Chapter Twenty-Two
Jinnie
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T HE BAKERY’S OVEN TIMER screams at me, jolting me out of my thoughts. I yank open the door, and a wave of heat slaps me in the face. The cinnamon rolls inside are perfect—golden brown. Normally, this would make my chest swell with pride. Today, it just feels like another thing I’m doing on autopilot. Not just today. I’ve been on autopilot for weeks. Months. I feel lost. Empty.
“Jinnie?” Stephanie’s voice from up front pulls me back to the present. “Can you box up a dozen assorted for the road trip crew?”
I nod, grabbing a pink pastry box before making my way up front. Three college-aged girls cluster near the register, all wearing ripped jeans and band tees— Jack’s band tees—with Jumping Jack scrawled across the chest in that ridiculous lightning bolt font the label designed.
“I can’t believe we got front row tickets!” one squeals, bouncing on her toes. “My cousin works the VIP section. Says he always parties with fans after shows.”
My fingers tighten around the box.
The tallest girl fans herself. “Damn, did you see his Instagram story last night? That man should be arrested for how hot he is.”
The third girl giggles, scrolling through her phone. “Look, he just posted again!” She sighs dramatically. “I’d sell a kidney to meet him.”
Other customers at the counter are all talking about Jack and the fact they saw him play at Aggie’s bar in town. The girls, clearly not from here, are flabbergasted. They had no idea. I toss donuts into the box with little care.
Stephanie materializes beside me. “I’ll take care of them,” she murmurs. “Why don’t you check the supply in back? We need more blueberry muffins.”
I don’t argue. I walk away but I don’t go to the rack with all the fresh baked goods. I go into the walk-in fridge. I lean against the shelves, closing my eyes. It shouldn’t hurt this much. I know he’s long gone from my life. I’m holding on to something that doesn’t exist. I’ve been fine the last few days, but this morning I woke up with a calendar notification.
Jack’s birthday.
I have no idea where he is. I know I can find out because his social media team documents almost every move he makes. His feed has been flooded with pictures of him with fans. Him hunched over a guitar with messy hair with a caption promising new music is coming soon. He’s writing. He’s writing without me. He doesn’t need me anymore. There have been a few candid pictures of him as well. One of him sleeping on the jet, which I just know Liz took. That fact burns through me as well. He’s spending all of his time with her. There have been pictures of him eating a burger with the chain tagged in the photos. I don’t know if that’s a collaboration or some kind of shout out. I hate that I’m watching him live his glamorous life from far away.
I pull out my phone. And before I can overthink it: Happy birthday, Jack.
The read receipt appears immediately. No typing bubbles. No response. Just that little gray Seen that feels like a door clicking shut.
Why would he care that I’m wishing him a happy birthday? He’s got a million people surrounding him telling him that. I haven’t looked at his social media today, but I just know there’s probably a million birthday wishes. He’s probably going to have a big party with industry bigwigs. Celebrities fawning over him.
I’m a distant memory. Hell, that’s probably thinking a bit too much of myself. I doubt I’m even a memory. He’s been traveling the country and has probably forgotten all about me and Aggie and the bar.
I step out of the fridge and almost run into Lisa.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“I’m fine.”
“I saw today is his birthday,” she says.
“It is.”
“Have you heard from him?” she asks.
I force a smile. “No, and I don’t expect to.”
“I’m sorry.”
I shrug it off. “It’s okay. Now, I need to get the muffins Stephanie asked for.”
“So, I think I should warn you about something,” Lisa says.
“What?”
“There’s some kind of pilgrimage.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask.
“Jack’s last show is going to be in Chicago,” she says. “I guess there’s going to be a European leg of his tour. Chicago is going to be the last time he plays in the U.S. for a while. People are making the trek from all around the area up to Chicago. I imagine we’re going to be seeing a lot more of girls just like that. Maybe you should hide out for a while.”
I snort. “I can’t hide out,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “This is my town too. If they want to come here and talk about Jack, that’s their business. I’ll just keep my head down and focus on the bakery.”
Lisa gives me a sympathetic look but doesn’t push it. She knows better than anyone how much this whole situation has been weighing on me. And she’s been great about not bringing it up unless I do first. But today, of all days, it feels like the universe is conspiring to remind me of him at every turn.
I grab the tray of blueberry muffins and head back to the front counter. The girls are still there, now sipping on iced coffees and gushing about how they managed to snag VIP passes for the Chicago show. I keep my head down as I restock the display case, but their words still find their way to me.
“I heard he’s staying at the Ritz,” one of them says with a dreamy sigh. “Maybe we’ll run into him in the lobby.”
“Or better yet,” another one says on a giggle, “maybe he’ll invite us up to his room after the show.”
