Chapter Five
Jack
T he gas gauge needle is just above the red line, like it’s holding its breath. I’ve been driving on fumes for the last twenty miles, my eyes scanning every exit for a town—any town—that looks like it might have a gas station, a cheap motel, or at least a patch of dirt where I won’t get hassled for sleeping in my truck.
I see a sign up ahead. Another small town. It’s it for me. I’m not going to make it much further. I need gas. I’ve got a few bucks left, but I’m figuring out that’s not going to do much. I’ll get ten miles down the road and then get stranded on the side of the highway.
Then what?
I take the exit and drive into yet another small Midwest town. I’m realizing that my hometown isn’t really all that different. This one is a little bigger than the last. Maple Springs isn’t much. A single stoplight, a row of brick storefronts with faded awnings, and a diner with a Closed sign hanging crooked in the window.
Then I see it, an open sign. It’s a bakery. At home, the bakery is closed by three, but the open at five. A bakery is better than gas station food. If I eat another questionable burrito, the roll of toilet paper I brought in my camping gear is going to come in handy.
I pull to a stop against the curb and climb out. I take a minute to stretch out the kinks. I’m about seven hundred miles from home, almost to Kentucky. I don’t know if that’s my goal, but I can’t help but think Tennessee isn’t far from there.
Is that where I’m going?
I still don’t know, but it does feel like something is drawing me there.
I grab my wallet and walk into the bakery. The smell of bread hits me like a punch to the gut. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and it wasn’t much. I’m suddenly starving. I want all of it, but I’m going to have to find the cheapest thing I can and hope it fills me up.
A girl stands behind the counter, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. She’s got wild brown curls tied back in a messy ponytail and a smudge of flour on her cheek.
“Hey,” she says, smiling. “You’re lucky you caught me. I was just about to close.”
I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I was just finishing up some dough for tomorrow.” She grabs a couple of paper towels and wipes her hands.
I’m suddenly self-conscious about my wrinkled t-shirt and the day-old stubble on my jaw. She’s pretty. Really pretty. My age, I would guess. She steps up to the glass case. She’s not wearing much makeup. She doesn’t need it. Her hazel eyes lock on me. I see goodness there. Genuine. She’s looks kind.
“Passing through?” she asks.
“I look rough,” I admit with a nervous laugh.
“Nah. You look tired. Like you need a sugary treat and a big coffee.”
“You got that right.” I nod.
She laughs. “Where you headed?”
“South,” I say, because it’s the only answer I have. “Wherever the road takes me, I guess.”
“Well, ‘south’ sounds like a long trip.” She gestures to the display case. “What can I get you?”
I glance at the case. Everything looks so damn good. Huge cinnamon rolls, muffins studded with blueberries, croissants so flaky they’d probably dissolve if you breathed on them wrong.
I’m starving and am pretty sure I could eat every last pastry in the case.
My stomach growls. Loudly.
I want to dissolve into the floor. Of course the first pretty girl I’ve seen in a while that doesn’t know me or my family or anything else about me and my body revolts.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Wow. Hungry?”
“A little.” I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling the last few bills crumpled there. “What’s, uh... what’s cheap?”
She hesitates, then leans on the counter. “You broke?”
The question is so blunt I almost laugh. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
She nods like this is a totally normal answer. “Hang on.”
She disappears into the back and returns with a paper bag. “Yesterday’s stuff. Still good, just not fresh enough to sell. You can have it for a couple bucks.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” She grins. “Unless you’d rather pay full price for today’s?”
I fumble for my wallet. “No, yesterday’s is great.”
I hand her the cash, and our fingers brush.
“I’m Jinnie,” she says, tucking the money into the register.
“Jack.”
“Nice to meet you, Jack.” She pushes the bag toward me. “Try the apple muffin first. It’s my favorite.”
I reach for it at the same time she does, and our hands collide. The bag tips, sending a roll tumbling onto the counter.
“Oh—sorry,” I mutter, grabbing for it.
She laughs. “I’m all thumbs.”
“I think I’m the clumsy one. I’ve been driving all day.”
“Where you from?”
“Wisconsin.”
“Wow,” she says. “What brings you through here?”
I shrug. “Just passing through.”
She tilts her head. “Headed to Nashville?”
“What? No. Why?”
“You’ve got that country singer look.” She grins.
“I do?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Just looking for somewhere to land.”
“Well, if you’re looking for a place to crash, there’s a motel on the edge of town. Kind of a dump, but it’s clean.”
I force a smile. “Thanks.”
The truth is, I can’t afford a motel. Not if I want gas to get out of here tomorrow.
