Chapter Thirteen
Jack
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I HAVEN’T SEEN JINNIE in a few days.
Not that I’m counting, or pacing, or checking my phone like a lovesick teenager. Never mind I am exactly that. She said she’s busy, and I get it. Life’s full of stuff. She’s working extra hours to help out her boss at the bakery. She needs the money.
I get it.
Of course, I get it.
She’s working all those hours to try and break free from her husband. It’s still so weird to think of her married. If I had money, I’d give it to her. I want her free of him. My reasons are selfish. I want her to myself. And I do want her to be happy and I don’t like seeing her stressed out. She’s trying so hard to keep her secret to avoid her family finding out. From what I know of her family, they wouldn’t look down on her. They would be there for her. They would support her. She didn’t know how lucky she was to have such an amazing family.
And it’s not just her who’s been busy. I’ve been running between gigs, tweaking songs, and trying to keep up with the many projects around the house, I’m busy. But still. There’s this low hum of missing her. She became such a huge part of my life. She quickly became my best friend without even trying.
I smile when I think about the last night we were together. We stayed up too late, tangled up in her bed with Max pissed as hell we were making noise. It was the kind of night that makes you feel like the world’s spinning a little slower just for you. Her laugh still echoes in my ears. And her smile—damn. That thing could wreck me if I let it.
But I can’t let myself get too tangled up in the wanting. Not tonight. I’ve got a show to play, and the strings aren’t going to tune themselves. I miss my muse. The new song I’ve been working on doesn’t feel quite as perfect without her. But it’s one of those songs that’s been bouncing around in my brain for more than a year. I’ve tweaked it a bit. I’m going to give it a run tonight. Usually, I’d have Jinnie give me her honest opinion, but not this time.
I’m on my own. It’s crazy how quickly she became the person I trusted and leaned on. I spent most of my life doing this music thing on my own and in the shadows. And then Jinnie came into my life and I was able to share it with her. It brought us closer together.
“I’m headed out,” Aggie calls out.
“I’ll see you in a couple hours,” I reply.
I sort through the clothes I bought yesterday. My old black t-shirt was getting boring. I wanted to change things up. I wasn’t wearing Gucci, but I did want to update my style a bit. I carry the new jeans and short-sleeve button-up shirt into the bathroom. I pause and look at myself in the mirror.
I’m still me, but I feel different. I’m not the same kid who ran away from home. I’ve got scars—both the kind you can see and the kind you carry inside—but I’ve also got something I didn’t have back then: a purpose. Music has always been my escape, but now it’s becoming something more. It’s becoming my future. I hope Jinnie is part of that future.
I change into the new clothes after my shower. I feel casual but put together. The jeans fit better than I expected, and for a second, I almost don’t recognize myself. Cleaner, sharper, like I’ve finally stepped into the version of me I’ve been trying to become.
Grabbing my guitar case, I head out to the truck, the night air cooler now that the sun’s gone down. The drive to The Hollow is short, but it gives me time to run through the new song in my head one more time. It’s raw, still a work in progress, but it feels honest.
Aggie’s setting up behind the bar. She gives me a nod as I walk in, her eyes scanning my outfit with a smirk.
“Look at you,” she says, wiping down the counter. “You clean up nice.”
“Trying something new,” I say, setting my guitar case down by the stage.
“It suits you,” she says. “Looking more like a rock star every day.”
I chuckle. “That’s the goal.”
I love this place. There’s something about the wood floors and old neon signs that makes it feel like home. Maybe it’s because this is where people first started paying attention. Maybe it’s because I spilled more emotions into this mic than I have in any therapy session. Not that I’ve ever been to therapy, but people have long said music is a form of therapy.
I run through my setlist in my head as I check my strings. Everything looks good. Sounds good. Feels... mostly good.
That new song I’m on the fence about, I haven’t played it live yet. Something about tonight feels like the right time. Or maybe I’m just tired of waiting. I think the few fans I have expect me to play something new every few days. When I say fans, I might be reaching a bit. But there were a few people that just happened to be in the bar almost every night and they seemed to like my music.
Didn’t that make them fans?
“Hey, y’all. Thanks for coming out tonight. Let’s make it a good one.”
And we do. The first few songs land like punches—in the best way. People are tapping their feet, clapping along, shouting the choruses like they were born knowing them. I feed off that energy. It makes the songs lighter, makes me braver.
Then I get to that song.
“All right,” I say, strumming a gentle intro. “This next one’s new. Still a little raw, but I figure if I can’t try it out here, I can’t try it anywhere. You guys are always good listeners.”
There’s a murmur of interest, a few cheers of encouragement. I nod, take a breath, and dive in.
It’s not even halfway through before I can tell this thing is one giant cow pile. The vibe shifts. It’s subtle—shoulders stiffen, conversations restart in the back, a guy by the jukebox checks his phone. I try to push through, hope they’ll come back around by the second verse.
They don’t.
The last chord dies out with a silence that’s a little too loud. A few polite claps. Nothing more. No woo-hoos. No grins. Just... meh.
I nod, trying to play it off. “All right. Tough crowd,” I joke, and that at least gets a chuckle. I move on to an upbeat favorite and the energy rebounds like it never happened. The rest of the night goes off without a hitch. By the end, people are on their feet, whistling, calling for one more.
