Chapter Nine
Jack
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A GGIE AND I SIT AT her table, finishing our breakfast and talking about nothing special.
“You got plans for the day?” Aggie asks.
I smile because I know what that means. She’s got a job for me and I’m happy to do it. “Nope. What can I do?”
She laughs softly. “Am I that predictable?”
I shrug. “Nah, but I’ve been doing nothing the last couple of days. I need to get busy. Want me to paint your house?”
Her face lights up as she starts laughing again. “No, but maybe one day. I was thinking I’d like to put in some flowers. Those old beds need to be cleaned out.”
“I’ll do it,” I tell her.
“You don’t have to do it right away.”
“I’ve got the day,” I tell her. “Jinnie is working.”
“Are you working on new music?”
I shake my head. “No. Nothing is coming to mind right now.”
“I would appreciate it.”
“No problem. I’ll get started.”
“I’m going to the nursery and then the grocery store. Need anything?” she asks.
“Nah. I’m good. Thank you, though.”
We’ve settled into this weird thing. I wouldn’t call it a marriage, but more of an understanding. She’s a little like a mother, but also a friend. I suppose she’s the aunt I never had.
I grab water, my headphones, and stick my phone in my pocket with my playlist on. I head outside and survey the project I’m going to be working. The flowerbeds are overgrown with weeds. The beds stretch around the house with what appears to be an overgrown and half-choked out rose garden surrounded by rocks. My mom loved roses.
I start by pulling out the old, dead stalks and tossing them into a pile while thinking about my mom. She used to recruit me to help in the garden or her flowerbeds. Looking back, I know she did it to save me from barn chores. She had known how much I hated it back then.
I can’t help but think about how different my life might have been if she’d lived. It’s one of those things I think about often. She would be supportive. I know it.
The sun warms my back as I work. It’s satisfying in a way that music isn’t. The tangible progress, something I can see and touch. I like seeing the progress. Watching something ugly be turned into something pretty.
By mid-morning, I’ve cleared most of the beds and started turning the soil. Aggie returns from the nursery with a special treat for me. It’s lemonade, but it’s got strawberries as well. It’s one of my favorites.
“Thank you.” I take a few big drinks.
“You’re a lifesaver, Jack,” she says as she surveys my progress. “Those beds have been an eyesore for years.”
“Happy to help,” I say, taking another long drink. “Is the car loaded?” I ask.
She grins. “I might have gotten carried away. I bought mulch and flowers.”
“Do you mind if I work on those roses?” I ask her.
She looks over at the one area I haven’t gotten to yet. “Oh, honey, I don’t know if there’s any saving those things. They’ve been neglected for years.”
“I see some green,” I tell her. “I think I can salvage them.”
“Be my guest,” she says.
“I’ll grab the stuff from your car.”
I pop the trunk of Aggie’s car and stare at the haul. Bags of mulch, trays of flowers, and a couple of small shrubs are crammed into every available space. She really did get carried away. I heave the first bag of mulch onto my shoulder and carry it to the side of the house where we’ve set up our makeshift staging area. Aggie’s already on her knees in one of the beds, pulling out a trowel and gloves from a gardening caddy.
“You sure you don’t want me to just take care of this while you supervise?” I joke, dropping the bag with a thud.
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Not a chance, cowboy. This is my garden now, and I’m getting my hands dirty.”
I chuckle and head back to the car for another load. There’s something about working outside like this that feels good—like I’m accomplishing something real. Music can be fickle, but this? This is progress I can see.
By the time I’ve unloaded everything, Aggie’s already got a row of marigolds planted along the edge of one bed. She pats the dirt around them with steady hands, her face scrunched in concentration.
“Where do you want these shrubs?” I ask, holding up one of the small plants still in its plastic pot.
She glances up, squinting against the sun. “Oh, those go over by the fence. They’re hydrangeas. I thought they’d look nice along the edge.”
I nod and carry them over to the fence, setting them down carefully before grabbing a shovel to dig the holes. Aggie hums a tune under her breath as she works. I find myself smiling as I listen. It’s a simple moment, but it feels good.
After a couple of hours, the landscaping is starting to take shape. The roses are trimmed back, revealing new growth that looks promising. The marigolds are bright spots of orange and yellow, and the hydrangeas are planted in neat rows along the fence. Aggie stands back, her hands on her hips, surveying the work with a satisfied smile.
“It looks amazing,” she says, brushing dirt off her hands. “You’ve got a real talent for this, Jack.”
I shrug, feeling a little bashful. “It’s just digging and planting. Anyone could do it.”
“But you did it. I can’t believe the transformation. Thank you.”
We head inside for lunch. It’s strange to think about—how different my life could have been if I’d stayed on the farm. Maybe I would have found joy in this kind of work instead of feeling like I was suffocating under my dad’s expectations.
