Page 37 of Where the Music Grows

“They are songs that are just for me and her.”

“I understand. You keep those for you. What else do you have in that notebook?”

“I’ve been working on a song about here. The land.”

She smiles. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

“I’m thinking maybe I’ll start with something upbeat, get them warmed up, then hit them with one of the slower ones later in the set.”

“Good plan.” Aggie sets a freshly washed zucchini on the counter. “You’ve got a knack for this, Jack. Not just the music—the way you read people. It’s a gift.”

“Thanks, Aggie. That means a lot.”

She smiles softly, wiping her hands on a towel. “Just remember, it’s not just about the music. It’s about the connection you make with the audience. That’s what keeps them coming back. You have a knack for making everyone in that bar feel like you’re singing directly to them.”

I do like that. It’s about making people feel something. The afternoon slips away as Aggie and I talk more about music, life, and everything in between. By the time I head back to my campsite, my notebook is filled with fresh ideas and my mind buzzes with possibilities.

I go into my tent and get dressed in my usual jeans. I hung up my two button-ups from one of the tent poles. But tonight, I’m feeling a bit more casual. I hope my mom won’t think I’m not trying. But it’s a bar. And I feel like the people are okay with me wearing a T-shirt.

I’ve got an hour or so before I need to be at the bar. I grab my guitar and sit on the log that I think of as my couch. The trees my living room and the creek my sound system. I know this is temporary, but I love it here.

I start strumming, letting my fingers do the talking and thinking. The tune takes shape easily, light and playful at first, then dipping into something deeper. The lyrics follow—something about sugar and sharp tongues and unexpected kindness.

I play it through twice before I realize what I’ve done.

This is about her.

Heat creeps up my neck. I set the guitar down like it’s burned me.

That’s not what I meant to do.

I scrub a hand over my face. Stupid. I don’t even know her. One awkward conversation and a few Instagram posts don’t mean anything.

No way am I playing that tonight.

Instead, I run through my usual set—the songs I’ve practiced, the ones I know work. The ones that don’t make me feel like some lovesick teenager.

By the time I get to The Hollow Log, the place is already buzzing. The usual crowd is there. A group of locals are laughing at the bar, and a few unfamiliar faces are scattered around. Aggie gives me a nod from behind the counter.

I take my spot on the platform, adjusting the mic stand and tuning my guitar one last time. The chatter dies down as folks turn their attention to me. I take a deep breath, strumming the opening chords of an upbeat cover to kick things off.

The crowd warms up quickly, clapping along and singing when they know the words. I can feel the energy in the room shifting, pulling me in, and for a moment, all my doubts fade away. This—this is where I’m supposed to be.

People are singing along to one of my songs. I never thought anyone besides me would ever sing them. This is wild. I’m feeding off their energy. I feel like I’m soaring through the clouds. This is an out-of-body experience that I never want to end.

Chapter Thirteen

Jack

The fire crackles in front of me, sending sparks dancing into the dark. It’s a nice night. Not hot. Not cold—just perfect. I unwrap the gas station sandwich, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet of the night. It’s one of those pre-packaged things—ham and cheese on soggy wheat bread. But it’s food, and I’m hungry. I take a bite, chewing slowly as I stare into the fire. The taste is bland, but it’s something to fill the void.

Aggie told me I could use the kitchen to make something, but I don’t want to take advantage. She’s working at the bar tonight. I’m taking a night off. Turns out singing six nights a week and practicing during the day is making my voice a little gravelly. Which is fine and I kind of like the raspy thing, but I don’t want to fry my vocal chords. According to Google, a singer needs to rest his voice. Aggie gave me some of the honey from Jinnie’s parents and I’ve made myself drink lemon tea sweetened with honey. I’m not going to say it’s good, but it does seem to help.

I stare into the flames as I chew. I’ve been gone for two weeks. It’s still so wild for me to think about. I’m glad I didn’t have a chance to think about it when I got up and left that night. I would have talked myself right out of it.

My phone buzzes on the log beside me. I pull it out and see Michael’s name lighting up the screen. He calls at night, long after Dad has gone to bed. I haven’t talked to him in a few days though.

“Hey,” I say through a mouthful of sandwich.