Page 38 of Where the Music Grows

“What are you up to?”

“Just sitting by a fire. Eating a masterpiece of culinary art from the Gas ‘N Go,” I joke, taking another bite.

He laughs. “Sounds gourmet.”

“It’s not the worst I’ve eaten,” I say. “How’s it going there?”

“Same old shit,” he replies with a sigh.

“Dad?”

“Still pissed.”

I expect that. “Yeah, well I’m still pissed he jacked my money.”

Michael doesn’t respond right away, and for a moment, I think the call might’ve dropped. But then he clears his throat. “He’s not gonna let it go, Jack. You know that, right? He thinks you’re throwing your life away.”

“Throwing my life away?” I scoff, tossing the last bite of sandwich into the fire. It sizzles as it hits the flames. “Funny, ‘‘cause it feels like I’m finally living it.”

“I get it,” Michael says quietly. “I do. But you know how he is. He doesn’t see things the way we do. To him, the farm is everything. And you walking away... It’s like you’re spitting on what he’s built.”

I lean back, staring up at the stars. They’re brighter here or maybe I just feel like I can see clearer. “It’s not about spitting on anything, Michael. It’s about me wanting something different. Something that’s mine.”

There’s a pause again. “Caleb and I talked about it the other day. We think you should keep doing what you’re doing. You’ve got a real shot at this music thing.”

His words catch me off guard. Neither of them has said anything like that before—not directly, anyway. “You really think so?”

“Yeah,” he says firmly. “We do. But, man, you have to know it’s not gonna be easy.”

“I know.”

“How’s it been going at that bar you’re playing in?”

“It’s been good,” I say. “People actually listen here. It’s not like playing at the local fair or the barn dances back home. They’re there for the music, not just the beer. It’s kind of intimidating, but also...I don’t know. It feels right.”

Michael lets out a soft whistle. “That’s gotta be something. You’re living the dream, man. Don’t let Dad get in your head about it.”

“He’s already in my head,” I admit, frustration creeping into my tone. “Every time I pick up the guitar, I hear his voice telling me I’m wasting my time. That I should be out there mending fences or plowing fields.”

“Screw that,” Michael says bluntly. “You’re not him, Jack. You never were. And that’s not a bad thing.”

His words hit me harder than I expect. I miss him. I miss Caleb. I miss the certainty of knowing exactly what I was going to do every day, even if I hated it. I swallow the lump in my throat. “Thanks, Michael. That means a lot.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he says. “And call me more often, okay? Caleb and I worry about you out there on your own.”

“I will,” I promise, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Tell Caleb I said hi.”

“Will do. Take care of yourself, Jack.”

“You, too.”

“Hey.”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“When you make it big, we better get free backstage passes and front row seats.”

I laugh. “Yeah, from your lips to God’s ears.”