Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
Girl crashes. Preacher catches.
Dixie
I’m not getting sick. I don’t have time for this shit.
Jack gave me a long look this morning when he handed over my coffee mug before he went out to save the world.
He’s not supposed to have to take care of me, too; the man’s busy as fuck rescuing the rest of the world.
The look in his eye when he says goodbye, though, says he’s just postponing his questions until later.
But rheumatoid arthritis is a fickle mistress, so some mornings I feel like I’ve been run over by a stampede of cows while other mornings make me think I could climb a few mountains.
I hate not knowing which version of myself I’ll wake up as.
Selfishly, I want to hold on to every normal moment I can with Jack. I’ll be his hookup and his nemesis, his choir director and his lover—but the one thing I won’t be is the sick-ass woman who needs taking care of.
The flare, however, doesn’t give a fuck about my feelings. It comes right on in—first the stiffness in my fingers, then the low buzz of pressure behind my eyes, and finally a dull, familiar ache in my wrists. Something heavy’s hanging off my bones, dragging me down.
My phone buzzes. Dad.
DAD: Sent you contracts. Check your email.
I type back with one thumb: Got them.
His response is both brutal and predictable. So why the delay in signing? That’s not how pros handle business, Dixie. You’ve gotta move faster if you want to make it.
That’s the supportive wisdom of a man who once told me a CMT feature wasn’t a “real milestone” unless it led to network coverage and a record deal.
I’m not feeling great, I text. Gimme a minute.
I get two seconds from him.
You never feel great. That’s the problem. The hustle doesn’t wait for you to feel good.
He follows this with a sun emoji, a rocket ship, and flames. I guess he wants to light a fire under my ass.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling ever so slightly—might be from the RA or it might be due to the slow-boiling fury.
Wow. Thank you for the motivational poster. Should I tape it next to my heating pad?
Don’t get snippy, he texts. I listened to that Hot for Preacher song you posted. It’s good. Real good. So why are you wasting time in a backwoods town when you could be in Nashville making valuable connections?
I may not have mentioned the van breakdown and my lack of cash and van parts. I should slip it in there now, but I can’t bring myself to do it.
DAD: You should be playing that song in every bar on Broadway. Getting noticed. Signing something real. Not hiding out with farmers and Bible thumpers in the middle of nowhere.
That hurts. Not because it isn’t exactly what I expected him to say—but because it is. Word for damn word.
ME: You think I’m throwing myself away?
I think you’re better than this. He adds two trophy icons. You’ve got a window, Dixie. A real one. Don’t waste it.
Maybe I’m not wasting it, I fire back. Maybe I’m just tired.
He doesn’t get it.
DAD: Tired? Of what?
Of being measured. Of being told I’m behind. Of grinding myself into the ground for someone else’s dream. Of wondering if the only reason I ever make it anywhere is because of him. Of not being enough when I try and too much when I don’t.
Instead of answering, I mute our conversation and press the heels of my hands into my eyes.
In the next minute, I’m grabbing my notebook and a pen. If he thought I was wasting my time, maybe I’ll write a song about it. Maybe I’ll write a whole damn album about choosing something different.
“Touch me with those morals,” I snarl at the ceiling. It’s a joke. Except… It kind of isn’t. It’s the name of a song.
And now there’s a melody playing in my head, bluesy and defiant, and the words feel like they’ve been waiting in my chest for weeks:
“You walked in wearin’ flannel and grace,
With that Sunday school smile on your sinner’s face.
Talked like a hymn but you looked like sin,
And Lord help me, I let you in.
Your ‘No strings’ sounded like a prayer,
But your hands on my hips didn’t fight fair.
You’ve got conviction written in your bones—
But, baby, you touch me like a man who’s been alone too long.
So, touch me with those morals, Preacher Man,
Break all your rules with your calloused hands.
You quote the Good Book, I rewrite the page,
Let’s sin real soft and then misbehave.
You may think it’s wrong, but it feels so right—
Holy hell, keep me warm tonight.”
The words pour out faster than I can scrawl them:
“You bless your food, I bless the mess,
I wear my damage like a sequined dress.
You say I’m trouble and I don’t deny it,
But I’ve seen the way you stay quiet.
You burn like guilt in a gospel song,
Tryna prove you’re pure when the pull’s this strong.
Your faith’s a fire, mine’s not even a spark—
So go on, light me up in the dark.
Yeah, touch me with those morals, Preacher Man,
Preach me into your redemption plan.
Read me your heart in that basement bar,
Confess in whispers across my guitar.
You say it’s wrong, but we’re past pretend—
Save your soul, then sin again.”
Time for the bridge. I write it down and hum a few notes, leaning into its vulnerability:
“So, touch me with those morals, Preacher Man,
Kiss me like grace with a shaky hand.
Let me be your hallelujah mistake,
The kind you’d risk it all to make.
You say you can’t—well, maybe you should.
A little bit of bad might do us both good.
So, touch me with those morals…
And I’ll touch you like only a sinner could.”
This isn’t just about Jack—it’s about wanting something I’ve never craved before. Security. Stability. Someone who’ll run up against my sharp edges and choose to stay anyway. Someone worth risking everything for.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Dee, asking if I want to help plant stuff in the town’s planters. Six weeks ago, I’d have laughed at the idea of voluntary gardening. Now I’m feeling better and text back yes.
When I walk outside, I find Dee directing a small army of volunteers with the efficiency of a general and the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. She spots me approaching and waves a dirt-covered hand.
“Dixie! Perfect timing. We need someone to help with the hanging baskets.”
I spend the next two hours elbow-deep in potting soil, listening to one of the choir ladies tell stories about her late husband’s failed attempts at growing tomatoes, while Slate stoically shoves marigolds into a planter.
“You’re getting good at this,” Dee says, watching me tease apart the roots of a stubborn petunia. “Might make a gardener out of you yet.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I snark back, but the truth is, I can see the appeal. There’s something hopeful about planting things, about believing they’ll grow and bloom and make the world just a little more beautiful.
“Speaking of getting ahead of ourselves,” Dee continues, shooting me a sideways look, “how are things with our resident minister?”
I concentrate very hard on the flower in my hands. “What things?”
“Oh, please. The man looks at you like you hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars for his viewing pleasure. And you stare right back like you want to climb him like a tree but are too stubborn to admit it.”
“I do not—”
“Honey, I have eyes. And so does everyone else in this town.” Dee’s grin is positively wicked. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”
I open my mouth to give her my standard speech about being a free spirit who doesn’t do commitment, but the words don’t come.
“I wrote a song,” I say instead.
“About him?”
“About what it might be like. If I stayed.”
Dee’s face softens. “And what would it be like?”
“Terrifying,” I admit.