Chapter 8
Eight
Girl’s in the van. Preacher’s in his head.
Jack
It’s a harmless sound. A door closing. No big deal.
But the second the van door slides shut with a familiar clunk, I stop breathing.
Dixie makes a joke about carrying her own gear, stepping over a laundry basket and a collapsed pillow. “You’ve got more biceps than brain if you think you’re hauling all this solo.”
Her voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater.
It’s not dark. Plenty of sunlight comes through the windshield and the side windows.
I can see fine. And it smells faintly of coffee and lavender dryer sheets.
Old dust maybe. The mattress eats up most of the floor space, so we’ve been grabbing stuff from the edges.
We’ve cleared a path. It’s fine. There’s another guitar case balanced on a pile of books, and a stickered cooler wedged in the corner.
It’s cozy, lived-in. Home, in the way a van can be.
And yet—
The air feels thin. My chest pulls tight like I’ve wrapped an old seat belt around my ribs, clicked it in place, and then it’s locked up the way belts do at the worst possible time. I’m pinned here.
I try to move, but my hand is stuck, braced on the metal lip of a shelf above the back wheel like it’s the only thing holding me upright. Great. Now I’m guy who needs rescuing instead of doing the rescuing.
“Jack?” Dixie leans toward me, a frown in her voice. “You okay?”
I blink. And I’m eleven again.
We’re parked behind a gas station somewhere outside Asheville.
It’s cold. My little sister is crying, and my mom’s trying to sing her to sleep.
There’s only so many times you can hear “Hush Little Baby” before you scream.
That’s what my dad says. Like it’s a joke except Mom’s shooting him dagger eyes and no one’s laughing.
His mouth is pulled all tight. He shuts up and goes back to pretending like everything’s fine—like soup on a camp stove is a grand adventure, like the car isn’t our home now.
There’s no room to stretch out. No room to breathe. I can’t get out because we’re all stuck together in a big knot. My knees are jammed up against the back of the front seat, and I’m trying not to panic because if I panic, my mom will panic, and if she panics—
“Jack.” Dixie’s voice. “Talk to me.”
I swallow, try to look at her, but end up staring at the floor instead.
Ridges and grooves. Cool. Gray, not super exciting, all as expected.
Rust spots run along the seams, kind of like a map—the jagged edges are coastlines, with little “islands” branching off.
I should seal those for her, or she’ll have bigger problems than a broken fuel pump.
“Can we open the door, please.” It’s not a question.
There’s concern on her face as she reaches for the latch, cracking the door.
The air isn’t fresh, but it’s air. I breathe. Once. Twice.
Be still. The words come automatically, a Bible verse I learned long before seminary. Be still, and know that I am God. Be still and know that I am God. Bestillandknowthatiam—
I force myself to slow down as the front half of an old Buick rolls past the passenger-side window. It’s close enough to scrape the van’s paint. Dixie shrugs. It’s fine.
The driver’s side window is down, a hula girl on the dash bobbing wildly with each bump. Then the trunk drags past—heavy, dented, with a crooked dealership badge barely hanging on. A metal-on-metal clunk comes from somewhere underneath.
Slate’s leaning all his weight on the frame, sweat darkening his shirt, jaw set like he’s moving a mountain instead of a Buick. He’s favoring his left shoulder. Probably tweaked it again. Deacon pushes from the other side.
The whole thing coasts on and on and on for what feels like forever before Slate snarls, “Clear.”
“You want to sit this one out?” Dixie asks, shoving the door all the way open.
She doesn’t sound freaked out. Or sorry for me. She doesn’t pepper me with questions or try to fix my shit. She gets it.
“I’m good.” I think I mean it. It’s stupid to fall apart over a closed door but I don’t linger inside, either. “But I’ll take that hand with the rest of the boxes.”
It’s not pride talking—I know my limits, and I’m back within them.
She smirks. “Guess that makes me your roadie.”
I huff a laugh, the knot in my chest loosening. Dixie hops down from the van and grabs a box like nothing happened.
“Here.” She passes me the lighter box with a wink and takes the heavier one herself, her hair twisted up into a messy bun that’s lost the battle to contain her auburn curls.
Little pieces have escaped to frame her face, and the whole chaotic mess makes her look adorable in a way that would annoy the hell out of her if I said so out loud.
Focus on the fresh air. Open space. Trucks with doors that stay open.
By the time we reach the truck, the panic has faded into something warmer. Something off-limits. She’s just seen me fall apart and somehow made it okay.
Thank God for beards. At least she can’t see how completely gone I am.