Chapter 10
Ten
Interlude: One guitar and a Plott hound
Jack
“Jesus Christ!”
I freeze in the doorway, hands up. Dixie’s got Huck in a protective grip and hairspray aimed at my head.
“Sorry.” I keep my voice low. It’s been days since she moved in—you’d think by now she’d realize I do come home. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m fine.” The glare she shoots me could strip paint. She sets the hairspray down but doesn’t ease up on the attitude. “You nearly got an eyeful, Reverend.”
I step into the living room—carefully, because apparently I’m the intruder here.
Dixie’s clearly been camped on my floor for who knows how long, guitar across her lap, fire crackling behind her.
Her hair’s a disaster and there’s tension in every line of her body.
She looks like a hedgehog that’s been poked one too many times—all spikes and defensive posture, daring the world to try her just one more time.
I probably shouldn’t poke the hedgehog.
But then again, when have I ever been smart?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Again. It’s been going off all day—people asking about some “internet situation” that I haven’t had time to check on yet.
In my defense, I’ve been busy trying to keep the church roof from becoming an impromptu skylight.
Still, as I haven’t posed for any nudes—that I know of—or accidentally livestreamed myself in my underwear, whatever this is, it probably isn’t my fault.
Which, in my experience, means it’ll definitely be worse than if it actually was.
When you screw up yourself, you know what you’re dealing with.
When other people drag you into their chaos?
That’s when things get really interesting.
And by interesting, I mean the kind of interesting that makes you change your name and move to Alaska.
Instead, I look at Dixie, sitting in my house. I love those walls behind her. I almost fucked her up against the one by the front door and it deserves to be memorialized. Maybe I’ll buy a bronze plaque. I could have it inscribed:
ON THIS WALL
circa three hours after meeting
DIXIE PEARL, COUNTRY MUSIC
SENSATION-TO-BE,
and
REVEREND JACK CARTER, VERY MUCH
NOT THAT KIND OF PREACHER,
did nearly engage in
SACREDLY QUESTIONABLE BEHAVIOR
between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and 03:00 a.m.
before being interrupted by a judgmental dog and/or crippling panic on the part of said star.
If I hang it where my visitors can see it, it’ll save me answering their questions. PLEASE RESPECT THE WOODWORK would also work.
“Sorry,” I say again, because what else do you say when you walk into your own house and get threatened with Aqua Net? She stares back without answering. From the wreck of her hair and the way she’s holding herself, whatever she’s working on isn’t going well. I hazard a guess. “Writing?”
“Trying to.” She gets to her feet—she’s super careful, like her joints aren’t cooperating. “Not having much success.”
She walks over to the front door and reaches for the lock. We haven’t talked about it, but she only locks up when I’m not here. When her eyes meet mine, I can read the question clear as day: You gonna freak out if this is locked?
“Please,” I say, and she leaves it unlocked without a word.
Smart woman. Multiple exit points are my favorite thing in the world.
“Long day?” I settle on the floor next to where she’d been sitting.
“You could say that.” She drops back down, cross-legged, settling her guitar across her lap again. Huck cuddles up against her, the traitor. “Yours?”
“Church council meeting. They’re real concerned about my ‘living situation.’” I make exaggerated air quotes.
Her mouth quirks up. “Scandalous.”
“That’s one word for it.” My phone buzzes again. I ignore it. “They also failed to come up with money for the roof, so there’s that.”
“How much do you still need?”
“The entire forty grand. Give or take about two hundred bucks.”
She whistles. “That’s a lot of bake sales. I can see why you’re all in on the talent show plan.”
“Tell me about it.”
We sit in comfortable quiet for a minute. It’s weirdly nice. The fire pops and settles. Huck sighs and sprawls across both our legs like he owns us (he totally does). Outside, I can hear the wind picking up—probably more rain rolling in. Perfect. More holes in the roof to patch.
“I was thinking,” I say, because I’ve been worrying about her all day and can’t help myself. “You’re going to be here awhile. Maybe we could figure out some work for you. If you want. Dee mentioned the bakery could use some help.”
The temperature in the room drops twenty degrees. “You think I’m lazy?”
“What? No. Not at all.”
She points her guitar pick at me. “You think I just loll around in my van all day, eating gas station snacks and waiting for a recording contract to fall through the sunroof?”
“That’s incredibly specific. Also, no.”
She’s on her feet again, pacing. It makes her boobs bounce beneath her tank top.
I hate myself for noticing. “I’ve spent the last eight years sleeping in bars, hustling gigs, burning through voice memos and vocal cords and pairs of boots, trying to make something out of nothing.
I’ve played in ten states and half of them paid me in beer and exposure.
But sure, Jack. Let’s talk about how I should get a real job so I can be a respectable adult. ”
Well, shit. This took a turn.
Her whole body’s wound tight—arms crossed, chin up, feet planted like she’s waiting for a fight. It kills me, seeing her like that.
“I didn’t say you needed a real job,” I try. “I’d like to see you safe—”
“Well, guess what? Safety’s not exactly guaranteed in the music industry, Jack. It’s rejection and heartbreak, singing in smoky bars where nobody gives enough fucks to even clap. So sorry I’m not living my life according to your neat, orderly rules.”
