Chapter Twenty
Twenty
Girl goes viral. Preacher finds out.
Jack
I stop in front of Southern Comforts and pat Huck on the head. “We’re being discreet. You’re here as my wingman, so don’t let me do anything stupid. We’re not stalking her, just making sure she’s doing okay.”
Huck bays enthusiastically. He’s on board with this Friday night plan of mine.
“Are you ready? You take the lead, okay? No barking, no more baying, no stealing the ladies’ handbags. Got it?”
Technically, animals aren’t allowed inside the bar, but Huck gets a religious exemption.
“Here we go!” Huck is happy to go—I’m the one who needs a push. What am I even doing here? Dixie said it was business, catching up with people from the industry. She didn’t ask me to come along, which should tell me everything I need to know.
A wave of sound hits me when I open the door and I scan the room. Don’t be obvious. Play it cool. Except now I’m standing here uninvited, and I feel like an idiot.
Slate stalks in the side door and disappears into the bathroom.
In addition to the usual suspects, there’s a man with a goatee beard and a blonde woman.
Since I don’t recognize them, they’re probably Dixie’s industry friends.
The guy sports a music festival T-shirt and a cowboy hat, plus the tired, run-down look of someone who’s driven too long without a break.
The blonde hanging on his arm is pretty and bright, her long hair bouncing as she points at me.
“Heeeyyyyyyy!” she yells. “It’s you! Preacher!”
Huck bays and bolts for their table. I chase after him.
They’ve got a phone propped up against a bowl of Deacon’s stupid boiled peanuts, playing a video on loop. A bunch of folks are clustered around, watching.
Huck goes nuts at the sound of Dixie’s voice coming from the phone. She’s on his favorite-persons list, so he’ll greet her with enthusiasm, even though he can’t figure out how she’s gotten stuck in that teeny-tiny box.
“Huck, we’ve talked about this. We don’t jump on strangers.”
The woman snickers. “Oh, we don’t, do we?”
I wrestle Huck off the table and back down on the floor, but not before he’s snagged the woman’s purse. I’m torn between apologizing and setting things right, when I start paying attention to what Dixie’s singing.
“Never gonna be preacher’s girl…”
The blonde winks at me and turns up the volume.
The phone screen shows a stock photo of a black sweater on rumpled sheets—I recognize that image from the bishop’s call—and it’s definitely Dixie’s voice pouring out of the speakers.
The words dance across the bottom in pink text.
TikTok, my brain supplies. She made a TikTok video about you.
Or is that Instagram? I have no idea. I’ve avoided looking it up, but here it is anyway.
The guy holds the phone out to me. Thick calluses cover the fingertips of his hand. “You’re internet famous, my man!”
He wags the phone in the air like an offering. I can read the caption now, no problem—and I’ve definitely seen it before.
@dixiepearlmusic: when you accidentally hook up with a preacher man and have to own your poor life choices. Am I hot for preacher? #preacherman #nashvilletok #oops.
A stream of emojis follow: a church, some flames, an eggplant.
Four people comment while I stare at the screen. Her post has ten thousand likes and far more comments than fit on the screen.
Fire emoji. Not me relating to “not one of those girls” energy 100
Hot face. The way she said “never gonna be preacher’s girl” but then…
Devil emoji. She really said “I’m my own girl” then wrote a whole-ass song about him.
Cowboy emoji. Girl just converted me.
Deacon turns with a grin. “Nice song, Jack.”
“It’s—” I have no idea how that sentence ends. I knew Dixie had written something—hell, the bishop called me about it and I saw this caption. But knowing she wrote a song and actually hearing it are two completely different things.
Deacon leans on the bar beside me. “Not you? That really what you want?”
I stare at our reflections in the mirror behind the bar. The party around the phone continues with no sign of Dixie. “You know what I am. I’m not made for that kind of attention.”
Deacon shrugs. “Could be worse.”
I don’t know what to do.
Dammit.
“Those Dixie’s friends?”
“Think so.” Huck hops up on a barstool. Deacon groans but rubs his head affectionately.
