Page 14 of Where the Music Grows

“Wisconsin.”

“Wow,” she says. “What brings you through here?”

I shrug. “Just passing through.”

She tilts her head. “Headed to Nashville?”

“What? No. Why?”

“You’ve got that country singer look.” She grins.

“I do?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “Just looking for somewhere to land.”

“Well, if you’re looking for a place to crash, there’s a motel on the edge of town. Kind of a dump, but it’s clean.”

I force a smile. “Thanks.”

The truth is, I can’t afford a motel. Not if I want gas to get out of here tomorrow.

She studies me for a second, like she can tell I’m lying. Then she shrugs. “Well, good luck, Jack.”

“Thanks. For the food.”

“Anytime.”

I walk out with the bag in my hand. I have no idea what’s in it, but I don’t care. I’ll eat just about anything. I don’t care if it’s stale. I get in the truck and open the bag. I have a feeling she may have thrown in a few extra things out of pity.

I want to be too proud to need anyone’s pity donuts, but I’m not. I can’t be. This is probably one of the lows of my life. At least, I hope it’s the lowest I’m going to be. I don’t want to think about tomorrow or the next day when I don’t have any money.

But that’s a problem for another day.

I grab a muffin from the bag. It’s got a brown sugar crumble topping. It’s gotta be the apple muffin. I take a big bite and groan. It’s still soft, cinnamon and brown sugar melting on my tongue. I devour the rest in about three bites.

I glance back at the bakery. Through the window, I can see her wiping down the counter, her hair falling loose from her ponytail. For a second, I consider going back in.

And say what?

It’s not like I can ask her out on a date. Hell, I can’t even buy her a coffee.

I put the truck in gear and cruise down the main street. The town fades behind me as I head toward the outskirts, looking for a quiet spot to park for the night. A gravel road winds away from town. I follow it until it’s just me and the dark sky. This is something I know how to do. Back home, it’s easy to find a dirt road and drive until you don’t even know where you are.

Another turn, this one barely a road at all—just two tire tracks through overgrown grass, leading down to a creek.

Good enough.

I kill the engine and sit there for a minute, listening to the crickets. It takes me a second to really understand the gravity of my situation. I’m homeless. And broke as hell. If I allow myself think too hard, I would realize this is about the dumbest thing a guy can do. Am I throwing a fit because daddy won’t let me have my way?

I stare at the steering wheel, doubt suddenly crushing down on me like a physical weight. What the hell am I doing? Sleeping in my truck on some random back road with nothing but a bag of day-old pastries between me and starvation.

Dad’s voice echoes in my head. Irresponsible. Foolish. Dreamer.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe this whole thing is just one big temper tantrum. I’ve got no money, no job, no real plan beyond “drive south.” What kind of idiot leaves home with nothing but a guitar and the clothes on his back? The kind who ends up homeless, that’s who.

I bang my head against the headrest. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”