Page 22 of Echoes of a Southern Song

We sit at the table that really isn’t built for two people. Are plates are nearly touching. Dinner is edible. I blame myself for burning the pasta sauce.

The chicken’s a little dry, the pasta slightly overcooked, but Jinnie beams when I take my first bite, and that makes it the best meal I’ve ever had.

“Not bad,” I say around a mouthful.

She narrows her eyes. “Liar.”

“Okay, it’s terrible.” I grin. “But I love it.”

She kicks me under the table, but she’s laughing.

“How was last night?” she asks. “I feel like it’s so hard to connect with you. You’re playing when I’m home sleeping and you’re sleeping when I’m at work.”

“I’m sorry,” I reply. “I am cutting back to four or five nights.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m just saying, it makes these little horrible dinners all the better.”

“Last night was different,” I say.

“Different how?”

I don’t want to tell her about the women who were making their intentions clear. Instead, I tell her about the college crowd and a few of the scuffles.

“It was a rowdy bunch,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Lots of college guys looking for a fight. One of them even tried to start something during my set, but Aggie shut it down quick. She’s got a sixth sense for trouble.”

Jinnie raises an eyebrow, her fork poised mid-air. “Aggie’s like a bouncer. You don’t mess with her.”

“Exactly.” I chuckle. “But the crowd was into it, which was good for tips. Even if they weren’t exactly the ballad-loving type.”

She laughs, pushing her plate aside. “I bet they were just there to drink and holler. Did you play your new song?”

I nod. “Yeah, I did. It felt different, though. Like the crowd wasn’t really listening—just there for the noise. But it’s all part of the gig, right? Gotta give the people what they want.”

Jinnie tilts her head, studying me with that look that always seems to see right through me. “Do you think you’ll ever get tired of it? Playing for crowds like that?”

I shrug, picking at the remains of my meal. “Sometimes. But it’s all part of the grind, you know? I can’t expect every crowd to be there for the music. Some people just want a good time.”

“Do you imagine yourself playing stadiums?” she asks.

I grin, leaning back in my chair. “Stadiums? Maybe one day. Right now, I’d settle for a crowd that doesn’t try to start a bar fight during my set.”

Jinnie laughs, shaking her head. “You know what I mean. Big dreams, Jack. Where do you see yourself in five years?”

The question catches me off guard. Five years feels both impossibly far away and right around the corner. I twirl my fork absently, considering. “Honestly? I don’t know. Making music, hopefully full-time. Touring, maybe. Recording an album.”

She nods thoughtfully. “That sounds amazing.”

“What about you?” I ask, turning the tables. “Five years—what does Jinnie Parker’s life look like then?”

Her smile softens as she looks down at her plate. “I don’t know either,” she admits quietly. “Part of me still wants to try my hand in a bigger city, maybe even Chicago or Nashville.” She glances up at me quickly, then away again. “Marketing is such a broad field—there’s so much I could do if I just had the chance.”

My heart jumps at the mention of Nashville—her dreams intersecting with mine in a way that feels too perfect to be coincidence.

Or maybe just too good to be true.

After we eat, I help wash dishes, our elbows knocking in the cramped sink. It’s domestic in a way I’ve never experienced before—no tension, no expectations. Just us, moving around each other like we’ve been doing this for years. It’s a choreographed dance. I’m not sure it’s elegant, but it works.

“So,” I say, drying a plate, “anything new with Sam?”