Chapter Twenty
Jinnie
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I ’M STANDING IN THE kitchen, chopping onions for the pasta sauce when Max jumps onto the counter, his tail flicking lazily as he watches me with those big green eyes. I don’t even bother shooing him off anymore. He’s stubborn, and honestly, I kind of like the company. The knife hits the cutting board in a steady rhythm. The dinner is too fancy for just me, but it’s keeping me busy. That’s my goal these days. I have to keep myself busy or I will think about him. So, if that means making enough pasta sauce to feed a small army, that’s what I’m going to do. My plan is to freeze it for quick dinners in the future.
“You’re not gonna like this,” I tell him, nodding toward the pan on the stove. “Garlic and onions aren’t your thing.”
Max doesn’t seem to care. He stretches out, sprawling across the counter like he owns it. I sigh and push him gently to the side so I can toss the onions into the pan. The sizzle is satisfying, and soon the kitchen fills with that warm, savory smell that always makes me feel like I’m home. The onions and garlic are from my parents’ garden. I can’t remember the last time, if ever, that I’ve bought any produce really.
I grab a wooden spoon and stir, leaning against the counter as I watch the onions soften. My phone buzzes on the counter next to me, and I glance at it without picking it up. It’s probably another notification from some random account tagging Jack in a post. I’ve stopped checking those. It’s easier that way.
Max nudges my arm with his head, demanding attention, and I scratch behind his ears absentmindedly. “You’re lucky you don’t have social media,” I mutter to him. “No drama, no heartbreak—just naps and tuna.”
He purrs like he agrees.
The sauce simmers while I boil the pasta water. I lean over the pot, stirring the noodles occasionally, my mind drifting despite my best efforts to stay present. Max jumps down from the counter and winds himself around my ankles, his purring a low rumble that fills the quiet kitchen.
I try to focus on the task at hand, the rich scent of tomatoes and herbs filling the air. But it’s no use. My thoughts keep circling back to Jack, no matter how hard I try to push them away. It feels like forever since I walked away from him and that life. And yet, he’s everywhere. In every song that comes on the radio, in every article that pops up online, in every whispered conversation I overhear at the bakery. He’s inescapable.
I drain the pasta and mix it with the sauce, the act so routine that my hands move on their own. Max watches me intently from the floor, his tail flicking back and forth as if he’s waiting for a taste. I dish myself a plate and sit at the table, but I barely taste a bite.
After dinner and freezing the leftover sauce into small portions, I crawl into bed. My plan is to watch the baking show and completely zone out.
But of course, my damn phone is begging me to look at it. Just one peek. What will it hurt? I reach for it and thirty minutes later I’ve learned all about ‘Jumping Jack’s’ sexiness. His eyes. His style and every other shallow detail. All those people talking about how hot he is doesn’t know the man. They don’t know he’s ticklish in just one spot on his left side. Or that he’s an absolute animal lover...even with my surly cat. They are all in love with the man they see on the stage. I’m in love with the guy who loved to sit by a campfire and play music directly under the stars.
That gives me an idea. I get out of bed and pull on warm boots and my coat. I dig around and find some matches. I snatch some paper and stuff it in my pockets. Then I go on the hunt for the little flashlight my parents insist I keep around in case of a power outage.
I set out in the dark. It’s chilly, but not cold. I know this path by heart—past the oak with the gnarled trunk, left at the pile of river rocks Aggie keeps meaning to do something with, down the gentle slope to the flat clearing where Jack’s tent used to stand.
The fire ring is still there. I drop to my knees, a sad smile on my lips. This is where he played me my first song. I use the flashlight to collect branches and a couple of pieces of wood. It takes a few minutes to get the fire started. I sit down on Jack’s ‘couch’ and hold my hands out to the fire.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I already know what it’ll be before I pull it out—another notification from Jack’s account. I shouldn’t look but clearly I’m a glutton for punishment. The screen glows unnaturally bright in the dark:
Jumping Jack’s West Coast Tour breaking records! Who’s ready for San Diego tomorrow night? #LivingTheDream #JumpForJack
Attached is a photo of him onstage, drenched in sweat and colored lights, wearing some ridiculous sequined shirt that makes him look like a Vegas magician. The caption is all exclamation points and hashtags—nothing like the Jack who used to scribble lyrics on napkins and mutter about “selling out.”
