Chapter Seventeen
Jack
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T HE FRESH COAT OF STAIN is perfect. I spent days sanding after I built it with my own two hands. Not one of those big sanders. I was on my hands and knees with a little orbital sander smoothing out every inch of this deck. Aggie can dance barefoot out here and she’s not going to get a splinter. She can drag her ass across it if she wants and she’s still going to be fine. Damn, it looks good. Better than good. It’s solid, sturdy, like it could weather a hundred summers without flinching.
I set the brush down on the edge of the paint tray and crouch to run my fingers along the wood. Smooth. Even. I’ve been working on this thing for what feels like forever and now it’s finally done. It’s something I can be proud of. Something that feels like mine, even though it’s Aggie’s house.
I take a step back, hands on my hips as I survey the whole thing. The color is just right—warm and inviting, not too dark, not too light. Aggie is in town buying pots to fill with flowers for her new deck. It makes me feel good to know I can bring joy into her life. She’s done so much for me. Building a deck doesn’t come close to paying her back for what she’s done.
But now that the deck is done, we’ve been talking about me building some raised garden beds. I think that’s going to be a lot easier than the deck. Working with my hands, sweating my ass off, and developing more callouses than I can count has been therapeutic. It keeps my mind busy. I’d be going stir-crazy with Jinnie working all the time.
I hear my phone ringing and walk over to grab it.
It’s Michael. “Hey,” I answer.
“Shit, where you been?”
“I’ve been busy,” I mutter, scratching the back of my neck.
“Being a rockstar,” he jokes.
“Trying,” I reply. “I’ve been playing most nights, working on new songs.”
There’s a pause on the line. “That’s good, though, right? Means people like your stuff?” Caleb asks, telling me I’m on speaker.
“They do,” I say, even though it still feels weird to admit that out loud. I’m not used to people liking what I create. Growing up, the only applause I ever got was when I didn’t screw something up.
Michael chuckles. “Look at you. Small-town prodigal son turning into a one-man sensation.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, sitting down in the shade, “Dad wouldn’t agree.”
“Have you talked to him again?” Caleb asks.
“Nope. Don’t need to. I already know what he’s going to say. Music won’t feed a family. That I’m wasting my life chasing bar gigs and that he raised me better than this.”
“Jack, you know he’s never gonna understand,” Michael says. “But we do. We see what you’re doing. And it’s good. Better than good.”
“He said I was running away,” I say. “Told me I left the family hanging. That I abandoned the farm.”
“Ignore it,” Michael replies.
“The farm is fine,” Caleb adds. “It’s more than fine. We’ve got it handled. You didn’t abandon anything. You left because you had to. We get it. Dad will eventually. Or he won’t. That’s his choice.”
I don’t say anything.
“He doesn’t get to rewrite what happened,” Caleb continues. “You did what was right for you . And if that pisses him off, tough. We’re proud of you. Even if he never says it, we will.”
Something loosens in my chest. Not a full release, not relief, but it’s something.
“Thanks,” I say.
“So you should know something,” Michael says.
“He took my money, disowned me... what more?” I ask.
“Dad hired Aiden and Trent.”
I blink.
“ What ?”
“Yeah. Last week. He said they know their way around the place and he needs the help.”
Rage flares in my stomach. I feel like a hot knife has just plunged into my back.
“Aiden and Trent? Those assholes?”
“Yep,” Caleb confirms, clearly annoyed. “I tried to talk him out of it. So did Michael. But he wouldn’t budge.”
I run a hand down my face. “They made my life hell. You know that. And now he’s rewarding them with jobs on the farm like nothing ever happened? Talk about asking a wolf to guard the hen house. What the hell?”
“He doesn’t care about what they did to you,” Michael says. “He just cares that they show up, shut up, and do what he says.”
The worst part is—it’s not even surprising. It’s exactly the kind of thing my father would do. Turn a blind eye if it suited him. Pretend history doesn’t exist if it keeps the machinery running. Why would he stick up for me or at least be a little loyal. He didn’t care. I have one living parent and he doesn’t see me as his son. He sees me as a spare to the spare to his cow kingdom.
“I swear,” I growl, getting to my feet, “I’m gonna show all of them. I’m gonna make it big. Bigger than they are, bigger than that damn farm. They’ll be eating their words when they see my name on something real. A tour. A record deal. Anything. When my voice is on the radio, I hope they are filled with regret. I’m not going to remember them at all, but they’re going to be stuck listening to me when they’re in their fancy trucks or hanging out at a bar. When their girlfriends want to dance to one of my songs or claim one of my ballads as ‘their’ song, it’s going to kill them. And I’m going to laugh all the way to the bank.”
“You don’t have to prove anything to that man, Jack,” Michael says. “You don’t have to live your whole life trying to spite him. Do it for you , not to get back at him. And screw Trent and Aiden. These guys are fine on the farm, but they are real pains in the ass.”
“Cocky as hell,” Caleb chimes in. “Screw ’em.”
