Chapter Thirty-One #2
Yes, Jack. Yes, it does. I want to go find him right now even though the look in my manager’s face declares, The only place you’re going right now is onstage.
But I’ve never met a rule I didn’t break, so I settle (for now) for tuning my new old guitar.
It’s not badly out of tune at all. Then I text Jack while my manager has a cow.
ME: Are you here?
JACK: Front and center.
ME: What if I get performance anxiety ;)
JACK: You’ll be fine. I know what you can do.
ME: OK, real question. Did you just send me my actual guitar?? The one I pawned?
JACK:…
ME: omg
ME: IS THAT A YES?
JACK: It’s a “maybe I know a guy.”
And that guy might’ve known someone who repairs vintage instruments.
And who owed him a favor.
And who overnighted it.
ME: And you’re here.
JACK: Thought I should hear the song that’s been stuck in my head for weeks. Live.
ME: I was fine before you. You know that, right?
JACK: Yeah. But now you’ve got backup if you want it.
Texting with him is the absolute worst idea I’ve had all week, which is saying something considering my manager vetoed my plan to dye my hair purple and to get a nose ring.
Now I’m remembering exactly how good we were together and wanting a fucking time machine instead of a vintage guitar.
I want to go back and replay those weeks in Wickham Hollow frame by frame, slow-motion style.
But there’s no time for my quarter-life crisis breakdown because the stage manager’s doing that frantic wrap-it-up gesture and hustling me out of the green room.
I’m mentally composing and deleting about fifty different responses to Jack’s note while someone touches up my makeup and checks my headset.
They’re fussing with this ridiculous white dress—strapless with a feathered hem that makes me look like a sexy swan, which is either amazing or horrifying depending on your perspective. Does Jack like avians?
The second I step through the curtain gap, the stage explodes in light. I can’t see shit except people-shaped blobs sitting at table-shaped shadows.
Jack’s out there somewhere. I know it.
I don’t spot him until I’m three songs deep, sitting at a table with Deacon. And that’s when my brain decides to completely abandon ship. Bye, logic! Hello, feelings! Let’s make some terrible decisions!
Because what if I just stopped?
What if I didn’t get on that tour bus?
What if I quit running around like a caffeinated hamster and just fucking stopped?
I’ve spent my entire life chasing this dream the way Dad taught me to—accepting his shit, doing everything his way, letting him critique every choice I make.
Maybe he wants what’s best for me, but maybe he doesn’t actually know what that looks like.
Maybe I could get in my van right now, drive back to Wickham Hollow, bang on the rectory door, and throw myself at Jack like some kind of romance-novel heroine.
I don’t want to live on buses and in hotels, counting miles like rosary beads.
I don’t want to always be thinking about the next song, the next album, the next milestone, never stopping to actually be in the moment I’m living.
I don’t want to work ninety-hour weeks writing songs because even though I love songwriting, it can’t be my entire fucking universe. I want more.
Jack is my more.
And yeah, he’s hot as hell and looks like he could chop firewood for a naked-lumberjack calendar, but he’s more than that. More than just kind or strong. More than patient or even holy (which I’m working on, God, I’m working on). He’s definitely more than the fantasy I wrote songs about.
I’ve spent my whole life chasing stages and running from anything that looks like settling down. But looking at Jack right now, I finally get it. He’s not asking me to stop moving—he’s just offering me somewhere to land. A place to catch my breath. A harbor for when the road gets too damn loud.
I’m done saying NO to everything I actually want—so it’s YES time, baby.
I launch into the opening of “Hot for Preacher.” Are you ready for this, Jack? Because you know what comes next.
Jack’s been right all along—I don’t have to do this alone. I’m not quitting or giving up or even being weak. I’m just choosing to trust him, same way he trusted me.
“She’s not one of those girls
Who says yes to a preaching man
Walks down the church aisle
Wears white on her big day.”
I jump off the stage like I’m escaping a burning building, completely ignoring the panicked looks from my backup singers and the crew. They’re probably thinking I’ve lost my damn mind, and honestly? They’re not wrong. But I’m finally doing something right for once.
I don’t stop walking until I’m in front of Jack.
He looks like shit. There are bags under his eyes and his beard’s all messed up like he’s run his hands through it all night. But when he smiles at me, he’s still my Jack. Still the man who makes me feel like I could conquer the world or burn it down, whichever seems more fun.
I didn’t even ask him to come with me. God, I’m an idiot.
He probably would have. Jack gets what matters—the people you love, your chosen family.
And somehow, impossibly, he made me part of his.
He put his ministry on the line, his whole family legacy, everything he believes, because he cares about me. Because I matter to him.
And I walked away.
I let him think all I wanted was my career, that there was no room in my life for him. That he was some small-town embarrassment who’d hold me back. I never planned to stay—I was always going to leave and I turned him into a punch line in my own story.
But he’s not a joke. He’s my hero. My man.
Jack.
As I dive into the last verse, I change some of the words. Screw the original—this is our song now.
“She’s a once-upon-a-time girl
Thought she had to keep on running
Always just out of reach
But maybe she was always the preacher’s girl
Scared to be that open girl
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
But he never tried to tame her
Just stood steady by her side
Now she’s done running
So, baby—
be mine.”
“Can I sit down?” I’m breathless, like I just ran a marathon instead of walking twenty feet.
He might say no. I might be too fucking late. I know that, but I’m all about taking chances today.
He pushes his chair back from the table and opens his arms.
I launch myself at them like a missile. I’m so happy to be back where I belong that I almost forget I’m still wearing a mic. But I’ve got one more thing to say, and everyone in this place needs to hear it.
“I love you, Jack Carter.” I wrap my arms around him like I’m never letting go again. “Thank you for showing up.”
“I’ll always come for you,” he says, and God, his voice.
“And I’m sorry for—”
He reaches down, flicks the off switch on my belt pack, and pulls the headset off. It disappears somewhere in the direction of the table. Smart man. This moment is ours.
My hands are shaking from something more than just adrenaline as I put my arms around his neck.
“I should’ve told you. I sang about you before I ever had the balls to tell you how I felt,” I say.
“I turned you into a hook and a hashtag before I could admit you mattered to me. I thought if I made it into a song, it wouldn’t hurt as much when you didn’t want me back.
And then when you did want me—I still couldn’t say it. ”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, those steady brown eyes warm and patient as always. “So, say it now.”
“Jack Carter.” I cup his face in my hands, feeling the soft scratch of his beard against my palms. “I’m hot for preacher. And I love you. I’m sorry it took me so damn long to figure it out. I want us to be together. I want the chance to do this every day for the rest of my life.”
Jack looks at me like he always has—like he sees every messy, broken, beautiful part of me and still believes I’m worth keeping anyway.
He brushes his thumb across my cheek.
“I love you, too, Dixie Pearl.”
Simple. Sure. Like a promise and a prayer wrapped up in four words.
And then he kisses me.
Not like before, when we were hungry and desperate, trying to outrun our feelings. This kiss is slow. Deliberate. Deep. Like we’re building something new right here, with our mouths and our hearts and all the words we finally have the courage to say.
Somewhere through the haze of it, I remember we have an audience. And they’re going absolutely insane.
Clapping. Cheering. Probably filming this whole thing for TikTok.
I feel Jack smile against my lips.
I break the kiss and press my forehead to his, laughing because of course this is how my story ends—making out with a preacher under stage lights while a roomful of strangers lose their collective shit.
“I think that’s a yes,” I whisper.
Jack grins. “Amen.”
* * * * *