Chapter Nineteen
Jack
T he wrench slips, banging my knuckles against the engine block. I swear, shaking out my hand. The truck’s old, temperamental, but it’s mine. Unless my dad follows through on his threat to call it stolen. The title is in my name, but he’s proven he doesn’t care about laws. Speaking of, I promised Michael I would check in today.
With me playing at the bar most nights, we haven’t had much time to talk. I know they have to sneak the phone calls to me. The only time they can do that is when Dad’s in bed. I’m usually on stage until midnight, and I know that’s way too late to call.
I wipe grease on my jeans and decide now is a good time to stop and try to talk to Michael. I know what they’re thinking. They think I’m getting too big for my britches and will just leave them in the dust. That couldn’t be further from the truth, but I need to prove it to them.
I pull my phone from my pocket, wiping my greasy hands on my jeans before I tap Michael’s name. It rings once, twice, and I’m half expecting it to go to voicemail when he finally answers.
“Jack? Is everything okay?
“Yeah, it’s me. Everything is fine.” I lean back against the truck. “You got a minute?”
“For you? Always. Dad and Caleb just left for town to pick up the meds for the cows. I’m sitting here eating a sandwich and thinking about a nap.”
“How’s it going over there?”
He sighs, and I can practically hear him running a hand through his hair. “Same old shit. Dad’s been in a mood since you left. Keeps muttering about ‘that boy’ and ‘his damn guitar.’ Caleb’s been trying to keep the peace, but you know how Dad gets.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, kicking at a loose rock with the toe of my boot. “I know.”
“How are you? You sound different.”
“Different how?”
“For one, your voice sounds raw, guessing you’re singing a lot.”
“Yeah, it was a wild set last night,” I say. I can’t stop smiling. “Aggie is going to make me some of her magic tea.”
“How’s all that going?”
“Things are good, Michael. Better than good, actually.”
“Yeah? Tell me.”
So I do. I tell him about the bar, about Aggie and Jinnie, about the crowds that keep getting bigger every night. When I get to the part about building the stage, he lets out a low whistle.
“Sounds like you’re making a name for yourself,” he says.
“Trying to,” I say with a shrug he can’t see. “It’s not easy, but it feels right, you know?”
“I do,” he says quietly. “I wish I could see it. See you up there doing your thing.”
“Maybe you can sometime. I’d love for you guys to be there.”
He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Dad would have a conniption if we even mentioned driving out there.”
“Screw Dad,” I snap before I can stop myself. “You guys are adults too, Michael. You don’t need his permission to live your lives.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line for so long that I wonder if he hung up on me.
“It’s not that simple,” he finally says.
“Why not?” I demand. “Why does everything have to revolve around him? Around that damn farm?”
Another pause, and then Michael sighs again—a sound so heavy it makes my chest ache. I know I’m being a dick.
“Because, unlike you, we don’t hate it. I like doing what I do. I’ve got big plans for expansion and upgrades once it’s mine.”
That shuts me up real quick.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Don’t be. I’m glad you’re doing your thing, but it’s not like we’re suffering. It’d be easier if we had you here to help out, but we’re managing.”
We talk a bit longer before I can hear the sound of my dad’s diesel truck through the phone. “I’ll let you go,” I say. “I’ll check in later.”
I slide my phone back in my pocket and go back to work.
“Lunch!” Aggie’s voice carries across the yard.
I glance up. She’s standing on the porch, a glass in hand.
“Be right there!”
The engine can wait. My stomach’s been growling for the past hour anyway. She insisted on making me a big lunch. We were celebrating. She paid off the loan she took last year and wanted to do something nice for me. I thought it was pretty cool that little old me was able to change her life in some small way. She certainly changed mine.
She’s made a big spread for lunch, grilled ham and cheese, another pasta salad, and what smells an awful lot like apple pie.
“Eat. You’re too skinny.”
“I’m not skinny,” I protest, but I’m already shoveling food into my mouth. “This is a lot for lunch.”
“Well, I know you didn’t eat breakfast.”
Aggie sits across from me with her own plate. “How’s the truck?”
“Almost done.” I gesture with my fork. “Should run smoother once I replace those spark plugs.”
She nods approvingly. “Handy and musical. Quite the catch.”
I nearly choke on my sandwich.
Aggie grins, unrepentant. “Speaking of—have you seen Jinnie lately?”
“Not much.” I scoop up some salad. “She’s been working a lot.”
Aggie sips her iced tea. “Girl’s always been a hustler.”
I swallow the salad and quickly wipe my mouth. “She keeps saying she needs money, but for what? Her place is paid for, right?”
Aggie shrugs. “I’m sure Jinnie’s got her reasons.”
Aggie isn’t afraid to gossip when she’s got the goods. I’m guessing she doesn’t know why Jinnie seems to be focused on making money.
That strikes me as odd.
But it’s none of my business.
