Chapter Eleven
Jack
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A NOTHER DAY, ANOTHER trip to the lumberyard. I’m thinking this whole construction thing might be a good fallback plan. I enjoy it. I even did a little sketching. I’m building a back deck for Aggie. She prefers it in the winter because it’s south-facing. I haul the two by fours around back. I have to admire my framework.
I did good.
I grin and can’t resist taking a picture of the soon-to-be deck and sending it to Michael. I’ve been trying to keep up with them, but they’re busy with pulling in the second cutting of hay. It’s hard to believe it’s already happening. Soon, it’s going to be fall and then winter. I won’t miss winter, but there are times I get a little homesick.
I adjust the framing square, making sure the angle’s perfect. My hands are calloused, raw from the wood and tools, but it feels good to be working with my hands again. I grab the drill and sink another screw into the joist.
I step back, wiping the sweat from my forehead with my shirt, and survey my work. The deck’s starting to take shape. The frame is solid, level, and ready for the boards. Aggie’s going to love this.
I grab another board, hoisting it onto the frame. The wood smells fresh. I measure twice, mark the cut line with my pencil, and grab the circular saw. The blade bites into the wood, sending a spray of sawdust into the air.
I fit the board into place, lining it up exactly where it needs to go. The drill spins another screw into place, securing it tightly. I run my hand over the smooth surface of the wood, feeling the satisfaction of something being built right. Aggie is already talking about the stain color. I know there is a lot of sanding in my future. I don’t mind. It’ll keep me busy.
The screen door creaks open behind me. “Wow!” Aggie exclaims. “Would you look at that!”
She’s balancing two plates in one hand and a pitcher of lemonade in the other.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm. “Big enough?”
“Oh, I would say so! This is amazing! I can’t wait to have my morning coffee out here.”
She sets the food down on the little patio table—thick turkey sandwiches, chips, and what looks like homemade pickles. My stomach growls on cue.
“Eat,” she orders, pouring lemonade into a glass. “Before you pass out and I have to explain to Jinnie why there’s a dead musician on my new deck.”
I snort, putting down the drill and dusting off my hands. The sandwich is perfect—just the right amount of mayo, tomatoes still cool from the fridge. Aggie watches me eat with pride in her expression.
“This is really impressive, Jack,” she says. “I don’t know what to say.”
I nod, swallowing a bite. “I think I’ll have it done this week. Then I’ll sand it and you can tell me what stain you want on it. Need to get it stained and dried before the rain comes.”
She waves a pickle at me. “I’ll pay you for this.”
I shake my head. “No, you won’t.”
“Jack—”
“I’m living here rent-free,” I point out. “Least I can do is fix a few things.”
“This goes beyond fixing a few things,” she says. “This is absolutely incredible.”
“I like it,” I tell her. Believe it or not, the work helps me think. I can write better.”
Aggie sighs. “Fine. But I’m buying pizza next week.”
“Deal.”
We eat our sandwiches while talking about the future deck. It’s peaceful here—so different from the farm’s constant noise of machinery and livestock.
Aggie leans back in her chair, sipping her lemonade. “You know, Jack, you’ve got a real gift,” she says after a moment. “Not just with the music, but with this too. You’ve got an eye for detail. That’s not something everyone has.”
I shrug, half-smiling as I take another bite of my sandwich. “Just trying to make it look good. Figured if I’m gonna do it, might as well do it right.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Not everyone thinks that way. Most people cut corners these days. But you? You take pride in your work. That’s rare.”
It’s not something I’ve ever really thought about before. Back on the farm, it was always about getting the job done as fast as possible—plow the fields, mend the fences, milk the cows. No one cared if it was pretty; they just needed it functional.
But this? This is different. Every cut, every screw, every measurement feels intentional. Like I’m building something that matters—not just a deck, but proof that I can create something out of nothing. Something that lasts.
“I’m not sure if you were born to be a musician or a carpenter,” she says.
I smirk. “Me either.”
“The crowds keep getting bigger,” Aggie says. “Had three people ask last night if you’ve got any recordings.”
The compliment is an ego boost. “Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.” She sips her lemonade. “Might be time to think bigger than The Hollow Log.”
“I think I still have a lot to learn,” I tell her. “Jinnie helped me arrange the song list. And I’m learning how to put the guitar down and just sing.”
“I don’t think you need to be too polished,” she says. “You do you. That’s what people like.”
Before I can respond, her phone rings. She glances at the screen and groans. “Damn it, Ricky.”
“What did you break this time?” She answers the phone with her frustration evident.
