Chapter Fifteen
Jack
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T HIS DAMN SONG’S DRIVING me nuts.
I strum it again, slower this time, trying to find some magic in it. But it still doesn’t feel right. The words aren’t the problem. Neither is the melody, exactly. It’s the vibe. It just doesn’t sit right in my chest.
And if I don’t believe in it, no one else will.
The fire pops beside me, sending a burst of sparks into the air. The campsite is quiet otherwise. Peaceful. A good place to get in my head—but tonight, being in my head feels like wandering around in the dark. I keep bumping into things.
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated.
I play the intro again—slow, then faster, trying to feel something, anything.
Nothing.
I’m so frustrated I’m ready to toss the damn guitar into the fire.
Is this it? Have I finally hit the wall? I wrote all the songs I have and that’s it. I’m a one-hit wonder that never actually got a chance to be a star. I can’t make it fit.
I stare at the fire, the flames dancing in front of me, mocking my frustration. My fingers tighten around the neck of my guitar. I strum another chord, but it’s hollow. Empty. Just like me right now.
What happens if I can’t write another song?
The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve always had music. Even when everything else in my life was falling apart, I could pick up my guitar and lose myself in the strings. It’s been my escape, my lifeline, my identity. But what if that’s it? What if I’ve burned through all the melodies, all the words, and there’s nothing left?
I can just see my father’s face when I have to go crawling back after I spectacularly fail. He never understood why I couldn’t just buckle down and take over the family business like he wanted. He would be so happy to tell me he told me so.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Maybe I should have stayed, swallowed my pride, and become the son he wanted me to be. I close my eyes and let out a long breath. It wasn’t a bad life. It just wasn’t mine.
But what if this isn’t mine either? What if I’m just fooling myself, chasing a dream that was never meant to be mine?
My shoulders slump, and I set the guitar down beside me, staring into the fire. If I can’t do this—if I can’t write another song—what then? Do I go back? Do I crawl home with my tail between my legs and admit defeat? Do I let Dad win? I’ll have to face all those assholes who called me a loser. I’ll have to deal with them laughing at me when I prove they’re right.
I shake my head, clenching my fists. No way in hell am I going back there. Not after everything I’ve done to get here. Not after all the nights I spent sleeping in a tent, playing for tips at dive bars, scraping together every penny just to keep going. Not after meeting Jinnie and feeling like maybe, just maybe, this crazy dream of mine could actually work out somehow if she was by my side.
I grab the notebook from where it sits on the log beside me and flip through the pages. The lyrics stare back at me like they’re waiting for something—waiting for me to figure it out. It’s there. Why won’t it work?
I pick up the guitar again and strum softly, closing my eyes and hoping the melody will find me.
“You need to alter the chord progression. It doesn’t suit the mood.”
My eyes pop open and I barely stop myself from screeching like a girl.
Jinnie is standing just a few feet away. “Sorry,” she says, suppressing a giggle. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone out here.”
“I heard you playing,” she says, walking closer.
“Would’ve turned it down if I knew I was serenading an audience,” I say, setting the guitar to the side as I get up. “But I’m glad to see you.”
She opens her mouth to say something else, but I don’t wait. I close the space between us and kiss her, pulling her in by the waist. Her mouth opens, inviting my tongue inside. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers tangling in the fabric of my shirt as she kisses me back with a hunger that matches my own. It’s just her and me and the way we fit together like two pieces of a puzzle that have been waiting to click into place.
When we finally pull apart, she rests her forehead against mine, her breath warm on my lips. “I missed you,” she whispers.
“Yeah?” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I missed you, too. More than I thought I could.”
Damn, I’ve missed her.
I kiss her again, slower this time, like I’ve got time to savor it. Like maybe this can be real again, if we let it. I stop just before I’m about to strip her naked and throw her on the ground like my body is demanding.
She smiles against my lips. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I murmur, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “You came all this way just to correct my chord progression?”
“Well, someone had to,” she says, tugging me back toward the fire. “You were murdering that song.”
I laugh, letting her pull me down beside her. “You wound me.”
She shrugs, stealing my flannel from the log it was draped over. “You’ll survive.”
We sit close, sharing the heat of the fire and the quiet hum of being near each other again. I pick up the guitar and tilt it toward her. “All right, Miss Expert. Tell me what you mean. This song is in desperate need of help. I have a feeling you are the one person who can give me what I need.”
“It’s the second verse. You start the same progression as the first, but the lyrics shift tone. It doesn’t flow. It’s stiff and unnatural. It needs a softer transition. Something more... vulnerable.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You been holding out on me? Didn’t know I was dating a producer.”
