Page 9 of Where the Music Grows

I take one last look at the house. At the fields. At the life I’m leaving behind.

Then I turn the key.

I turn on the headlights and bounce down the driveway with a bundle of emotions I don’t dare try and decipher. If I think too hard about it, I won’t go anywhere.

And I am getting the hell out of here.

Chapter Four

Jack

The highway stretches out in front of me, endless and dark. I drive until my eyes burn and my hands cramp around the steering wheel. The radio’s busted, so it’s just me, the hum of the engine, and the occasional flash of headlights from passing trucks.

I don’t have a plan.

That fact hits me somewhere around the third hour, when the adrenaline from leaving starts to fade. I’ve got my guitar, some cash, and a full tank of gas—but no idea where I’m going. Just away.

“And then what, Jack?”

I shake my head. I’m not really the spontaneous type. Never have been. I don’t break the rules or the law. Everyone says I’m a good kid. My brothers can get a little rowdy, but not me. I’m the quiet one. I prefer to sit in my room and play my guitar than go out and find trouble. I’ve seen too many of my friends and classmates do that. They’ve got drunken horror stories. Embarrassing photos and more than a few regrets.

My only regret is sticking around that damn farm a month longer than I should have. I should have taken off the day I graduated. But I kept thinking my dad would change. That he would wake up one day and say, ‘Son, you love music, and I want to support your dream’ and we’d hug it out.

Pipe dreams.

Now, I’m on my own headed south. Where?

I glance down at the fuel gauge. It’s hovering above empty. Since I have no real clue where I am or what’s between me and wherever I’m going, it’s probably a good idea to get gas while I can.

A green exit sign looms ahead, announcing a motel, gas, and food.

Good enough.

The motel is called The Starlight, though there’s nothing starry about it. The neon sign flickers, missing an L, and the parking lot smells like piss and vomit. I have a feeling this is one of those places that will rent to anyone, no ID required. But it’s cheap, and the guy at the front desk doesn’t ask questions when I hand him cash for a room.

I grab my stuff out of my truck. There’s no way I’m leaving it overnight. The place is as I expected it to be. But for a guy who shovels shit every day, it’s fine. I’m not picky. I grab my phone and see the missed calls and texts from my brothers. I check the time. It’s almost midnight. They’re probably in bed, but I’ll call anyway.

The phone rings twice before Michael picks up.

“Jack? Where the hell are you?”

“Millfield.” I drop onto the bed, the springs groaning under me. “Just wanted you to know I’m fine.”

“Is he coming back?” Caleb asks in the background.

“No,” I answer.

Michael exhales. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

“Yeah.” I rub my eyes. “Tell Dad—”

“Don’t.” Michael cuts me off. “Just be careful, okay?”

I swallow hard. “Yeah. I will.”

“Check in so we know you’re alive,” Caleb says.

“I will.”