Page 2 of Where the Music Grows

I bite back the retort that lingers on my tongue. He doesn’t understand, and he never will. To him, the farm is everything—a legacy, a purpose, something to be proud of. To me, it’s a life sentence. A cage.

“You said you’re fine with me taking a few classes,” I remind him.

My brothers are his little shadows and I’m this pain in his ass that won’t do what he demands. I know it’s normal for teenagers to butt heads with their parents, but this is different. I’m eighteen. I just graduated and I want to get the hell out of here. I don’t want to be a rancher. I don’t want to spend my life shoveling manure, milking cows at dawn, and watching calves get hauled off to auction. I don’t want to wake up every morning with the weight of this farm pressing down on me, suffocating me. I don’t want to live in this cycle where the seasons dictate my life. It’s not me. It never has been.

But Dad doesn’t see it that way. To him, this is the only life worth living. The only life that matters. And every time I try to explain that I want something else, he looks at me like I’ve just spit on everything he’s built. Like I’m betraying him by wanting more.

I love my dad, and I know he loves me, but we just seem to be a million miles apart.

I grab my keys off the hook by the door and head out to my beat-up truck. The engine sputters to life, and I back out of the driveway without looking back. The hardware store isn’t much—just a job to keep some cash in my pocket until I figure out my next move—but it’s mine. It’s not the farm. And it’s my chance to get some skills that go beyond raising cows.

When I walk into the hardware store, George the owner, looks up from a crate of light bulbs and offers me a nod and an understanding smile. “Hey, kid.”

“Hey, George. Sorry, I’m late. Truck was coming today.”

He nods. I like that George knows me well enough not to waste his pity on empty words. He knows all about my distaste for the ranching business. Everyone knows where unwanted calves are sent. I know it’s just a part of life, but it always gets me. My dad tells anyone who will listen his youngest is a pansy and wants to save every cow. He calls me a vegetarian. I’m not, but it’s the big joke around town.

“I’ll do that,” I tell him.

I begin arranging the shelves, stocking light bulbs. It’s a boring job but better than the alternative. I hear the door open and glance over my shoulder.

Shit.

It’s Aiden, Brendon, and Trent. The biggest assholes in town. When they spot me, I know it’s on. They get off on fucking with me. Losers.

Aiden edges closer to me, Brendon and Trent not far behind. “Hey, Jack, is that a new cologne you’re wearing?” Aiden asks, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Can’t quite place it. What’s it called, boys?”

“Eau de loser,” Trent quips.

“Cow-shit,” Brendon adds.

“I think...” Aiden steps closer and sniffs. “No, I think that’s desperation.”

I can take it; I’m used to it. They’re jealous. At least that’s what I like to tell myself. Aiden’s arms look like spaghetti noodles. Brendon straight-up got beat down with the ugly stick. And Trent, he’s just an asshole.

I go back to stocking the shelves while they pretend to look at the spray paint. They’re talking shit about Aiden’s girlfriend. They’re always talking shit about people. I ignore them. I’m always ignoring them. I’ve always been the odd man out. I thought graduating high school would bring an end to the bullshit. But nope. These guys are never going to leave me alone. Not in this place. The only way that it ends is when I get the hell out of here.

“Boys causing trouble?” George asks, his eyes drifting to where they’re goofing off.

I shrug. “What’s new?”

They are pushing each other, making raunchy jokes and acting like the assholes they are when Aiden falls into a display.

“Dammit!” George’s frustration is evident. He’s a patient man, but even he has his limits. “Clean it up, then be on your way.”

They mutter and complain but get it done.

“Hard workers.” George chuckles.

“They wouldn’t last a day here,” I say with a shake of my head.

George brings up another case of supplies for me to open and stock. “Written any new songs lately?” he asks.

“Trying,” I reply. “Nothing much so far. Got one I’m working on.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

“I’m just not feeling inspired lately.”