Chapter Thirteen
Jack
T he fire crackles in front of me, sending sparks dancing into the dark. It’s a nice night. Not hot. Not cold—just perfect. I unwrap the gas station sandwich, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet of the night. It’s one of those pre-packaged things—ham and cheese on soggy wheat bread. But it’s food, and I’m hungry. I take a bite, chewing slowly as I stare into the fire. The taste is bland, but it’s something to fill the void.
Aggie told me I could use the kitchen to make something, but I don’t want to take advantage. She’s working at the bar tonight. I’m taking a night off. Turns out singing six nights a week and practicing during the day is making my voice a little gravelly. Which is fine and I kind of like the raspy thing, but I don’t want to fry my vocal chords. According to Google, a singer needs to rest his voice. Aggie gave me some of the honey from Jinnie’s parents and I’ve made myself drink lemon tea sweetened with honey. I’m not going to say it’s good, but it does seem to help.
I stare into the flames as I chew. I’ve been gone for two weeks. It’s still so wild for me to think about. I’m glad I didn’t have a chance to think about it when I got up and left that night. I would have talked myself right out of it.
My phone buzzes on the log beside me. I pull it out and see Michael’s name lighting up the screen. He calls at night, long after Dad has gone to bed. I haven’t talked to him in a few days though.
“Hey,” I say through a mouthful of sandwich.
“What are you up to?”
“Just sitting by a fire. Eating a masterpiece of culinary art from the Gas ‘N Go,” I joke, taking another bite.
He laughs. “Sounds gourmet.”
“It’s not the worst I’ve eaten,” I say. “How’s it going there?”
“Same old shit,” he replies with a sigh.
“Dad?”
“Still pissed.”
I expect that. “Yeah, well I’m still pissed he jacked my money.”
Michael doesn’t respond right away, and for a moment, I think the call might’ve dropped. But then he clears his throat. “He’s not gonna let it go, Jack. You know that, right? He thinks you’re throwing your life away.”
“Throwing my life away?” I scoff, tossing the last bite of sandwich into the fire. It sizzles as it hits the flames. “Funny, ‘‘cause it feels like I’m finally living it.”
“I get it,” Michael says quietly. “I do. But you know how he is. He doesn’t see things the way we do. To him, the farm is everything. And you walking away... It’s like you’re spitting on what he’s built.”
I lean back, staring up at the stars. They’re brighter here or maybe I just feel like I can see clearer. “It’s not about spitting on anything, Michael. It’s about me wanting something different. Something that’s mine.”
There’s a pause again. “Caleb and I talked about it the other day. We think you should keep doing what you’re doing. You’ve got a real shot at this music thing.”
His words catch me off guard. Neither of them has said anything like that before—not directly, anyway. “You really think so?”
“Yeah,” he says firmly. “We do. But, man, you have to know it’s not gonna be easy.”
“I know.”
“How’s it been going at that bar you’re playing in?”
“It’s been good,” I say. “People actually listen here. It’s not like playing at the local fair or the barn dances back home. They’re there for the music, not just the beer. It’s kind of intimidating, but also...I don’t know. It feels right.”
Michael lets out a soft whistle. “That’s gotta be something. You’re living the dream, man. Don’t let Dad get in your head about it.”
“He’s already in my head,” I admit, frustration creeping into my tone. “Every time I pick up the guitar, I hear his voice telling me I’m wasting my time. That I should be out there mending fences or plowing fields.”
“Screw that,” Michael says bluntly. “You’re not him, Jack. You never were. And that’s not a bad thing.”
His words hit me harder than I expect. I miss him. I miss Caleb. I miss the certainty of knowing exactly what I was going to do every day, even if I hated it. I swallow the lump in my throat. “Thanks, Michael. That means a lot.”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he says. “And call me more often, okay? Caleb and I worry about you out there on your own.”
“I will,” I promise, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Tell Caleb I said hi.”
“Will do. Take care of yourself, Jack.”
“You, too.”
“Hey.”
“Yeah?” I ask.
“When you make it big, we better get free backstage passes and front row seats.”
I laugh. “Yeah, from your lips to God’s ears.”
The line goes dead, and I set the phone back down on the log beside me. The fire crackles softly, my source of comfort these days. I get up and grab my guitar. I tell myself I’m not going to sing, just play a little. I know I can always get better.
My fingers move on autopilot across the guitar strings, teasing out a melody that’s been stuck in my head all day. There’s a restlessness to it. This song is going to be different. Rebellious. I just have to get it down. It’s there, but I can’t quite find the right arrangement.
A twig snaps in the woods behind me.
I stop playing mid-chord, hand freezing above the strings. The forest goes quiet—too quiet. Even the crickets have stopped singing. I hear plenty of animals out here. This feels different. Usually, the other animals and crickets ignore the typical sounds out here. They sense each other. I’m thinking this has to be some kind of predator. I’m not interested in being anything’s dinner.
“Hello?” I call out, squinting into the shadows.
Silence. Then—
“Sorry!”
A figure walks out of the trees and into the firelight. Jinnie .
“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” she says. “I was just sitting outside and heard the guitar.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Sometimes, it’s quiet enough I swear I can hear for miles. It’s good. The song you’re playing.”
“It’s not really a song yet. I’m just messing around. Trying to figure something out.”
