Page 40 of Where the Music Grows

“You play?” I nod at her hands.

“Piano. A little.” She makes a face. “My mom insisted on lessons.”

I grin. “Let me guess—you hated it?”

“At first.” She shrugs. “Then I realized I could play Beatles songs instead of scales and it got better.”

That surprises a laugh out of me. “Seriously? You’re a Beatles fan?”

“My parents love the old stuff. The Beatles. Hendrix. But they also love folk music. They’re kind of all over the place.”

I grin and start playing “Blackbird,” watching her face.

She laughs. “Yep. Go back, play what you were playing. I like it.”

I start playing again, still trying to find the melody that’s itching to get out.

She leans forward, her head slowly moving with the beat. “Try it faster here”—she hums a few notes, surprisingly on key—“and then maybe go up on the G instead of down?”

I try it. The change gives the song a brighter, more hopeful lift.

“Huh.” I play the section again. “That’s actually really good. I like that at the end. I want the beginning to sound angry.”

“Told you I took lessons.”

We fall into an easy back-and-forth—me playing, her suggesting small tweaks. A chord change here, a tempo shift there. Each adjustment makes the songs sharper, more alive. It’s the melody I’ve been hearing in my head.

She’s patting her hands on her knees. “I like that. It’s dirty. Rough.”

I feel my jeans tighten around the crotch. I know she’s talking about the music, but damn. “It’s a little different than the stuff I typically write.”

“Which is?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Melancholy. Sappy stuff.”

“And this one is angry. This one is a big middle finger to whoever wronged you.”

I grin. “Maybe not the middle finger, but yeah, it’s a little angry.”

“Your family must miss you,” she says suddenly.

The comment catches me off guard. My fingers still on the strings. “My brothers maybe. Not my dad.”

She looks up. “Why not?”

The question hangs between us. I could deflect, make a joke. But something about the quiet, about the way she’s actually listening, makes me answer honestly.

“Because I left the farm. Because I chose this over feeding cows at four in the morning.” I shrug. “Because I’m not him. If he knew what I was doing right now, he’d laugh.”

“Laugh?”

I gesture to the fire and my tent. “I’m homeless and broke. He drained my account because he thought that would have me running home with my tail between my legs.”

“And now you’re angry.”

“Not angry...just done.”

Jinnie picks up a stick, poking at the fire. Sparks rise into the dark. “Parents have a way of...expecting you to be who they want.”