She studies me for a second, like she can tell I’m lying. Then she shrugs. “Well, good luck, Jack.”
“Thanks. For the food.”
“Anytime.”
I walk out with the bag in my hand. I have no idea what’s in it, but I don’t care. I’ll eat just about anything. I don’t care if it’s stale. I get in the truck and open the bag. I have a feeling she may have thrown in a few extra things out of pity.
I want to be too proud to need anyone’s pity donuts, but I’m not. I can’t be. This is probably one of the lows of my life. At least, I hope it’s the lowest I’m going to be. I don’t want to think about tomorrow or the next day when I don’t have any money.
But that’s a problem for another day.
I grab a muffin from the bag. It’s got a brown sugar crumble topping. It’s gotta be the apple muffin. I take a big bite and groan. It’s still soft, cinnamon and brown sugar melting on my tongue. I devour the rest in about three bites.
I glance back at the bakery. Through the window, I can see her wiping down the counter, her hair falling loose from her ponytail. For a second, I consider going back in.
And say what?
It’s not like I can ask her out on a date. Hell, I can’t even buy her a coffee.
I put the truck in gear and cruise down the main street. The town fades behind me as I head toward the outskirts, looking for a quiet spot to park for the night. A gravel road winds away from town. I follow it until it’s just me and the dark sky. This is something I know how to do. Back home, it’s easy to find a dirt road and drive until you don’t even know where you are.
Another turn, this one barely a road at all—just two tire tracks through overgrown grass, leading down to a creek.
Good enough.
I kill the engine and sit there for a minute, listening to the crickets. It takes me a second to really understand the gravity of my situation. I’m homeless. And broke as hell. If I allow myself think too hard, I would realize this is about the dumbest thing a guy can do. Am I throwing a fit because daddy won’t let me have my way?
I stare at the steering wheel, doubt suddenly crushing down on me like a physical weight. What the hell am I doing? Sleeping in my truck on some random back road with nothing but a bag of day-old pastries between me and starvation.
Dad’s voice echoes in my head. Irresponsible. Foolish. Dreamer.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe this whole thing is just one big temper tantrum. I’ve got no money, no job, no real plan beyond “drive south.” What kind of idiot leaves home with nothing but a guitar and the clothes on his back? The kind who ends up homeless, that’s who.
I bang my head against the headrest. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
I could call Michael right now. Ask him to wire me some money. Enough to get home. I’d have to face Dad, sure. He’d be smug. Insufferable. But I’d have a roof over my head. Food. A job, even if it’s one I hate.
Is that what I want? To crawl back with my tail between my legs? To prove him right?
I pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over Michael’s name. One call. That’s all it would take.
But then what? Back to the farm. Back to the endless cycles of milking and haying. Back to watching my dreams collect dust in the corner of my bedroom while I slowly turn into my father—bitter, closed-off, trapped.
I drop the phone onto the seat next to me and grab the bag of pastries instead.
No. I won’t call. I won’t go back.
I eat another muffin, slower this time, savoring each bite. The creek gurgles nearby, a soothing sound in the growing darkness. I put away the bag of food and save it for tomorrow. It would be too easy to scarf it all down right now.
I get out of the truck and grab my camping gear from the back. I take a second to feel the temperature. It’s not cold. I’m just going to cowboy camp in the bed of the truck. I don’t bother with a fire. Too much work, and I don’t want to draw attention.
Instead, I sit on the tailgate with my guitar. My fingers find the strings, and for the first time since leaving home, something inside me settles. This, at least, makes sense. This, I know how to do.
I strum softly, not wanting the sound to carry too far. A melody comes, something I’ve been working on for weeks but could never quite finish. But here, with nothing but the creek and the stars for company, the rest of it flows out of me like it was always there, just waiting for the right moment.
It’s a song about leaving, about the open road and the weight of expectations. About being brave enough to jump even when you don’t know where you’ll land.
Mom used to say stars were like road signs—just waiting to point you where you needed to go.
I wonder what she’d say now. I want to believe she would encourage me to keep going.
I put my guitar back in the truck and climb into the sleeping bag. It’s not comfortable, but I’m exhausted, which seems silly considering I’ve done nothing all day except for sit. I stare up at the night sky and think about my choices.
I don’t know if I did the right thing, but I know being at home is the wrong thing.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure something out.
For now, I close my eyes.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls. I smile remembering a time my brothers and I went camping. I was young, maybe seven, and the sound of the owl scared me. My brothers still love to give me a hard time about that night.
Now, it’s just another reminder of what I left behind.