I feel a pang of something sharp in my chest—jealousy? Anger? Sadness? It’s hard to tell anymore. The thought of Jack with these wide-eyed fans shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Not because I think anything would happen—Jack isn’t that guy—but because it’s just another reminder of how far apart our worlds have become.
And honestly, maybe Jack is that guy now. He’s nineteen. In his prime. Gorgeous. Of course he would want to take what was being offered. He’s a straight guy, and as far as I know, he believes he’s single. If he thought we were together, he’d text me more than once every couple of weeks.
We aren’t together. I’m the only one holding onto that hope.
The girls finally leave, talking about who’s driving and how much longer until they get there.
The bell above the door jingles as they exit, and I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Stephanie gives me a sideways glance but doesn’t say anything, which I’m grateful for. The last thing I need is a pep talk about how I need to “move on” or “let go.” I’ve heard it all before, and it doesn’t help. If anything, it just makes me feel worse. Like there’s something wrong with me for still caring about him.
I grab a cloth and start wiping down the counter, even though it doesn’t need it. The repetitive motion helps calm my mind, if only a little. My phone buzzes in my apron pocket, and I freeze for a second before pulling it out. It’s not Jack.
Aunt Aggie: You doing okay today?
I smile faintly at the screen. She always seems to know when I’m struggling.
Me: Yeah, just a weird day. You know how it is.
I leave it at that and get back to work. As Lisa predicted, there is a steady stream of young women stopping by the bakery on their way to Chicago. It has to be universe’s cruel joke. Rubbing it in.
When my shift finally ends, I cannot wait to get home to the sanctity of my own place. I’m going to shut off the phone. I don’t want to constantly be checking it to see if he’s texted me back. I’m going to assume he’s not going to. Why would he now when he hasn’t in all this time?
“Hi, Max.”
He whacks his tail against the back of the couch where he’s perched.
“You know, I would appreciate a little more enthusiasm when I get home after a long day. You’re a freeloader.”
He doesn’t care.
I change into my comfy sweats, warm socks, and pull on a hoodie. I open the fridge in search of a quick dinner. I need to go to the grocery store. The most mundane tasks feel like monumental chores. I pull out a frozen pizza from the freezer and pop it in the toaster oven.
My phone buzzes.
For one stupid, hopeful second, I think it might be him.
It’s not.
Instagram’s notification glares up at me: Jumping Jack just posted!
I should delete the app. Should block him. Should move the hell on. Instead, I tap the notification like picking at a scab.
The photo hits me like a sucker punch—Jack onstage, bathed in purple spotlights, his shirt half-unbuttoned as he leans toward a sea of reaching hands. The caption reads: CHICAGO—LAST STOP! Who’s coming to party? #BirthdayBash #JumpingJackTourFinale
My thumb moves on its own, scrolling through the comments that are pretty much the same as always.
Marry me!
Most electrifying performer alive!
I’ll give you a birthday gift you won’t forget!
I cringe at the emojis. These women are shameless. Don’t they realize he’s an actual human?
I keep scrolling and then one of the comments catches my eye.
Y’all see the video of him trashing his family farm?
The link taunts me. I shouldn’t click. I definitely shouldn’t click.
I click.
The video loads—grainy, shaky, clearly filmed from the crowd. Jack’s voice booms through the speakers on either side of the stage.
“Do you hear that, old man? That’s fifteen thousand people who actually give a shit about me!” The camera zooms in as he waves his phone toward the screaming crowd. “Tell Aiden to kiss my ass while he’s still mucking stalls!”
The Jack in the video grins, but it’s all teeth. Not at all that cocky, sexy smile that lures me in every time. This is more like a snarl. Nothing like the boy who used to whisper lyrics to me under the stars.
My hands shake as I return to his post. He’s going to be in Chicago for a couple of days. Apparently, because of the ticket sales, they’ve booked a second night.
I shake my head as I stare at the picture of him. I can’t fix this through a screen. If I want the truth, I need to look him in the eye and make him talk to me. And maybe kick him in the ass for being so disrespectful to his own father. I don’t care what his dad did or didn’t do. Jack has better manners than that.
At least, he used to.
There’s a knock at the door. When I open it, it’s Aunt Aggie. “I brought burgers.”
“Aggie,” I say.
“You can say you’re fine, but I know today is a tough one. I got mushrooms on yours. I know you love it.”
I sigh and gesture for her to sit down. “Did you see it?” I ask her.
“That he’s going to be in Chicago?”
“No. Yes, but not just that. Hold on.”
I pull up the video and play it for her. She shakes her head. “That’s not him.”
“That’s exactly him,” I counter. “Or at least, it’s who he’s becoming.”
She sighs. “So what’s the plan? Storm into his fancy hotel? Give him a piece of your mind?”
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks. “But I can’t just sit here while he self-destructs.”
“I agree. That boy needs help—or a good ass-kicking.”