The conversation shifts to last weekend’s crowd at the bar. Just thinking about it sends a thrill through me—the way people sang along, the way the room erupted when I played that new ballad.
“It’s crazy,” I say, shaking my head. “Two months ago, I was playing for cows. Now...”
“Now you’ve got groupies,” Aggie finishes, grinning.
I roll my eyes. “Not groupies. Just people who like the music.”
“Same difference.” She leans forward. “But listen, Jack—don’t let it go to your head. Success isn’t about how many people cheer. It’s about staying true to why you started. You’re a handsome young man and I see the way those ladies look at you. Be careful there. They want the rockstar—not the young man. That’s one of the biggest trappings of fame.”
“I’m not famous, Aggie.”
“Not yet, but around here you are. Those women are not right for you.”
I wonder if she has a certain woman in mind who is right for me.
“Trust me, I’m not trying to mess with any of them,” I say with a grin. “Cougars are not my thing.”
That makes her laugh. “Have you been checking in back home?”
“I just talked to my brother.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Still not talking to your dad.”
It’s not a question.
I shrug. “Nah. I can’t help wondering what he would say if he could see me now.”
“What do you want him to say?”
The question catches me off guard. I open my mouth, then close it. “I don’t know.”
“She’d be proud of you.” Aggie’s voice is soft. “For following your heart.”
She reminds me of my mom. If my mom would have gotten the chance to live into her fifties, I think she would have been a lot like Aggie.
I’m surprised Aggie never had kids of her own.
“You’d have been a great mom,” I say without thinking.
She laughs. “Is that your way of saying you’re ready to move out of the tent?”
I grin. “Maybe.”
“Good. Because my sewing room’s been collecting dust, and it’s not like you can’t still go outside whenever you want. You don’t need to be sleeping out there when I’ve got a perfectly good empty room here.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
She waves a hand. “It’s not imposing. I’ve had some of that fabric in there for twenty years. I haven’t made the dress I was going to make twenty years ago. I’m not going to make it in the next couple of months. It can all be put to better use by someone else. I’ve been meaning to clear that room out anyway. It’s a good excuse to have you help me.”
I think about it and realize she’s not just asking for my sake. I think she’s a little lonely.
“Okay.” I nod. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
After lunch, Aggie flips on the light in the sewing room. It’s chaos. Plastic totes are stacked haphazardly, spilling over with fabric scraps and spools of thread. A sewing machine sits on a small table in the corner, its surface buried under more fabric. And in the middle of it all is a twin bed, barely visible under a mountain of clothes and fabric and boxes of every size.
“Home sweet home,” Aggie says with a grin, gesturing to the mess. “Think you can handle it?”
I glance around the room, taking in the sheer volume of stuff. “Yeah, I think so.”
She claps me on the shoulder. “Good. Let’s get started.”
We dive in. Aggie starts with the totes, sorting through them. “Keep,” she mutters, setting one aside. “Donate,” she says, pushing another toward me.
I grab the donation pile and start carrying it down the hall to the living room where we’re stacking everything for thrift store. The bed is next, adding more stuff to the donation pile.
“Are you sure you don’t want to keep this in here?” I ask. “I don’t have anything. We can stack stuff against the wall.”
She shakes her head. “I want it gone. I’m sick of it taunting me.”
I laugh. “Okay.”
“What color do you want?” she asks, holding up two sets of sheets—one a faded floral, the other plain white.
“White’s fine,” I say.
She tosses them to me and I go to work making the bed. The mattress is old but firm, and once it’s made up with clean sheets and a patchwork quilt, it doesn’t look half bad.
“Looks cozy,” Aggie says from the doorway.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Definitely beats sleeping on the ground.”
A couple of hours later and it’s a perfect guestroom.
Aggie surveys our handiwork with a satisfied nod. “Not bad.”
“It’s perfect,” I say honestly.
I run a hand over the quilt—handmade, probably by Aggie herself. “Thanks. For everything.”
She waves me off. “Someone’s gotta keep you out of trouble.”
“I’ll be back after I clean up my site,” I tell her.
It’s weird saying goodbye to the tent and creek. I pack everything up and take a second to look around. Stumbling upon this place turned out to the best damn thing to happen to me.
I head back to the house. It’s our night off and I’m secretly grateful. After a simple dinner, I head to bed early.
This feels...permanent. Or at least, more permanent than a tent by the creek.
Is this enough? Playing weekends at The Hollow Log, sleeping in Aggie’s sewing room and stealing kisses with Jinnie when she’s not buried in bakery work?
What would my dad think of me sleeping in Aggie’s sewing room? Of the crowds at the bar? Of Jinnie?
The old anger simmers—at Dad, at Aiden and the others, at every person who ever made me feel small. Part of me still wants to hit the road, chase fame like it’s some kind of revenge.
But another part of me, the quieter, stubborn part, thinks that maybe this is enough. Maybe more than enough.