“I’m not. I’m just someone with ears and a basic grasp of emotional storytelling.”
I laugh again and strum the pattern she suggests. It’s not perfect yet, but she’s right. It’s better. Already feels more honest. I adjust the chords, test a few of the lyrics against it and then sing the verse again.
Her eyes meet mine over the flames. She nods. “That’s it. Now, slow it down just half a beat.”
“Damn. Guess I need to hire you as my cowriter.”
She leans her head on my shoulder. “I couldn’t write a song if my life depended on it. But I’m a very critical person.”
“You are not,” I argue. “You have an eye for details. That’s why your social media pictures are so good.”
She chuckles softly. “Maybe. But I still don’t think I could write a song. I just know what I like when I hear it.”
I strum the chord progression again, slower this time, and hum the lyrics under my breath. Jinnie’s right—the softer transition makes all the difference. The song feels less forced now, more natural. It’s like she has this uncanny ability to see—or hear—exactly what’s missing.
“You’re a genius,” I say, glancing down at her. “How do you do that?”
She shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time listening to you play. I know your sound, your rhythm. And I know when something doesn’t feel right.”
I set the guitar down and wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Well, whatever it is, I’m glad you showed up tonight. This song was driving me crazy.”
We spend the next hour picking apart the rest of the song. It’s slow, a little messy, but good. Comfortable. Sometimes I swear she can hear the notes in my head before I even play them.
When we finish, I play through the whole thing from top to bottom, and it finally clicks. This is what I was trying to write.
I set the guitar down and exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for days. “That’s it. That’s the one.”
Jinnie claps softly. “Knew you had it in you.”
“Correction: we had it.”
The fire crackles, and neither of us says anything for a while. We just sit there, side by side, listening to the quiet of the woods.
Eventually, she speaks. “It’s been a week, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Felt longer.”
She nods. “I’ve just been so slammed. It’s actually been kind of fun, though. This older couple came in because they saw one of my photos online. Said they drove from two towns over.”
I look at her, impressed. “Look at you, local influencer.”
She laughs. “Hardly. But it was nice. Made me feel like... I don’t know, like I was doing something that mattered.”
“You are,” I say, and I mean it.
She goes quiet for a second, then shrugs. “Still, it’s been a lot. And the whole trial thing’s just lingering. I keep waiting for a date. Something solid. But it’s like waiting for the other shoe to drop, but in slow motion.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I get that. Waiting’s the worst part.”
“What about you?” she asks, shifting to face me. “How’s the bar been?”
I lean back, letting the memories of the last few nights wash over me. “Crowd’s been steady. Some great nights. Got a request for an encore last night that turned into me playing two extra songs.”
She grins. “Look at you, Mr. Rockstar.”
I snort. “Hardly. But it felt good. Except for that one song—this song. It just tanked. First time I’ve felt like people didn’t connect, you know? It was humiliating. I was up there with eyeballs on me and looking at me like I was annoying them instead of entertaining them.”
“They will now. It’s good. Real. It sounds like you again. You can’t have number ones with every song. You’ve set a very high bar for yourself. That’s good and bad.”
I look at her hand in mine, her fingers threaded through like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’ve missed this. Missed her . She’s become such a huge part of my life.
“Wish we had more time,” I say quietly.
“Me too,” she says. “Feels like we’re always passing like ships in the night lately.”
I kiss her again, because I can’t not. She leans in to it. For a second I let myself imagine what it would be like if we didn’t have to keep scheduling our lives around stolen moments like this.
When we pull apart, I sigh. “You know I’d love nothing more than to keep you out here all night.”
“I know,” she says softly.
“But you’ve got to be up in a few hours to open, and I don’t want you falling asleep with your face in a batch of muffin batter.”
She laughs. “Tempting, though.”
I stand, brushing off my jeans. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”
I put the fire out, dumping a bottle of water over it and then covering it with dirt. The woods are quiet... peaceful. Neither of us talks much on the way back. It’s a comfortable silence.
When we reach her porch, she turns to face me. “Thanks for letting me crash your solo session.”
“Anytime,” I say. “Actually scratch that. All the time. I want more nights like this.”
“Me too.”
I kiss her again, one last time, lingering longer than I probably should.
But eventually, she steps back. “Goodnight, Jack.”
“Night, Jinnie.”
I watch her go inside, the door closing gently behind her. I walk back to my campsite, feeling better and worse at the same time. I miss her. I want those days back. The part that scares me the most is we won’t ever get those back. If Sam keeps up with his bullshit, she’s going to be working her ass off for the foreseeable future to cover legal fees.
And I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what Sam wants. He’s punishing her. I can’t understand why. He left her .