I know they’re right.
But I don’t say it.
I change the subject instead, talking about what does make me happy. “It’s a good spot. Crowd’s been steady. People seem to like the music.”
Caleb whistles. “Look at you, man. Bar gigs and everything. You’re practically famous.”
I smirk, shaking my head. “Not exactly. But it’s something. Last week, they actually asked for an encore. Ended up playing two extra songs.”
Michael laughs. “Damn, bro. You’re killing it out there.”
“Mostly,” I say, hesitating. “Had one song that kind of flopped the other night, though. Still working it out.”
“You’ll get it,” Caleb says. “You always do.”
I nod, staring at the deck and trying to pretend my father’s betrayal doesn’t matter. “Yeah, I will. It’s just weird, you know? Playing in front of people who actually care about what you’re doing. I’m not used to it.”
“What else is going on?” Michael asks. “Make any friends?”
“A couple,” I say.
“Anyone special?” Caleb asks, and I can hear the grin in his voice.
I don’t take the bait. “Just the usual crowd.”
“Uh-huh,” Michael says, dragging out the words like he knows something I don’t. “No one keeping you company after your sets?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
They both laugh. Damn them for knowing me too well.
“All right, all right,” Caleb says finally. “We’ll stop giving you a hard time.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Because there’s nothing to give me a hard time about.”
I can hear yelling in the background. I know that voice—Dad.
“We have to go,” Michael says. “We’ll talk later.”
“Bye,” I say.
I go in the house, get something cold to drink and then return to the deck. I plop my ass down on it, staring into the fading afternoon. I feel like I’m in my sixteen-year-old skin again. Angry. Hurt. Wanting so badly to be someone different.
I should be thinking about Jinnie.
I should be texting her, checking in, asking how her day went. Instead, I’m stuck in my own head. She doesn’t need to be bothered with my bullshit. She’s got her own stuff to worry about. And my shit compared to what she’s dealing with is nothing. Mine is just me being stuck in my own feelings.
I finish the lemonade and head back inside to shower and get ready for another night at the bar.
I’m looking forward to getting on stage. I’ve played a couple of times since that night that I bombed. Well, I didn’t bomb, but one song did. Tonight, I’m ready to redeem myself.
The song is different now. It’s not just chords and lyrics anymore. It’s got soul . Her fingerprints are on it in a way no one else would notice, but I do. She made it real. I can’t wait to play it and watch people love it. It’s like the big middle finger. Maybe I shouldn’t have trotted it out the first time. I should have waited until it was ready. It won’t happen again.
I set up like usual—guitar tuned, mic tested, stool angled toward the center of the room. Aggie gives me a thumbs up from the bar. I nod back.
People start filtering into the bar. I spot a few familiar faces—locals who’ve been showing up every week, cheering a little louder each time. I love that feeling, like I’m building something here. I know a lot of them would come in for drinks whether I was here or not, but it’s nice to think they might be here for me.
And then the music starts.
I ease into the first song, and the crowd sways with it. The second track gets some claps. By the third, they’re singing along.
It’s a good night.
The kind that makes you forget about all the shit weighing you down. Makes you believe, for a little while, that maybe you’ve got something people want to hold onto. I let myself imagine the song on a radio, blasting through speakers while young people sit around talking or maybe stand around a bonfire drinking out of red solo cups.
I get to the song that nearly ruined my career before I ever really got started.
“All right guys, if you were here the other night, I played this and you hated it.”
There were a few laughs.
“You had every right to. It wasn’t right. But it’s damn good now. And I know you’re going to love it.”
I strum the opening chords, heart beating a little faster. The crowd quiets. They lean in.
And I play.
It flows like water.
Every line hits.
The chorus lifts, and people cheer .
They cheer like it’s their favorite one of the night. I grin wide as hell because damn, this is what I live for.
It ends, and I thank the crowd, jumping into the next song before the moment cools. And it’s not until two songs later, riding that wave of adrenaline, that I realize something gut-deep and awful.
I never said her name.
Never gave her credit.
I meant to. I wanted to. I told myself I would.
But I didn’t.
I said it was good but I didn’t explain why it was good. They obviously assume I fixed it. But it was her. I got caught up in the applause. In the way it made me feel. In the moment where it was all about me .
And now, I feel like shit for not giving credit where credit was due.
After the show, people come up to talk. A couple of girls ask for selfies. One guy says he drove in from out of town to check me out.
“That new one,” he says. “Hit like a freight train, man.”
I thank him, smile, take the compliments. But inside, there’s a voice getting louder.
You didn’t even say her name.
I leave earlier than usual, slipping out the side door and into the cool night. I get back to the house and go in my room. I check the time. It’s eleven and too late to text her. I know she’s in bed and I don’t want to wake her.
I flop onto the mattress and stare up at the ceiling. Am I already becoming someone who steps all over people to get ahead? I want success, but I can’t be one of those guys who kicks people on my way up.