We sit at the kitchen table with sandwiches and chips, talking about nothing in particular. Aggie tells me about her plans for next year. I listen with half an ear. I want to give her my full attention, but I have that familiar tingle. There’s a song brewing. All the manual labor helped jog it free and now I’m itching to get it on paper.
“Uh-oh,” Aggie says.
I blink and focus on her. “What’s wrong?”
“I know that look.” She laughs. “You’ve got a song.”
I grin. “I do.”
“Go. I’ll clean up. I’ll be out in the greenhouse if you need someone to listen.”
“Thanks, Aggie.”
I jump up and go into the bedroom. I grab my guitar first. The melody is there. I know the words, but I need to hear the melody. Once I feel like I know where I’m going with it, I grab my notebook.
The words flow faster than I can write them, the rhythm thrumming in my veins. This one’s good. It’s a summer song. One of those songs that will always take you back to the summer. I smile as I write another line. This one is about summers back home. I remember the bonfire with my brothers and yes...beer. I kissed Melanie Watson that night. Back then, I thought it was the best kiss I was ever going to have.
I know better now. More of the good memories flood back. I twist them and turn them into lyrics. I know it’s not just me who’s going to have bonfires, first kisses, and four-wheeling in a beat-up old truck in my memory banks. This is that kind of song everyone can relate to. Maybe it’ll be a summer anthem one day.
Three months ago, I was stocking shelves at a hardware store, counting pennies for gas money. Now? Now I’ve got a bank account my father can’t touch, a room at Aggie’s that’s starting to feel like home, and a growing stack of cash from weekend gigs.
The old anger simmers under my skin at the thought. That night plays on loop in my head sometimes—Dad’s handprint still stinging my cheek, his voice dripping with contempt. “College? What the hell you gonna do with that? Waste of time and money.”
Well, look at me now, old man. Making more without a degree than I ever would’ve shoveling shit on your farm. All those assholes who gave me shit for messing around with my guitar instead of going out drinking and fucking. All those people that saw me as the outcast because I wasn’t like my dad or brothers.
They were right. I’m not like them. I’m not like most of the kids I went to school with. They used to make me feel like shit because I was different. Not anymore. I like that I’m not like them.
The truth is, some nights, when the crowd’s roaring and women are pressing tips into my hands with lingering touches, I imagine Aiden and his crew watching from the back of the room. I picture their shocked faces when they realize the guy they called “loser” is actually worth something.
Maybe I’ll never be a rock star. But I’m already more than they ever thought I’d be. I do have fans. People like to hear me sing.
I take my guitar and notebook outside. The fresh air always helps me think just a little clearer. I need the summer breeze for inspiration. I sit down on the steps and pick up where I left off.
I’m so into playing, I didn’t see Jinnie pull up. I look up to see her approaching, two to-go cups from the bakery in hand. Her hair’s tied up in that messy knot I love, her shorts showing off legs that should be illegal.
“Hi.” She smiles. “I brought you a couple of muffins.”
“You’re an angel.”
“Debatable.” She plops down on my other side, peering at the notebook in my lap. “New song?”
“Yeah. Want to hear it.”
“Uh, duh.” She laughs. “Is this one about me?”
I flash her a cocky smile. “Not every song can be about you.”
“Can’t it?”
“This is about summer.”
“Oh, I’m intrigued. Play it.”
The chords come easily, the melody flowing as I sing the new lyrics. It’s almost there. I can feel it in my fingers.
Jinnie’s eyes light up as I play. “Jack, that’s amazing.”
“Needs something though,” I admit, strumming the last chord. “Feels like it’s missing a verse.”
She tilts her head, thinking. “What if after the chorus, you added something about summer fading into fall. It’ll be a nice finish to the story you’re telling.”
The suggestion clicks instantly. “That’s perfect.”
I scribble in the notebook, the words coming fast.
Jinnie leans against my shoulder, watching me write. “See? Genius.”
“You’re the genius,” I murmur, kissing the top of her head.
“So, you’re saying I’m your muse?”
“I’m saying you’re everything,” I reply without thinking, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
She stills for a moment. Then she looks up at me, her hazel eyes searching mine. “Jack...”
I clear my throat, suddenly feeling exposed. “I mean, you inspire me. You know that.”
She smiles. “You inspire me too.”
I start to play, falling into the melody, picking up for the bridge and when I get to the end, I play the new lyrics.
When I’m done, she starts clapping. “Yes! I love it.”
“Think you can sneak in tonight?” I ask. “I want to play it but you have to be there. I want you to hear the big debut.”
“I’m sure I can sneak in.” She grins. “Don’t tell Aggie, but I do have a fake ID if I need it.”
“Yeah?”
“Shh.” She laughs. “I got it last year. I’ve never used it. Me and a couple of my friends thought we were going to spend a weekend in the city going to clubs. Never happened. The thing is just collecting dust. I paid fifty bucks for it. I may as well dust it off and see if it works.”
“I can’t wait to see you in the crowd.”