Page 7 of Where the Music Grows

“He’s scared, Jack,” Michael says. “Scared you’re gonna leave and never come back.”

Caleb nods, his eyes serious. “Yeah, he’s been talking about it more lately. Says you’re too much like Mom—always dreaming, always looking for something bigger.”

“Bigger than this?” I gesture to the window, where the endless fields stretch out under the fading daylight. “This isn’t me, guys. You know that.”

“We know,” Caleb says softly. “But he doesn’t.”

Michael shifts his weight. “He won’t stop you if you really want to go. But he’ll make it hell for you to stay.”

I laugh bitterly. “It already is.”

“Just don’t take it too personally,” Michael says. “Dad’s just...different. He’s focused. This farm is everything to him. He had Mom and lost her. This farm is it for him.”

Caleb sits up. “I’m getting the first shower.”

“Hey!” I protest.

“Nope, me.” Michael smirks. “Oldest. I get to go first.”

I roll my eyes, knowing I’m going to be sitting in my own stink for at least the next hour.

* * *

MORNING COMES TOO FAST.

Dad’s already been out. I can tell, because he’s got that hay smell clinging to him. He’s pouring himself a cup of coffee when I walk into the kitchen. I consider turning around and walking right back out, but I don’t get the chance. Dad doesn’t look up from the cup. “You quitting that job today?”

I grab a mug from the cabinet, forcing my voice steady. “I need that job, Dad.”

“No, you don’t.” He finally lifts his head, eyes cold. “I already called the college. Canceled your registration.”

The mug slips from my fingers. It shatters on the floor.

“You what?” My voice cracks.

“Saved you the trouble.” He takes a slow sip, like this is nothing. Like he didn’t just rip my future out from under me. “You weren’t serious about that anyway.”

The anger hits me like a wildfire. “You don’t get to decide that!”

“I do when you’re living under my roof.”

“Then maybe I won’t!” The words burst out before I can stop them.

Dad’s chair screeches as he stands. “You ungrateful little—”

“I’m not ungrateful!” I snap. “I just want my own life! One that isn’t just...this.” I gesture out the window, at the endless fields, the red dirt roads that lead nowhere.

His face darkens. “This farm is your life.”

“No. It’s yours.” My hands shake. “I don’t want it. I never did.”

For a second, he just stares at me. Then he laughs—a sharp, ugly sound. “And what do you want, huh? To waste your time on that damn guitar? Get yourself stuck with some useless music degree? That shit doesn’t pay the bills. It won’t keep a roof over your head or food in your belly.”

The words sting, but I don’t back down. “If that’s what makes me happy, then yeah, that is exactly what I want.”

“Happy.” He spits it like it’s a joke. “Life ain’t about happy, boy. It’s about work. Responsibility. You kids these days think your happiness is most important thing in the world. You can’t eat happiness!”

“Mom wouldn’t have said that,” mutter under my breath.