Chapter 11
Eleven
Girl to the rescue!
Dixie
“Hey, sunshine. Miss me?” I stroll into Sweetgum Auto on Friday. The place smells like oil, despair, and tire rubber. The Great British Bake Off plays on a cracked iPad. Paul Hollywood is judging a sad croissant, which feels like a metaphor for my life.
Slate grunts from under an ancient Chevrolet. Classic.
“I see you’re not a Friday Friyay! kind of person.”
“No.”
“Do you like any of the days of the week?”
Pretty sure he flashes me the bird from underneath that car.
It’s only been a week since it died on me, but I miss my van. We’ve slept together, been through shit together, broken down together. I can’t just abandon her, so I’ve popped by the auto shop unannounced, fully prepared to annoy the ever-loving grump out of Slate until he coughs up an update.
My phone buzzes—another Instagram notification. Ten thousand likes. Fifteen thousand. Someone screen-recorded my post and slapped it on TikTok with: “POV: You accidentally wrote a thirst trap about your small-town preacher.” The comments are getting wild. My favorite so far?
Girl said “bless me daddy” and meant it.
I shove the phone back into my pocket. What started as a throwaway post is spiraling completely out of control.
My agent called Monday morning, practically vibrating through the phone.
“Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. Your engagement is through the roof—labels are paying attention.
Is he real? Can you get photos together? ”
What am I supposed to do, follow Jack around with my phone like some stalker? Turn every moment into content? Jack said he’s not going to listen to the song, but come on. Someone’s definitely played it for him by now, right?
“I thought I’d check on my girl.” I walk over like I own the place. “Y’all feeding her? Letting her watch her stories?”
“Still dead.” Slate wipes his hands on a rag that looks suspiciously like a flowered dish towel.
Deacon leans out of the office. “Don’t be dramatic. Technically, she’s in a medically induced coma. Plus, her parts are in Memphis. Or maybe Mexico. Depends on which tracking number you believe.”
“So, she’s on a spiritual journey. Finding herself. Maybe learning Spanish.”
Slate shrugs. For him, that’s basically a sonnet.
“When do I get her back?”
“Maybe next month,” Deacon says. “Maybe ten years. Depends on the international supply chain and God’s will.”
“Ten years?” I mock-gasp. “Lord, I’ll have to marry the preacher just for a ride to Kroger.
” Slate’s look could etch glass, so I turn to leave.
I’ve got my update. My work is done here.
“If my van ends up in a dramatic cross-border car chase, I want her back with at least one bullet scar and a heroic backstory.”
“No promises,” he grumbles.
Armed with caffeine and a mission that’s only half about avoiding my viral preacher problem, I march across town (all two blocks of it) to Jack’s office.
I kick open his office door with my boot. “SHOWTIME, PREACHER!”
He looks up from a mountain of paperwork, hair mussed where he’s raked a hand through it and beard sticking out sideways. “Is there an emergency?”
I slide a coffee to him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I come bearing solutions and delicious pastries.”
He pours half the coffee into his own mug and hands it to me. “What is this?”
“Sweet salvation in a cup.” I plant myself in the beat-up armchair, toss the doughnut box on his desk, and kick my boots up on a pile of DIY construction manuals. “Black coffee, two shots of espresso, and a lemon-glazed cruller to ease the burn.”
His eyebrow arches. “You went to the bakery? About that job I mentioned?”
I snort. “God, no. I’ve got bigger plans than bagging muffins. Besides, Dee was way more interested in telling me about your boring coffee habits. ‘One sugar, splash of cream, and a cinnamon twist’—same order every time. You’re living in caffeinated Groundhog Day.”
He takes a cautious sip and winces. “Wow.”
I pull out a crumpled flyer and slap it on his desk. “We need to talk about this talent show you mentioned in deeply disappointing undetail the other day.”
“We?”
“Did you or did you not hire me to help out?”
“I asked if you would help.”
“Right. So you’ve got me working for free for a good cause.
” I shrug. “You need help, I’m living in your guest room, and I brought pastries.
We’re officially collaborators. Now tell me—what exactly do I have to work with, and what’s at stake?
I wasn’t really paying attention when you tried to run me through it before. ”
“Raise the Roof is an annual talent show for participating churches. The top prize is fifty thousand dollars. Thirty for second place and fifteen for third. The money goes to your charity or organization of choice. Five judges score each performance—usually a mix of local music teachers, choir directors, and community leaders.”
I snag a maple-glazed doughnut. “So that’s roof money.”
“If we win.”
“We’ll win. Manifest it, baby. Tell me about the choir. You have a song picked out?”
He hesitates. “They’re enthusiastic? And ‘How Great Thou Art’?”
I scrunch my eyes shut, running scenarios.
Someone will crack on the first note. Half the choir will sing it like their grandpa, the other half like a funeral dirge.
And the second we hit “Then sings my soul,” everyone in the audience will sing along in different keys.
It’s the kind of song where everyone thinks they know it, but they’re all remembering different versions.
“Bless your hearts.”
Jack goes for fatal optimism. “Did you hear them in church on Sunday?”
“I did. But I was unaware you were banking all your hopes and dreams on that exact set of people.” I shove the rest of the doughnut in my mouth. “Tell me your competition is equally bad.”
“They’re excellent, and they need a fellowship hall.” Jack, being Jack, is scrupulously fair.
I don’t think he’s going to be open to sabotage.
“Dee gets scared and can’t sing in public. Slate can hit one note perfectly, but it’s a note that makes him sound like Huck’s twin.” He pauses. “Your help is definitely needed.”
I press my palms to my face. “We’re gonna need to take Huck for the cute vote.”
I’m painfully aware of my phone’s weight in my pocket. Jack hasn’t mentioned my viral moment again.
Fine. If he wants to forget I’ve accidentally made him internet famous, I can play along. We’ll focus on the choir, win his roof money, and speak no more of the song that has twenty thousand likes and climbing.
I can keep my mouth shut. Probably.