Page 51 of Where the Music Grows

Jack

The truck rumbles along the dirt path toward my campsite. I can’t get the memory of Jinnie’s hands on my collar, her lips against mine, out of my mind. There is definitely a connection. That isn’t just all me. She was into it. I’m not going to lie; I thought I was getting laid tonight.

Then—gone. Just like that.

My headlights cut across my little campsite. The lonely tent. The fire ring. My ‘couch’ are all reminders of my status in this world. I have nothing. What the hell was I thinking trying to put moves on someone who knows exactly what I have? Rather, what I don’t have.

I cut the engine and sit in the dark, listening to the cooling metal tick. A million thoughts race through my mind.

But there is one that is on repeat.

What the hell happened?

One second, we were kissing. The next, she was bolting for her door like I’d burned her.

I drag my hand through my hair. Maybe I misread everything. Maybe she didn’t actually want that kiss. But the way she’d leaned in to it, the way her fingers had curled against my cheek—that wasn’t just polite. That was wanting.

That kiss was fire. There is no way in hell she can tell me she didn’t want that. Or like it. She leaned across the seat to kiss me. She certainly didn’t have to.

I open the door and climb out. I untuck my shirt and consider starting a fire. It’s late and I should go to bed. I promised Aggie I would be over in the morning to finish the greenhouse and start replacing the stairs on her porch.

I take off my shirt and climb into my tent. I hang the shirt from the pole and strip out of my jeans. I’m out here alone. I’m not worried about anyone sneaking up on me and catching me in my underwear. Only person that would appear would be her. And I really don’t mind her seeing me. I sit on my sleeping bag, turn on my lantern, and pick up my notebook.

I flip to the song I started the night I met Jinnie—the one I swore I’d never play for anyone. It was more of a diary entry than a song that was ever going to be played in front of a crowd.

Now, with the taste of her still lingering in my memory, the words come easier.

You kiss like a question I can’t quite solve,

One minute burning, the next you’re gone.

I scratch out the last line. Too dramatic.

I close my eyes and think about her. About the things I really like about her. It’s more than just her beauty. It’s her smile. Her laugh. Those little freckles on her nose.

I jot down a few words, playing around with synonyms to make them fit. I settle into the rhythm of writing, letting the words flow as freely as my thoughts. This is how I express myself. Not all thoughts become lyrics. But once I get them on paper, I can pick and choose and manipulate the thoughts into something more cohesive.

You’re a mystery I can’t quite unravel,

One second here, the next you’re gone.

Your laugh is a melody I can’t get out of my head,

But your silence is a song I don’t know how to sing.

I pause, tapping the pencil against the edge of the notebook. It’s not perfect, but it’s honest. Maybe it’s a little cheesy.

Not cheesy—vulnerable.

I flip to a new page and don’t think about lyrics. I jot down the storm of emotions she makes me feel. The words come faster now. I scribble them down before they slip away, my hand moving almost as quickly as my thoughts.

I play the song through once, softly. It’s missing something. A bridge, maybe. Or perhaps the whole damn thing is stupid. I put the guitar away and climb into the sleeping bag.

I don’t know why I can’t write the song. Maybe because I want it to be perfect. It can’t be good enough. It can’t be just about a catchy melody or some words that anyone listening to it can put on the person they’re crazy about.

This song has to be for her and her alone. And it has to be perfect or it isn’t worth playing.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. I toss and turn, thinking about the kiss and trying to dissect it. Did I do something wrong? I’ve been told I’m a good kisser, so that can’t be it. The thoughts and self-doubts follow me into sleep.