Page 23 of Where the Music Grows

“You’ll do great,” Aggie says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Just be yourself. Play from here.” She taps her chest lightly, right above her heart.

“Thank you.”

“First set starts at eight.”

My stomach flips. That’s in twenty minutes.

“Let’s get you some water,” she says. “Don’t want your throat dry.”

I follow her to the bar and accept a bottle of water before going back to my stage.

I set up while the bar fills—locals trickling in, laughing, ordering drinks. A few glance my way, curious, but most don’t pay me any mind.

Good. Less pressure.

At eight on the dot, Aggie hops onto the platform and taps the mic. The chatter dies down.

“Evening, folks. Got someone new for you tonight—Jack’s gonna play a few songs. Be nice, or you’re cut off.”

Scattered laughter. Then all eyes turn to me.

My palms sweat. I wipe them on my jeans and pick up my guitar.

Just pretend it’s for Mom.

I start with a cover—something simple, a folk song most people know. My voice wavers at first, but by the second verse, it steadies. A few people nod along. One guy at the bar even taps his fingers in time.

Encouraged, I play another. Then another.

Between songs, I risk a glance at the crowd. They’re listening. Actually listening. Not just tolerating me while they wait for something better.

It’s terrifying.

And incredible.

I take a breath. “This one’s new. Wrote it a few days ago.”

The room quiets.

I play the first chords of the song about Mom and something shifts. The air gets heavier, or maybe it’s just me. I don’t even see the people anymore. It’s just me sitting on the porch back home while everyone else is in bed.

By the second verse, I forget to be nervous. Forget the crowd, the bar, everything except the words and the melody. The song has been in my head for weeks but now it’s just coming out. Some of it is just happening in the moment. I didn’t write it or plan it; it just flows.

When I finish, there’s a beat of silence. Then applause. Real, actual applause.

A woman at the front table wipes her eyes. “Play another one,” she says.

So I do.

By the end of the night, my voice is rough and my fingers ache, but the tip jar Aggie set out is overflowing.

She beams at me as I pack up. “Told you you’d kill it.”

I shake my head, still dazed. “They really liked it.”

“They loved it. You’re playing tomorrow, right?”

“I—wait, really?”