Whether they are or aren’t, they won’t stay. They’ll be gone tonight, tomorrow at the latest.
I give up on playing it cool. “Where’s Dixie at?”
The blonde is checking out the karaoke stage now and flashing a thumbs-up at the guy singing.
“Out,” Slate grunts. “In the back.”
She and I, we’ve talked. Lot of hours, if I add them up, but they’ve been about little things, I guess. The details of our days. Nothing huge. Nothing really important. I remember touching every inch of her, and yet I still don’t know her well enough to know what she needs right now.
We’re two different parts that only fit together in bed.
And now I’m the subject of a viral thirst-trap ballad.
Deacon moves away when someone gestures for another drink. I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I pull out my own phone to check for messages from Dixie. Nothing.
I text her anyhow: Are you okay?
There’s no response.
On the TV screen, the Tennessee Volunteers are losing spectacularly to the Kentucky Wildcats. Someone turns over the ball to jeers from the audience. It won’t make up the difference in their scores.
Deacon slides a Coke in front of me.
I look at him. “Who are those people?”
“Pine and River.” He makes a face. “River and Pine? Don’t give a fuck, really, but that’s their band name. Dixie’s played with them before. They decided to stop by and look her up.”
The game ends and the players line up to shake hands and slap backs.
I guess I knew she wasn’t staying.
They’ll give her a ride. I know it.
“She’s not gone yet,” Deacon says.
She isn’t, but she also hasn’t introduced me. Or any of us.
“I think they’re like sharks,” he says thoughtfully. “The scavenging kind that comes ’round when you’re cleaning off the boat and you’ve had a good day fishing. They come for what they can get, an easy meal.”
Dixie knows people here. I’ve introduced her, made her part of my world. I didn’t turn her into a Sunday sermon where I listed the ways she’d fallen down. I certainly didn’t write one and invite her to sit through it.
“Dixie’s not looking for an easy meal.” She works hard. I’m very conscious of how much time she’s spent coaching the choir. Rewriting parts. Talking up individual singers.
“That song’s blowing up. People are noticing it. And without knowing how it’s gonna end, I’ll predict she’s gonna get the kind of attention that can help a career.”
“I hope she does,” I say truthfully. “I think it would be good if everyone saw Dixie for the talent she is.”
Deacon nods. “You think that, but I don’t think River and Pine feel that way at all. They’re here to see if they can ride along with her.”
But the thing is, they can ride along. I can’t. I have Bible study at six and a church roof held together with duct tape and prayers.
She belongs to bright lights and fast highways.
I belong to folding chairs and potlucks.
Someone from the group gathered around Pine’s phone squeals. “Look, she’s tagged the church in this one. Said y’all were raising money.”
The church accounts? I’ll get emails. Phone calls. Questions.
“She’s trying to help,” Deacon says.
I nod like a bobblehead. “Looks that way.”
“In her own way.”
He’s right. You take all of someone, not just the easy parts. I know her, even after just a few weeks. She’s loud and bright, says what she thinks. Maybe this is her way of trying to help with roof money. Or paying me back for letting her stay. Hell, I don’t know.
I’ve been dealing with the roof all week.
I lined up the contractor, but I’m still short more money than I want to think about.
I pick up shingles every time I walk outside.
But Dixie—she’s the good part of all this mess.
Living with her, talking with her, those moments when she laughs at something I’ve said. It’s like sunshine after a long winter.
My phone buzzes. Bishop Caldwell. Perfect timing.
“Jack,” she says when I answer, stepping outside for privacy. “I think it’s time we had that conversation.”
My stomach drops. “About the song.”
“About the song. And the fact that my phone hasn’t been silent since this morning.” There’s no amusement in her voice this time, just a wealth of concern. “Apparently, half the diocese has discovered TikTok.”
“Bishop, I—”
“Coffee. Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.”
It isn’t a suggestion.
“Of course. I’ll be there.”
I hang up and stare at the night sky. The bishop wants answers I don’t have and half the diocese is talking about a song I’ve never actually heard. But Dixie has those answers and it’s time to find her.