Chapter Twenty
Jack
T he screen door slaps shut behind me as I step onto Aggie’s porch. I stretch my arms over my head. That has been the best night’s sleep in a while. I feel refreshed and ready to tackle the world. The last couple of nights sleeping at Aggie’s house felt a little strange at first, but I was settling in.
Aggie’s already out in the greenhouse. She started using it almost immediately. That made me happy. I step inside and immediately inhale the scent of the potting soil. She’s got several plants she picked up at the nursery already potted and thriving. Aggie kneels by a table, her hands buried in soil as she carefully transfers a young plant into a larger pot. She looks up and flashes me a smile, her cheeks smudged with dirt.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” she says, brushing a strand of hair from her face with the back of her wrist. “Thought you’d never wake up.”
“I needed it,” I admit, leaning against the workbench.
“Yes, you did.” She smiles.
“You sure you don’t mind me skipping tonight?” I ask. “I feel guilty for skipping out on work today and tonight.”
Aggie waves a gloved hand. “Goodness, Jack, you’ve been playing six nights a week for weeks. The bar will survive one night without you. You don’t want to be too available. That’s how you keep people hooked.”
I laugh. “Just feels weird, is all. Even back home we didn’t take days off. There was always something to do, even on Sundays.”
“Go.” She points her trowel at me. “Have fun. Eat something fried and terrible. Flirt with that girl properly.”
I grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
This is more of Aggie’s matchmaking.
It’s a short drive to Jinnie’s place. I can’t remember a time when I had nothing more to do than have fun. I’m looking forward to it.
As I pull up, I realize something: I’m actually excited. Not just about the fair but about spending a whole day with her . No music, no crowds, no proving anything to anyone. Just me and Jinnie.
The thought surprises me. This is a different kind of excitement. It’s not the kind of excitement I feel when I’m getting ready to go on stage. It’s a fluttering in my heart.
She’s waiting on her tiny porch, dressed in cutoff shorts and a flowy top that catches the breeze. Her hair’s down, curling around her shoulders. She’s wearing a pair of what looks like new tennis shoes, perfect for our plans for the day. When she sees me, she smiles.
My stomach does a weird little flip.
“You have legs,” she teases.
I glance down at my shorts. “These bad boys don’t get out very often.”
Jinnie laughs, grabbing a small backpack. “Well, it works.”
I hear a meow and look around. “That’s Max.” She laughs.
A massive ball of white fur struggles to walk onto the deck. He looks at me like I’ve completely ruined his day.
“He looks...fun,” I say.
Jinnie opens the door for the cat to walk inside. “He’s a little grumpy. He’s on a diet.”
“I see.”
“I told him he had to go for a walk and if he didn’t, I was going to put a leash on him. He finds that to be very undignified.”
“Did he tell you that?” I ask with a cocky smile.
“Actually, he did. Max and I are very close.”
It’s something new I didn’t know about her. “Should we go?”
“Yep, I’m ready to roast under the sun, eat my body weight in greasy food, and see if a poorly put together ride can get me to toss my cookies.”
The county fair is three towns over. It’s a forty-minute drive, according to Aggie. We roll the windows down, letting the summer air rush through the cab. Jinnie fiddles with the radio until she finds some classic rock station, singing along under her breath.
I steal glances when I can—the way her fingers tap the beat on her knee with her hair blowing in the breeze. I’m kind of embarrassed I can’t offer her a nicer ride. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to care about my old, rusty truck.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking at me.
“Just wondering if you know all the words to every song ever made.”
She grins. “Only the good ones.”
We’re cruising down the highway, and Jinnie’s still singing along to the radio. She’s never going to be a professional singer, but she knows her music. It’s a Fleetwood Mac song, and she knows every word. I can’t help but smile. There’s something about music that feels like a secret language, and right now, it’s like we’re both speaking it.
“Do you like the classics?” she asks.
“I do. I like all of it. Started when I was a kid.”
“How long have you been writing your own songs?”
I shrug. “Forever. You know in school when they tell you to do free writing in school? Or essays in general?”
“Yeah.”
“I was writing songs back then, but they were more lyrics than songs.”
“Really?” she asks with a surprise.
“Back then, it was just a way to get stuff out of my head. Now it’s kind of all I think about. I have a notebook that is worse for wear. A couple notebooks, but the one I’m using now has the newer stuff. It’s my diary. My journal. If I have a bad day, I write about it. See something that inspires me, I write about.”
She nods like she understands completely. “That’s what good music is supposed to do, right? Say the things we can’t.”
“Exactly,” I say, surprised by how she gets it so easily. “What about you? You ever write anything?”
She laughs softly. “Oh, no. I mean, I tried once or twice when I was younger, but it always came out sounding like a bad Hallmark card. I’m better writing quips that require a hundred and forty characters or less.”
I laugh at that. “I think that’s harder. You have to say a lot with a little.”
We pull into the fairgrounds parking lot, a sprawling field already filling with cars. The carnival rides peek over the fence line.
“You really like fairs, don’t you?” I ask as I park the truck.
“Are you kidding? It’s like a big party where everyone’s invited.” She unbuckles her seatbelt and turns to me. “What about you? What did teenage Jack think of the county fair?”
I kill the engine and lean back. “Honestly? It was the one place I felt like I could be myself. Dad would let me go off on my own, and I’d find the music stage and just watch. For hours.”
“So that’s where it started?”
“Not exactly. Mom got me into music. She’d lose herself in it...” I trail off, surprised at how easily the words are coming. I rarely talk about Mom.
Jinnie waits, not pushing, just listening.
“There was this one fair when I was maybe six or seven. Some country band was playing, and the guitarist broke a string mid-song. Without missing a beat, he switched guitars with the rhythm player and finished with this amazing solo.” I shake my head at the memory. “I went home and begged for a guitar for Christmas.”
