Page 66 of Where the Music Grows

He grins. “In a very good way. The best way.”

“Good. Then lean in to that feeling. Just enjoy it. I have a feeling you’ve earned it.”

“What about you?” he asks. “You grew up on a farm. A different kind, but I’m guessing there was lots of work to do.”

“Yeah, there was always work to do,” I say, wiping my greasy fingers on the napkin. “But it was different from what you’re describing. My parents...they’re not the type to rush through life. They’re more about taking their time, you know? Like, we’d spend hours in the garden together—Mom planting flowers, Dad tinkering with the irrigation system, and me just sitting in the dirt pulling weeds or hunting for worms. It wasn’t work work. It was slow. Peaceful, almost. They are all about communing with nature.”

Jack nods, listening intently as he eats a fry. “That sounds nice.”

“It was,” I say, smiling at the memory. “After lunch, Mom would always take a nap in the hammock out back. She’d lay there with a book propped open on her chest, and eventually, she’d just doze off. Dad would wander off to his workshop or sometimes join her for a snooze.” I pause, picking at the edge of my corndog wrapper. “I’d usually curl up on the porch swing and listen to the windchimes. It was like the whole world just stopped for a little while.”

“Sounds like a good way to grow up,” Jack says softly.

“It was,” I say with a shrug. “If I tell you something, promise you won’t laugh?”

He pretends to think about it for a minute. “Can I try to promise?”

“Fine. My parents spend time in the garden and the greenhouse talking to the plants. Communing with nature.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to burst into laughter.

Instead, he shrugs. “Makes sense. If I had a garden, I think I’d want to just hang out.”

This man is a dream. Why couldn’t I have met him a year ago? Instead...well, instead, I met the wrong one.

“This is nice,” I murmur before I can stop myself.

He looks at me, like really looks at me. “I think so, too.”

I want to tell him. I should tell him. He deserves the truth. But I can’t. I don’t want to ruin this moment. We finish eating and walk around the fair, hand in hand. It’s well after seven when we’re both ready to go.

On the way, he points to a sign. “Want to get something for dinner? I’m hungry.”

I grin. “Sure.”

I’m all about prolonging our day together. I’m not really hungry, but if it means spending more time with him, I’m up for it.

Jack orders a BLT, his favorite, he says, while I choose a cobb salad. “After all that greasy food, my body is dying for greens,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I should have gone with a salad, but I can’t resist bacon.”

“Trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”

“So, what do you want to do? Like, long-term?”

“I’d really love to get into marketing,” I tell him.

“Like, live in New York City and work in one of those tall buildings?”

“Maybe,” I say. “It doesn’t need to be New York, but I’m not going to find the job I want sitting around here.”

“I’m not going to encourage you to skip town, but sometimes you have to chase your dreams,” he says. “It’s scary as hell, but I wouldn’t change anything. I’m glad I’ll never have to bottle-feed a calf just to fatten it up and send it of to be...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“You have a big heart,” I say.

He shrugs. “Maybe. I mean, obviously I’m not opposed to hamburgers and bacon. I just don’t think I’m cut out to know my food before I eat it.”