I hold up my hands. “Dixie—”
“No, really.” She gives me a sweeping, sarcastic bow. “Apologies for not living up to your small-town-preacher standards. I should’ve gone into accounting. Or pottery. Something wholesome and quiet, right?”
I stare at her—this beautiful, exhausted, firecracker of a woman who somehow thinks I’m judging her when all I want is to make sure she has a pillow and a place to breathe.
“You think I’m judging you?”
She scoffs, but it sounds less sharp now. “You chose the ministry, Jack. That means you think you know what’s right for everyone.”
“That’s not why I chose it.” The words come out rougher than I mean them to. “I chose it because I want people to know they’re enough. As they are. That they’re not alone. That there’s always room for them.”
Something shifts in her face. The wall cracks, just a little.
She slumps down on the floor and rests her elbows on her knees. “My dad wants me to sign on to this Christmas album. Wants me to join him, sing backup like I’m still seventeen and lucky to be there. Says I need to do it. That I’m going nowhere on my own. Maybe he’s not wrong.”
“Like hell he’s not.”
She glares at me. “I don’t know if I can do it anymore, Jack. All of it. The push, the hustle, the proving. I don’t know if I’m enough for that kind of life.”
And there she is—the woman beneath the armor. I want to wrap her up and keep her safe from every person who’s ever made her feel like she had to prove her worth.
“Maybe I’m here because it feels so good to just stop. To not have to claw my way forward every second of the day. To just exist without selling a version of myself that people will clap for.”
“Dixie.” I lean toward her. “You are enough.”
She doesn’t call me out for sounding like a cheesy Instagram quote. “But I’m tired, Jack. Sick and tired.”
“Of what?”
“Of always having to be on. Of hustling every damn day just to prove I deserve to take up space.”
My phone buzzes again, insistent. This time she hears it, too.
“Popular guy,” she says, but there’s something off about her tone.
I pull it out, meaning to silence it, but the notifications keep rolling in.
Missed calls from two members of my congregation, Deacon, even Bishop Morgan.
That’s a whole lot of outreach. My stomach drops.
Maybe it’s not accidental nudes but my shacking up with a lady?
I knew it wouldn’t be a popular decision.
“Jack.” Dixie’s voice has a real careful edge to it. “You might want to not check your phone for a while.”
Guilt’s written all over her beautiful face. Plain as day.
“Dixie. What did you do?”
She pulls a face. “It’s not… I mean, I didn’t think… Nothing big. Just posted something. Online.”
I suspect I’m about to find out what my internet situation is. “Posted what?”
“A song. I wrote a song and I shared it. With my very small number of followers.”
“About what?”
She messes with her guitar strings. “Just about feelings. It’s a really good song.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“Maybe a little?” She shrugs. “Or we can commiserate with each other about our dismal career prospects and wallow in despair. Up to you.”
“You know what the worst part is?”
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” she grumbles.
“I don’t care about the song.”
She frowns. “So either you’re dismissing my life’s work, or you’re totally cool with not going online and looking it up? You have zero feelings either way?”
“About whatever’s blowing up on my phone? Nope.” I shove my phone back in my pocket. “I care that you think offering you work means I see you as some kind of charity case.”
“But you totally do.”
“Dixie.” I scrub my face with both hands.
“You’ve been in town for four days. Living in my house for ninety-six hours.
I have not had time to develop a savior complex.
I offered you work because you’re stuck here and I thought you might be bored.
Stressed about money. Willing to help Dee and her sister out because they actually do need a hand. Pick one or all of those, okay?”
“Huh.”
“Yeah. Huh.”
We stare at each other across my living room. The fire pops. Huck sighs dramatically in his sleep, like he’s disappointed in both of us.
“This is so weird,” she says finally.
“What is?”
“Having an actual conversation instead of just…” She puffs out her cheeks. Exhales.
“Instead of what?”
“You know what.”
I do know. Sex. And now I’m thinking about it again, which isn’t helpful when I’m trying to have a serious conversation with boundaries and expectations and all the grown-up stuff that comes after you sleep with someone you barely know.
“Should there be a next time,” I start. Stop. Yeah. I don’t want there to be a next time, right? That’s a terrible idea. “If you feel the need to process your feelings some more about our…whatever this was…could you please talk to me before broadcasting it to the internet?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Dixie.”
“Fine. Point taken,” she says, strumming the guitar. “For what it’s worth, I really didn’t think anyone would pay attention to some random song from a nobody musician.”
“I should probably…” I wave toward the door.
“Yeah. You go work and stay off the internet.” She settles back down with her guitar. “I’ll just be here. Not writing any more songs about recent life events.”
“Appreciate it.” I head out, then pause in the doorway. “Dixie? Next time you have an existential crisis, you can always just knock on my door.”
“Noted.”
“I’m a good listener. Occupational hazard.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Preacher Man.”
I step out. Through the wall, I can hear her start playing again—something about bright lights and the big city that 100 percent doesn’t sound like it’s about me.
Which is probably for the best.
Because four days in, the last thing either of us needs is more complications.