I give them two to make up for that pile of shit I foisted on them.
After the show, Aggie meets me by the bar with a cold bottle of water and a kind smile.
“Hell of a night,” she says, handing me the bottle.
“Yeah,” I say, taking it. “Except that one song. Man, that one flopped hard. I almost quit halfway through. That’s gotta be one of the most humiliating experiences of my life.”
She laughs. “Jack, it wasn’t that bad. They didn’t know what to make of it, maybe. Or they were just waiting for the chorus to hit and it never did.”
“That’s comforting,” I say dryly.
She punches my arm lightly. “I’m serious. They loved the rest of your set. You can’t win ’em all. Besides, it’s not finished, is it?”
“No,” I admit. “Not really.”
“So finish it. Just don’t stay up all night doing it.”
I nod, already knowing I will. “Jinnie usually knows what to do to make it work.”
Aggie’s smile softens. “You miss her.”
“I do. But she has to work. I can’t use her as a crutch. It’s not really my music if I have to keep depending on her to write it.”
“She doesn’t write it,” Aggie chides. “She gives you feedback. That’s what you need. I would but I don’t know the first thing about music. I know when it’s good and I think you’re good.”
“I’ll use the restroom and then I’ll get started on those dishes,” I tell her.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“But I’m going to,” I say with a grin.
The water’s scalding my hands as I scrub the last of the beer mugs, but I don’t mind. There’s something therapeutic about doing the dishes. It’s like doing kitchen chores at home. I usually stay in back if I’m not playing. I don’t want to get Aggie in trouble by having someone underage in the bar. Once the bar is closed, I’ll go out front and handle the sweeping and stuff like that.
My fingers are pruny, and my back aches from leaning over the sink for so long, but this is part of me paying my dues. The flop of that new song still lingers in my mind like a bad aftertaste, but I’m not letting it ruin tonight. Not entirely.
When I step out of the kitchen, Aggie’s perched on a stool at the bar, sipping from a glass of iced tea. The neon lights are off and most of the chairs are already turned upside down and sitting on tables.
“Finally done?” she asks.
“Yep. I’ll take care of the floor.”
“You didn’t have to stay so late.”
I shrug. “Figured it was the least I could do after that disaster of a song.”
Aggie rolls her eyes. “Stop it. It wasn’t a disaster. It just needs work—you said so yourself.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, staring at my hands. “It does.”
“You know what you need? A break. Take a step back from it for a night or two. Clear your head. Sometimes you get too close to something and can’t see what’s missing.”
“I don’t have that kind of time,” I say flatly. “People expect new music from me now—even if it’s just those few regulars who seem to live here.”
“They’ll survive,” she says with a laugh. “You’re not Garth Brooks, Jack.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “You know what I mean. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”
“Maybe. But I don’t want to let them down. Or you. I know you like and need the crowds. I’m supposed to be the draw. I don’t want the polish to wear off just yet.”
“It won’t,” Aggie says. “They love you because you’re authentic, because you pour everything into your music—even when it doesn’t hit right away. That song? It’ll get there. And maybe Jinnie can help when she has time again.”
I love how easily Aggie sees through all my bullshit and goes straight for my heart every time.
“She will,” I say softly.
Aggie smiles knowingly but doesn’t press further.
“I’ll finish the floors. I think I’m going to go out to the old campsite tonight. I get a lot of inspiration out there.”
“That’s a good plan.” She smiles.
I finish the floors and leave the bar. I do miss the tent and creek and just being out there. The nights are getting cooler now and I’m grateful for the room in Aggie’s house, but I do wish I would have stayed in the tent just a little longer.
The headlights of my truck cut through the night as I bounce down the dirt road. I flash back to that very first night I found this place. I had the bag of Jinnie’s muffins and pretty much nothing else.
And look at me now.
The night air is crisp, just this side of cold. I build a small fire slowly, taking my time like it’s a ritual. There’s peace in the process—stacking the kindling, striking the match, watching the flame catch and grow. Once it’s burning steady, I settle down on the log bench and pull out my notebook.
Lyrics first.
I read through what I had. The words still mean something to me. That part isn’t broken. There’s heart in them—honest, bleeding-heart kind of stuff. But maybe it’s too much all at once. Maybe people don’t want to feel that deeply with a beer in hand.
I scrawl a few lines, cross them out. Rewrite. Rinse and repeat.
Eventually, I sigh and set the notebook down.
The words aren’t the problem. Not really.
I reach for my guitar, fingers already moving before I’ve consciously chosen a chord. It’s not the lyrics—it’s the structure. The flow. I’ve buried the hook too late, gotten too wrapped up in telling the story before giving people something to hold onto. The melody’s good, but it needs space to breathe. I start shifting things around, humming new transitions, adjusting the rhythm.
For a while, I forget the cold.
I forget the awkward silence after the song.
I forget everything but the way the strings feel under my fingers, the way the fire crackles beside me, and the slow, steady thrill that comes when a broken thing starts to come together again.
It’s not perfect yet. Not even close. But it’s better.
Jinnie would have spotted the problem after listening to it one time. This process is going to take a bit longer on my own.
I wonder what she’d think of the song. She listens differently. She hears the story in the notes, not just the words. Maybe I’ll play it for her soon. Maybe I won’t have to say much—just play and let her feel it.