A twig snaps behind me.
“Thought I smelled smoke,” Aunt Aggie says. She walks into the clearing, wrapped in an ancient flannel robe, her gray braid fraying at the end.
I quickly lock my phone. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d come out here and...”
I don’t want to tell her I’m trying to be closer to Jack. That’s silly.
Aunt Aggie lowers herself onto the log beside me with a grunt. “Your fire is going out.”
I quickly add a few more branches. I don’t have any intention of making it too big. I’m just trying to recreate a moment I know would never happen again.
“What are you doing out here?” Aggie asks.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” She laughs. “Show me.”
“Show you what?”
“That damn phone,” she says. “I’m not that old. I know you young people have those things attached to your hand. Let me guess, more photos of Jack?”
I sigh. “I need to block him.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t stop looking at the pictures,” I say.
“Let me see.”
I unlock my phone and pass it over. Aggie squints at the screen, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“That’s not him,” she says flatly. “And what is that awful shirt he’s wearing?”
I laugh and take the phone back. “I’m sure that is Liz’s idea. And the posts are probably Liz. Or some intern. Jack would never post anything so stupid. At least the old Jack wouldn’t.”
“I remember the first time I heard him playing out here,” Aggie says.
“He made some beautiful music here.” I sigh. “Did you hear his new single?”
She nods. “I did. Is that one you helped him with?”
“No,” I scoff. “That was all Liz and the label,” I say, poking at the fire with a stick. “It’s catchy, but it’s not him . Not really. He told me he didn’t want to do the pop thing, but it seems like they’re pushing him in that direction.”
Aggie hums, her eyes fixed on the flames. “You know, sometimes people get lost in the noise. Doesn’t mean they’re gone for good.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think he wants to come back, Aggie. He’s got everything he ever wanted—fame, money, adoring fans. Why would he want to return to this?” I gesture around the clearing, the firelight flickering on the trees.
She gives me a knowing look. “Because this is where his heart is. Or at least it was.”
I don’t respond, my throat tightening. The fire crackles softly, and for a moment, it feels like Jack could step out of the shadows any second, guitar in hand, ready to play something raw and real. But he doesn’t.
“You still love him,” Aggie says quietly. It’s not a question.
“It doesn’t matter,” I whisper. “He’s not mine anymore.”
She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Oh, sweetheart. Love doesn’t just disappear because someone changes their address or puts on a sequined shirt or lets people call him Jumping Jack or whatever nonsense he agreed to be called.”
I snort despite myself. “Jumping Jack Hayes.”
“Sounds like a rodeo clown,” she mutters.
The flames crackle between us, casting flickering shadows around the air. I pull my knees to my chest, the night air cooling the tears on my cheeks before I can wipe them away.
“He used to care about the music,” I whisper. “Now it’s all hashtags and sequins.”
Aggie sighs. “Honey, the bakery uses your cinnamon roll recipe, yeah? But they slap the café logo on it and charge triple.”
I blink at her. “What’s that got to do with—”
“Same damn thing.” She stabs the fire again. “Record company’s just packaging him. Doesn’t mean what’s inside changed. He can be Jumping Jack on stage but when he’s with you, he can be Jack. You need to be his touchstone.”
The wind shifts, blowing smoke into my face. I cough, my eyes stinging. “He doesn’t need me. I haven’t heard from him in a while. He doesn’t need a touchstone. He’s caught up in a hurricane of fame and I’m the last person he wants to talk to.”
“Ever try to talk over a hurricane?”
“He could try harder.”
“He will.” Aggie stands with a groan, her knees popping. “When the glitter fades and the crowds thin, he’ll remember who he is.” She ruffles my hair. “Go home. You’ll catch cold.”
I shake my head. “I’m staying.”
Aggie mutters something about stubborn kids but trudges back toward the house. She returns ten minutes later with a sleeping bag and a pillow.”
“Don’t burn down my woods,” she grumbles.
I’m left alone once again. I get lost staring at the flames. Somewhere out there, Jack’s playing to thousands. But here, in this quiet clearing, I can still hear the boy with the guitar plucking along as he tries to find a rhythm.
My phone buzzes again. I don’t check it. I spread the sleeping bag out next to the fire and climb inside. I fall asleep thinking about Jack and the fact he still had my heart and I wasn’t sure I would ever get it back even if he forgets about me.