Chapter Twenty-One
Twenty-One
Girl turns love life into content. Preacher requests editorial control.
Jack
I need to find Dixie.
I check the rectory first—empty except for Georgia Peach, who gives me a look that says your girlfriend’s drama is not my problem.
Then I walk up and down Main Street, peer back into Southern Comforts (where River and Pine are still holding court with their phone, replaying my viral humiliation for anyone who’ll listen), and finally end up at Sweetgum Auto.
The van door is wide open, her guitar case visible inside, but no Dixie. I’m about to give up when a soft thump has me looking up.
She’s flat on her back on the van roof, staring up at the cloudy night sky like it holds the answers to life’s mysteries. I’d settle for an explanation for how she’s turned me into a TikTok sensation. Or why, when Dixie Pearl needs to think, she apparently imitates a mountain goat.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,” I call, “let down your hair.”
She props herself up on her elbows and looks down. Even in the dim parking lot lighting, I can see her defensive walls fly up. “Wrong fairy tale, Preacher Man. I’m not trapped in a tower.”
“No, but you’re definitely running away from something.”
“I’m not running. I’m stargazing.” She flops back dramatically. “Very different activities. One involves cardio.”
I walk around to the back of the van and the built-in ladder. “Mind if I join you in your astronomical observations?”
“Free country,” she says, which is Dixie-speak for climb aboard, but I’m going to be difficult about it.
Getting onto the roof of a van isn’t covered in seminary, but I manage without falling off or denting anything important. The metal feels cool through my jeans, and there’s barely space enough for two, but Dixie scoots over some and I don’t mind squeezing in.
I lie down beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body, and look up. The clouds are thick enough that only a few stars peek through, but the moon casts everything in silver light.
“Nice view,” I say.
“Mmm-hmm.” She doesn’t look at me. “I’m guessing you finally heard the whole song.”
No point in beating around the bush. “Not quite, but River and Pine made sure the bar knew I was your ‘preacher man.’ They played it on repeat. I heard enough.”
She makes a sucking sound. “That sounds awful.”
“It was enlightening.” I turn my head to study her profile. “I learned I make you hot. And also that you like your kisses to go.”
Her cheeks pink up. “Those are accurate observations.”
“Dixie.” I wait until she looks back at me. “I knew you’d written about me. But having it played on repeat in front of a bar full of people while they stare at me like I’m some kind of viral joke? That’s a hell of a way to find out what’s actually in the song.”
She frowns. “So? It’s just a song. People write breakup songs all the time. Taylor Swift built an empire on it.”
“We didn’t break up. And last I checked, Taylor Swift doesn’t usually blindside her exes with surprise singles.”
She sits up, pulling her knees to her chest. “Look, I never thought anyone would actually listen for long. My songs usually get like two hundred plays, maybe five hundred if my aunt shares it with her book club and adds a weird GIF.”
“But this one got more.”
“This one got a thousand likes in the first hour.” She scrubs her hands over her face. “I don’t know what happened. The algorithm gods smiled on me, I guess. Or decided to ruin my life. Jury’s still out.”
I prop myself up on my elbow. “I know you said you’d posted something. But why would I ever think it would blow up like this? Why wouldn’t you warn me? Tell me?”
“Because…” She’s quiet for so long I start to think she might not answer. “Because I write songs when I don’t know how to just say things. Feelings. It’s like translating emotions into a language I actually speak.”
“And what were you trying to say?”
“That I was confused. And scared. And maybe falling way too fast for a guy who prays over his breakfast and fixes broken things for fun.” She shoots me a sideways look. “That I didn’t know what to do with someone who’s actually good.”
I nudge her with my shoulder. “See? You could’ve told me exactly that. You just did.”
“Could I? Because in my experience, when you tell people how you feel, they either run away or use it against you later.” She picks at the hem of her jeans. “Songs are safer. If you don’t like the message, it’s just music.”
I think about that. About how she grew up performing, always on display, never knowing if people liked her or just what she could do for them. About her dad treating her feelings like business propositions.
“For what it’s worth,” I promise her, “I don’t run. And I’ve never used someone’s feelings as ammunition.”
“Yeah, well. You’re weird that way.”
We lie back down, shoulders touching, staring up at the clouds together. After a few minutes, she says, “Being a minister means everyone’s watching, doesn’t it?”
“Pretty much. I knew dating would be complicated, but I didn’t expect to become a meme. And now my boss wants to have a conversation tomorrow.”
“Are you in trouble? Because of the song?”
I think about it. Am I embarrassed that the entire town knows—or thinks they know—intimate details about my bedroom activities? That my bishop heard it? That some people may never look me in the eye again?
“No,” I realize. “There’s no trouble. I’m not embarrassed or worried—but I am hurt.”
