Page 43 of Where the Music Grows

The image forms before I can stop it: his face, slack with shock, as a roomful of people cheer for his useless, guitar-playing son. The way his jaw would tighten when he realized I’d actually made something of myself. That I was actually making money screwing around with my guitar.

The satisfaction of that fantasy burns through me. Maybe I will ask Aggie to record me so I can send it to my brothers. They can show him. It won’t be as satisfying without getting to see his expression, but just to know he knew I was kicking ass would be so worth it.

“Jack?” Aggie’s watching me, eyebrows raised. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I shake myself. “Just thinking.”

She opens her mouth like she wants to say more, but a customer calls for another round, and she’s pulled away.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of handshakes and compliments. A college kid with a nose ring says my music “speaks to her soul.” An older couple offers to buy me a beer but I have to decline. They tell me they haven’t seen energy like mine since Springsteen in the early years.

That’s one of the best compliments I’ve heard.

By closing time, my head’s spinning. Aggie hands me a wad of cash—tips plus a bonus, she says—and sends me on my way with a pat on the back.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she teases, but her eyes are proud.

Back at the campsite, I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the crowd again, hear the applause. I never would have thought I could get that kind of reaction. It’s addicting. I want a bigger stage. More people watching me.

Most of all, I want to tell Jinnie the song was a huge hit. I owe her a lot. She’s the one that got it dialed in and helped me nail down that chorus. I’m going to get up early and go to the bakery and tell her. Is that bragging? I don’t want to be that kind of guy.

But damn, it was so awesome!

I can’t sleep. I want to try and capture this moment. I’m riding high on the thrill of success, but there’s something else. Maybe a little smug.

I sit up, fumbling for my notebook. I turn on the solar-power lantern and grab my pencil. The words pour out—something about stages and spotlights and proving them all wrong.

Let them laugh now. Let them see.

The song takes shape quickly, angry and triumphant. It’s in a similar vein as the song Jinnie helped me write. The song that nearly blew the roof of Aggie’s bar. I think this is where I want to be. More rock. I can hear drums pairing well with this. It’s good. Really good. The kind of song that could be big.

Big.

The thought stops me cold.

What if this isn’t just a local bar thing? What if I could actually make it? Tour. Record. Really show Dad what I’m capable of. I don’t even know where to start to achieve that goal.

I grab my phone, thumb hovering over the search bar: How to find a music agent.

But then what? I don’t have demos. No recordings except the crappy voice memos on my phone. No idea how any of this actually works.

I toss the phone aside, frustrated.

I stare down at the lyrics I’ve written down. I know exactly who they’re directed at. Somewhere out there, Aiden Miller’s probably still in our hometown, still working at his dad’s auto shop, still the big fish in a tiny pond.

And me? I’m here. Playing for crowds. Making money doing what I love.

That should be enough.

So why does it feel like I’m still trying to win some stupid fight from high school?

The song lyrics glare up at me from the notebook. I’m not sure I want to give any oxygen to Aiden or the assholes who made my life miserable.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll figure out how to shape the song. Maybe I’ll ask Jinnie if she can offer any tips. And I’m wondering if she could help me get my music out there. She’s got that social media savviness, seems like the type who’d know about that stuff.

I close the notebook.

For now, the bar is enough. The crowds are enough.