As she disappears inside, still berating whoever’s on the other end, I finish my sandwich and get back to work. I really do want to finish this project. But I can’t stop thinking about what she said. About me looking for something bigger than The Hollow Log. The idea sticks in my brain as I work.
Can I do that? Record something? Play actual venues?
I shake it off and keep working. I feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket. I finish drilling in the last screw and pull it out. I shield the screen from the sun to see the screen.
My stomach drops.
Dad.
I consider sending him to voicemail, but then I worry about my brothers. What if they got hurt?
I stare at it for three full rings before answering. “Hello?”
“When are you coming back?”
No hello. No how are you. Nothing. Just his usual gruffness.
“I’m not,” I answer.
A beat of silence. “This nonsense has gone on long enough. The farm needs—”
“The farm has Michael and Caleb,” I interrupt.
“Not enough,” he grumbles. “You need to get your ass back here. You’ve played this little game long enough.”
“I’m doing fine on my own. It’s not a game. I’m doing what I want to do.”
“Which is what?” The disdain in his voice is palpable. “Playing that damn guitar in some backwater bar?”
“Making more money than I did at the hardware store,” I shoot back. “And people actually like what I do.”
Dad snorts. “That’s not a career, boy. That’s a hobby. You’re ruining your life.”
The words hit like a physical blow. I force a laugh, though it comes out more like a growl. “Says the man who’s never left his shitty little farm.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” I pace the length of the porch. “You’ll disown me? Oh wait—you already did when I left.”
The line goes quiet for a moment. I can hear Dad’s harsh breathing on the other end. My pulse is pounding in my ears, my fingers gripping the phone so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.
“You think you’re so damn clever,” he finally says. “But you’re just running away, Jack. You always have been. Can’t handle the real work, so you hide behind that guitar like it’s going to solve all your problems.”
“Real work?” I snap, my voice rising. “You call breaking your back for pennies real work? I’m out here actually making something of myself, and you can’t stand it because it’s not what you wanted for me.”
“Making something of yourself?” he scoffs. “You’re a glorified jukebox in a dive bar. That’s not making something of yourself, Jack. That’s wasting your life.”
I clench my jaw so hard it aches. “At least I’m happy. At least I’m not stuck in the same rut you’ve been in for thirty years, hating every minute of it.”
“Happy?” His laugh is bitter, cutting through me like a knife. “You think this is about happiness? Life isn’t about being happy, boy. It’s about responsibility. It’s about taking care of what’s yours.”
“And what’s mine?” I fire back, my voice shaking now. “The farm? The cows? The dirt? That was never mine, Dad. That was yours. You never gave me a choice. You never asked me what I wanted. You just expected me to fall in line like Michael and Caleb. Well, I’m not them. I never will be.”
I hear Dad’s breathing on the other end, ragged and uneven. I can picture him, pacing in the field wearing his old, stained and dirty hat. His face is red and he’s kicking at invisible rocks. I’ve seen him like that before. Usually, it’s at someone trying to screw him over with the price of feed. Or it’s me. Never Caleb or Michael. Only I have the ability to piss him off like that.
“You think you’re so different,” he says. “But you’re just like me, Jack. Stubborn. Proud. And too damn scared to admit when you’re wrong.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “Maybe I am like you,” I say finally. “But that doesn’t mean I have to live your life.”
The line goes dead. No goodbye, no parting shot. Just silence.
I throw my phone onto the table hard enough to make the lemonade glasses rattle. The anger burns through me, white-hot and familiar.
Not a career. A hobby.
Like I’m still that scrawny kid getting laughed at in the school hallway. Like nothing I’ve accomplished here matters.
Aggie steps back onto the porch. She must’ve heard at least part of the conversation, but she doesn’t comment. Instead, she just picks up the empty plates and pats my shoulder as she walks past.
Aggie’s words echo in my head: Might be time to think bigger.
I pick up the hammer again, slamming it into the next nail with enough force to split the wood. Maybe that’s what I need to do. I have to go bigger, to prove once and for all that this isn’t just some phase.
Recording. Touring. Real success.
The kind even my father can’t ignore. I need my name in lights. Billboards. I want my face on TV.
“Everything okay?” Aggie asks.
“Peachy.” I force a smile. “Hey, any chance I can play more nights? Maybe weekends too?”
Aggie raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I thought we were saving your voice?”
“I’m sure. My voice is fine. I need the tips. And the exposure. If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind a bit,” she says. “Come inside. I’ve got brownies.”
I follow her in, the anger still simmering under my skin. But now there’s something else, too—a determination, a plan taking shape.
If Dad wants to dismiss my music as a hobby, I’ll make it impossible to ignore.
I’ll make sure the whole damn world hears me.