She grimaces. “On a scale of one to ten, how hurt would that be?”
“I don’t mind being in your songs, Dixie. I mind feeling like a character in your story instead of… I don’t know. A partner.”
Her face crumples. “I fucked up.”
“Yeah. You did.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
We’re quiet again. A plane blinks across the sky, red and white lights disappearing into the cloud cover.
“What if I want to write more?” she asks quietly. “About us?”
“Then let’s write them together. Or at least let me know when you’re turning our life into art.”
“You want creative input on my songs?” The teasing note in her voice is better than the defensiveness.
“I want to know when my personal life is about to become public domain.”
“Fair enough.” She rolls onto her side to face me fully. “For the record, I’m scared shitless about this viral thing.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m closer than I’ve ever been to everything I thought I wanted.
Record labels are interested. My agent actually responds to my messages now.
There’s talk of tours and radio play and all the stuff I’ve been chasing for years.
” She picks at a rust spot on the van roof.
“But I really didn’t mean for it to come at your expense. ”
“What if it doesn’t have to?” I reach out and cover her restless hand with mine. “What if we figure out how to do this together?”
“Together how? You gonna be my roadie? Follow me around the country in the church van?”
“I could learn to play tambourine.”
That startles a laugh out of her. “You’d look ridiculous in leather pants.”
“I’d look amazing in leather pants. I’ve got the legs for it.”
“God, you do.” Her grin transforms her face. “Okay, but seriously. How would that work? You’ve got a church. A calling. A chinchilla who depends on you. I’m assuming Huck would be happy to be your ride-or-die.”
“And you’ve got a van and a guitar and more talent in your pinkie finger than most people have in their whole bodies.” I thread our fingers together. “I don’t have all the answers, Dixie. But I know I don’t want to lose this. Whatever this is.”
She studies our joined hands. “You know what’s funny? I used to think you were like a Boy Scout. All rules and regulations and moral fiber.”
“I am like a Boy Scout. I can tie seventeen different knots and I know how to start a fire with dental floss.”
“But you’re also…” She searches for the words. “You’re not trying to fix me. You’re not trying to make me smaller or quieter or more convenient. You just let me be.”
“Because you’re perfect as you are.”
She narrows her eyes. “I’m really not.”
“Perfect for me, then.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes me want to believe in things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Stupid things. Like maybe the stars really did line up to break my van down in your town. Like maybe some cosmic DJ decided we needed to meet.”
I smile up at the cloudy sky. “You still think the stars have more say than God?”
“I think maybe they’re in cahoots.” She curls into my side, resting her head on my chest. “What do you think? Still got that divine clipboard theory?”
“Maybe God’s got better things to do than micromanage our love lives. Maybe He just sets up the right moments and lets us choose what to do with them.”
“So what are we choosing?”
I wrap my arms around her, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “I’m choosing to trust you. Even when you turn me into viral content without warning.”
“And I’m choosing to trust you back. Even though you could probably bench-press my van.”
“Probably?”
“Definitely. I’ve seen your shoulders.” She tilts her head up to look at me. “So we’re doing this? Whatever this is?”
“We’re doing this.”
“Even though I’m a disaster?”
“Especially because you’re a disaster. Life was getting boring before you showed up.”
She traces a pattern on my chest with her finger. Knowing her, it’s probably the words to a song. “Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“The next song I write about you is going to be so much worse.”
I groan. “Define worse.”
“Oh, you know. More detailed. More specific. I might include sound effects.”
“Dixie.”
“What? I’m an artist. I need to express myself.”
“Please don’t express how I sound in bed to the entire internet.”
“Too late. I already rhymed ‘hallelujah’ with ‘what you do to my—’”
I silence her with a kiss, which is probably what she’s been angling for all along.
“For someone who doesn’t believe in astrology,” she says much later, “you’re pretty good at reading the signs.”
“I’m learning.”
Above us, the clouds shift, revealing a handful of stars. Dixie points up at them with the hand that isn’t trapped between us.
“Make a wish.”
“On what?”
“Those stars. That one looks like a guitar.”
I squint in the direction she’s pointing. It sure looks like a blob of light to me, but I’m not about to argue with a woman who thinks the universe has a sense of humor.
“What are you wishing for?” I ask.
“That’s cheating. You have to make your own wish.”
I look down at her—hair mussed, makeup smudged, wearing yesterday’s clothes, and lying on top of a broken-down van in the middle of Nowhere, Tennessee. She’s absolutely perfect.
“I already got mine,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “That’s disgustingly sweet.”
“You love it.”
“I love—” She stops, the words hanging between us like a held breath.
“Yeah?”
“I love that you climbed up here to find me.”
It isn’t what she started to say, but it’s something. A step.
“I’ll always come find you,” I promise.
“Even when I’m being difficult?”
“Especially then.”