vibe. Music is everywhere here. Signage for open mics, live bands and buskers on street corners are proof of the musical inclinations of this place. I’m going to fit right in. I hope I have time to check out some of the places. Unfortunately, my age is going to keep me out of most of the bars.
The car pulls to a stop in front of a tall building.
“Welcome home,” Liz purrs.
I look at her. “Here?”
The back door is opened by a man wearing a uniform complete with white gloves. Another man pulls my bag and guitar from the trunk. I quickly take the guitar.
Liz strolls across the lobby with me following behind like a lost child. I remind myself to keep my mouth shut. This is absolutely insane. Liz talks with someone in another uniform. Soon, we’re stepping into an elevator. I’m not sure how I feel about living more than two floors off the ground.
Is Tennessee prone to earthquakes?
A minute later, I’m standing in what I know is called a foyer. A massive painting of a guitar covers one wall. But that’s not what has my attention. My legs carry me toward the windows. The penthouse takes my breath away. Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows with an amazing view of the city.
When I turn around to take in the vast space, I see it. My eyes nearly bulge out of my head.
A guitar— a brand-new Martin —propped on a stand in the living room.
I run my fingers along the polished wood. “This is mine?”
“All yours,” Liz says, handing me a keycard. “Courtesy of Rockline.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I murmur.
I love the guitar, but my guitar is well...mine. It’s familiar.
“I have a meeting,” Liz says. “Settle in and we’ll get started first thing in the morning.” She hands me a credit card. “This is for per diem.”
“For what?”
“Food, toiletries, whatever.” She waves her hand. “Order food. I’ll send a car in the morning.”
She leaves me standing there with the card in hand. I look around the place. The kitchen, living room, and dining room are all visible from where I stand. I walk down a short hallway and open a door. It’s a bathroom. I take myself on a tour and discover the place has three bedrooms.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which one is the master.
I take pictures of everything—the skyline view, the king-sized bed, the kitchen with every gadget possible and send them to Jinnie.
Me: Wait till you see this place. You’re gonna love it.
Three dots appear. Disappear. And then quickly appear again.
Jinnie: Wow. Have fun.
I frown at the screen. She’s probably busy.
I text her a few more times, but her replies are always delayed and short. I unpack my meager belongings and then settle in. My gaze is on the city lights below. I know I should get some sleep, but I don’t know how I’ll manage.
The following morning, I’m up early. I wait in the lobby for the car Liz promised to send. Soon enough, I’m walking into the offices of my new label. I’m ushered into a conference room. The label head, a silver-haired guy in a suit that costs more than, shit, anything I’ve ever owned, shakes my hand.
“We don’t just sign anybody, son,” he says, sliding a thick stack of papers across the conference table. “But you? You’ve got it .”
The contract looks like a novel. Tiny print, clauses, percentages.
“I should probably read—”
“Standard boilerplate,” the lawyer interrupts, tapping page twelve. “Just need your John Hancock here and here.”
Liz leans in. “Trust me, Jack. This is your dream, remember?”
I hesitate. Jinnie’s voice whispers in my head— ”Make sure you read everything” —but the label exec is already handing me a pen.
I sign. Yeah, maybe I could have fought harder for a bigger percentage, but considering I have nothing, anything is good. After talking with a few more executives, I’m led downstairs. There are a series of doors with lights overhead.
“This is us,” Liz says.
She opens the door and we walk into an actual recording studio. I’ve only seen them in movies and YouTube videos.
The control room is all blinking lights and giant speakers. The engineer, a guy named Dex with tattoos up to his neck, leads me into the booth. He hands me a pair of headphones. “Just lay down a scratch track first. Don’t overthink it.”
They’ve given me about three minutes to get my bearings. Liz is standing behind Dex, her eyes on her phone. A couple of the executives are sitting on the couch.
The red light flashes and Dex gives me a thumbs up. I launch into the song that got me here. I don’t have my guitar, which is my crutch, but I still manage to sing. Even if my hands do feel empty.
When I finish, the room erupts.
“Holy shit ,” Dex says.
Liz beams. “Told you he was special.”
The label exec whispers something to her. She walks into the booth. “They want to fast-track your first single. We’re talking radio play, music video, the works. Get comfortable being in here. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”
My heart pounds. This is it. This is really happening.