She steps closer. “Well, it sounds like it’s on its way to being something.” She hesitates, then gestures to the log across from me. “Mind if I sit?”
“Sure,” I say, scooting over to make room. “You’re out late.”
Jinnie sits down. “Couldn’t sleep. I’ve been doing that a lot lately.” She glances at me, her expression unreadable. “What about you?”
“I’m always up late.” I shrug. “Playing at the bar has got me on a whole new sleep schedule. Way different than back home.”
“Farm, right?”
“Dairy farm.” I nod. “Cows don’t appreciate late breakfast. Calves are even worse.”
She laughs. “I bet.”
“I didn’t know your tiny house was that close,” I say.
“Sound carries out here, especially on a night like this.”
“Sorry if I disturbed you.”
“You didn’t.” She smiles. “I like it. I can’t exactly go to the bar and hear you play. Everyone is talking about the musician in town. They’re acting like you’re the next Garth Brooks.”
I cringe. “No thanks.”
“Ah, you’re more of a Zach Bryan, Luke Combs kind of guy?”
I think about it. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think I have any specific lane. I just play what feels right.”
“Spoken like a true artist.” She grins. “Can I hear it again?”
I don’t know why, but having her listen feels different than sitting in front of fifty strangers at the bar.
“Sure.”
I play through the chorus, watching her out of the corner of my eye. Her foot taps along almost unconsciously, her fingers drumming a rhythm on her knee.
“You play?” I nod at her hands.
“Piano. A little.” She makes a face. “My mom insisted on lessons.”
I grin. “Let me guess—you hated it?”
“At first.” She shrugs. “Then I realized I could play Beatles songs instead of scales and it got better.”
That surprises a laugh out of me. “Seriously? You’re a Beatles fan?”
“My parents love the old stuff. The Beatles. Hendrix. But they also love folk music. They’re kind of all over the place.”
I grin and start playing “Blackbird,” watching her face.
She laughs. “Yep. Go back, play what you were playing. I like it.”
I start playing again, still trying to find the melody that’s itching to get out.
She leans forward, her head slowly moving with the beat. “Try it faster here”—she hums a few notes, surprisingly on key—“and then maybe go up on the G instead of down?”
I try it. The change gives the song a brighter, more hopeful lift.
“Huh.” I play the section again. “That’s actually really good. I like that at the end. I want the beginning to sound angry.”
“Told you I took lessons.”
We fall into an easy back-and-forth—me playing, her suggesting small tweaks. A chord change here, a tempo shift there. Each adjustment makes the songs sharper, more alive. It’s the melody I’ve been hearing in my head.
She’s patting her hands on her knees. “I like that. It’s dirty. Rough.”
I feel my jeans tighten around the crotch. I know she’s talking about the music, but damn. “It’s a little different than the stuff I typically write.”
“Which is?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Melancholy. Sappy stuff.”
“And this one is angry. This one is a big middle finger to whoever wronged you.”
I grin. “Maybe not the middle finger, but yeah, it’s a little angry.”
“Your family must miss you,” she says suddenly.
The comment catches me off guard. My fingers still on the strings. “My brothers maybe. Not my dad.”
She looks up. “Why not?”
The question hangs between us. I could deflect, make a joke. But something about the quiet, about the way she’s actually listening, makes me answer honestly.
“Because I left the farm. Because I chose this over feeding cows at four in the morning.” I shrug. “Because I’m not him. If he knew what I was doing right now, he’d laugh.”
“Laugh?”
I gesture to the fire and my tent. “I’m homeless and broke. He drained my account because he thought that would have me running home with my tail between my legs.”
“And now you’re angry.”
“Not angry...just done.”
Jinnie picks up a stick, poking at the fire. Sparks rise into the dark. “Parents have a way of...expecting you to be who they want.”
There’s something in her voice that makes me think she’s not just making conversation. “Your parents?”
She hesitates. “They’re good people. Just set in their ways. Definitely not like your dad.”
“It still counts,” I say.
“Thanks.” She tosses the stick into the fire. “For what it’s worth, I think you made the right choice. Leaving, I mean.”
I strum a quiet chord. “Yeah?”
“Your music is good. Really good.” She meets my eyes. “The world has enough dairy farmers. Not enough people who play like you do.”
No one’s ever said anything like that to me before. Not even Mom.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the fire popping between us. It’s strange—I’ve known Jinnie for all of five minutes total, but this feels easy. Natural.
“You should come by the bakery tomorrow,” she says suddenly. “I’m trying a new chocolate muffin recipe. Need taste testers.”
“Is that your way of saying you’ll feed me?”
She stands, brushing off her jeans. “Only if you promise to finish that song and let me be the first to hear it.”
I grin, strumming a final chord. “Deal. But only if you promise to keep giving me notes. You’ve got a good ear.”
She smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Don’t stay up too late.”
When she’s gone, the woods feel quieter and a lot emptier. I glance at the fire, now just glowing embers, and strum a few more chords. The song is coming together, thanks to her. It’s sharper now, more alive, like it finally found its voice.
I play it through one more time, letting the melody carry me away. It’s angry, yeah, but there’s something else there too. Hope, maybe. Or defiance. I can’t quite put my finger on it yet.
My fingers slow as the last note fades into the night. I douse the fire and crawl into my tent. For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel so alone.