Page 22 of Where the Music Grows

Chapter Eight

Jack

I grab the razor and run it under the water. The mirror’s foggy from the steam, but I can still see the faint shadow of stubble along my jawline. I lather up and press the blade to my cheek. I’m careful. More careful than usual. One slip and I’ll be walking into Aggie’s bar looking like I got in a fight with a cat.

When I’m done, I splash cold water on my face and pat it dry with a towel. My reflection stares back at me—clean-shaven, hair still slightly damp from the shower I took earlier. Aggie insisted I take advantage of her bathroom. It felt good to take a hot shower after a few mornings of dipping in the creek to clean up. I run a hand through it, trying to tame the mess, but it just flops back into its usual disarray. Mom used to say it had a mind of its own.

I button up my shirt, tucking it into my jeans as neatly as I can. The silver guitar pendant around my neck catches the light, and I hold it for a moment, closing my eyes. I’m wearing the necklace under my shirt. I don’t care how feminine it is. I need her with me tonight. This is for you. Wish you could see me tonight.

I try and smooth my shirt down to make it look more presentable. It’s just a plain black button-up, slightly wrinkled from being stuffed in my backpack, but it’s the nicest thing I own right now. Aggie told me not to worry about getting “fancied up” as she put it. She assured me it wasn’t that kind of bar.

Still. It was my first performance, and I didn’t want to look like a slob. My mom would hate that. She always said we didn’t have to look like a million dollars, but we had to put forth a good effort. Take pride in how you look. When we went to church, we’d all be wearing our best jeans, even if they weren’t brand-new and completely stain-free. That was never her concern. It was the effort.

Tonight’s the first time I’ll play for real people. A crowd. People who don’t know me, which is actually a good thing.

What if they hate it?

The thought slithers into my mind, unwanted. I hear Dad’s voice and his many, many criticisms of my music. “You’ll never make a living off that noise.”

I grip the edge of the sink and take a deep breath.

No.

This town doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know my father, doesn’t care about my past. If they don’t like my music, I’ll move on. Simple as that. I literally have nothing to lose. I’ve got nothing. They don’t like me and boo me off stage, so be it. I’ll know I tried. I’m at least going to see if this music thing is for me. If I bomb spectacularly, I don’t have to have that little dream in the back of my mind. I’ll move on and get work doing something else.

There’s a soft knock at the door. “Jack? You okay?” Aggie calls.

“Yeah.”

I open the door. “Sorry, I was just—

“Having second thoughts?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “I’m not sure I’m good enough to be on your stage, Aggie. I don’t want to embarrass you or run your customers off.”

She studies me for a second, then smiles. “First time jitters. Normal. Come on, I’m heading over now—might as well ride with me. No need for you to waste gas when we’re going to the same place.”

“Thank you, Aggie. Truly.”

“If you’re as good as I think you’re going to be, it’s me who should be thanking you.”

The Hollow Log isn’t much to look at from the outside—just a weathered, wooden building with a neon sign flickering in the dusk. But inside, it’s warm. Literally. Hot. The place doesn’t have AC. The bartender working behind the counter nods at Aggie. I notice several fans going. It just pushes the hot air around.

“We’ll open the door once the temperature drops,” Aggie says.

“It’s fine,” I reply.

The walls are covered in old concert posters and local art. The tables are mismatched, the chairs even more so. A long bar stretches along one side with old stools that could use a little paint.

It feels like a place where people come to stay, not just pass through.

Aggie nudges me toward a corner where a mic stand and a single stool sit on a slightly raised platform. Not quite a stage, but close enough. There’s never going to be more than one or two people on the platform. I have a feeling live performances are not a regular thing. That just puts more pressure on me to do well.

Aggie leads me to the platform, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder as if she can sense the tension radiating off me. “Here’s your spot,” she says, gesturing to the stool and mic stand. “Nothing fancy, but it’ll do just fine for a start.”

I step up onto the platform. It’s sturdy enough, though it creaks a little under my weight. I adjust the mic stand, testing its height. It’s old, the metal scuffed and worn, but it holds steady when I tug on it. The stool is simple—wooden with a faded cushion that’s seen better days. I sit down, resting my guitar case beside me, and look out at the empty room.

From here, I can see everything—the bar, the tables scattered around, the old jukebox tucked into the corner. The stage—if you can call it that—isn’t raised much, but it’s enough to give me a clear line of sight to anyone who might be watching. I try to imagine the room filled with people, their eyes on me, their ears waiting to hear what I’ve got to offer. My stomach twists.