“And you got one?”
“Mom made it happen. Dad thought it was a waste of money.”
“And look at you now.” She smiles.
“All right, you ready to do this?” I ask.
“Absolutely!”
I quickly pay the entrance fee, and because I’ve been making pretty damn good money, I spring for the wristbands that allow us unlimited rides.
“Where first?” I ask, surveying the crowd and the many food and game options.
She looks pensive. “How about a snack? And then I love to look at the animals in the morning before they’re all worn out by the heat.”
“Perfect. It’s been a whole five minutes since I’ve seen a cow.”
She giggles and nudges my shoulder. “We’ll skip the cow barn, but I bet you could pick out the blue-ribbon winner before the judges.”
“Probably, but I’m not sure that’s one of those things I want to brag about.”
We end up sharing a funnel cake, powdered sugar dusting our fingers and the corners of Jinnie’s mouth. I reach out without thinking, brushing the sugar from her lip. Her breath catches, just slightly, and for a second, we’re frozen there—my thumb against her mouth, her eyes wide.
Then some kid bumps into me, and the moment breaks.
“Sorry!” his mom calls, dragging him away.
Jinnie clears her throat. “So. Rides or games?”
“Games,” I say. “I feel like winning you something goofy.”
“Oh, like maybe really big clown sunglasses...or how about a teddy bear?”
“Do you want a teddy bear?”
“No.”
I grin. “I’m going to get you something.”
We spend the next hour proving exactly how rigged carnival games are. Jinnie’s surprisingly good at the ring toss, winning a tiny stuffed bear after only three tries.
“Beginner’s luck,” I mutter.
She sticks her tongue out at me.
My turn at the basketball hoop goes less well. The rims are clearly bent, the balls overinflated. A group of kids gathers to watch as I miss shot after shot. The boys pay their money and it becomes a competition between me and them. I glance over, a boy wearing glasses sticks his tongue out, concentrating a few seconds before every shot.
“Wow,” Jinnie deadpans. “All that farm strength and you can’t even—”
The next ball swishes through. Then another.
The kids groan as I “accidentally” miss the last few shots.
Jinnie narrows her eyes as we walk away. “You let them win.”
I shrug, trying to hide my smile. “Maybe.”
She shakes her head, but she’s grinning as we walk away.
The Ferris wheel line is long, but neither of us seems to mind. We’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, Jinnie’s arm brushing mine as we inch forward.
When it’s our turn, the attendant swings the safety bar down with a clank, and suddenly we’re rising, the fairgrounds spreading out below us.
Jinnie grips my arm as we reach the top. “I forget how high these things go.”
“Scared?”
“Shut up.” But she doesn’t let go.
The view is something else—the fields beyond the fairgrounds, the towns dotted around the area, and lots of wide, open space. Up here, with Jinnie’s hand on my arm and the world spread out before us, everything else—the farm, my dad, the music, even—feels far away.
Jinnie sighs, leaning into me slightly. “This is nice.”
“Yeah.” I don’t just mean the view.
We stay like that until the ride operator starts unloading people below. We move onto a ride that’s meant to torture and terrify.
“Do you like spinning?” I ask her as we’re strapped in.
“Too late now if I don’t.” She giggles.
The ride jerks to life, and we’re instantly spinning, tilting, and whirling in every direction. Jinnie shrieks with laughter, her hair flying wildly as she grips the safety bar with both hands. I can’t help but laugh too, though my stomach’s doing somersaults.
When it finally stops, we stumble off the ride, dizzy and breathless. Jinnie grabs my arm to steady herself, her face flushed and eyes bright.
“I think I’m done with spinning for the rest of my life,” she gasps, still laughing.
“I’m going to agree.”
We pass a booth selling lemonade, and Jinnie stops abruptly.
“Lemonade break?” she asks, already pulling out a few dollars from her bag.
“Absolutely.” I gently push her hand away and pay for the drinks.
We find a shady spot to sit down as we sip our drinks. The fair buzzes around us—kids laughing, music playing, the distant hum of rides in motion. It’s chaotic in the best way possible. It reminds me so much of my mom and a time when things were so much easier.
After finishing our drinks, we meander through the animal barns. Jinnie falls in love with a lionhead rabbit. I don’t hate animals, but I’ve really had my fill of straw, shit, and feed buckets. We continue into the large sheds where young and old alike are showing off their crafts. Again, I’m taken back to my mom’s strawberry jam and brownies that always won a blue ribbon.
“You okay?” Jinnie asks.
I nod, pulling myself back to the present. “Yeah, just memories, you know?”
She smiles softly, understanding flickering in her eyes. “I get it. Fairs have a way of doing that.” She links her arm through mine as we walk. “What’s your favorite memory of your mom?”
The question catches me off guard, but not in a bad way. It’s been so long since someone’s asked me something like that. “She used to sing while she cooked,” I say after a pause. “Not like, full-on performances or anything—just little songs under her breath. Sometimes they were old country tunes, sometimes she’d just make up nonsense words to whatever tune popped into her head. It drove my dad crazy.” I chuckle at the memory. “But I loved it.”
Jinnie squeezes my arm gently. “That’s beautiful. She sounds amazing.”
“She was,” I say quietly.
We wander into the next barn, where local artisans are selling handmade goods. Jinnie stops at a booth filled with candles and wax melts. I step back and watch her sniff each one, tilting her head to the side as she decides whether she likes it or not. She holds it out for me. I immediately know it’s right for her. I pull out a ten-dollar bill and hand it over. “We’ll take it.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she says.
“I want to. That’s a good scent and it reminds me of you. Light, airy, and it makes me smile.”
She beams at me.
This is turning out to be the best damn day of my life.