Page 34 of Echoes of a Southern Song

“Go ahead,” I tell Lisa. “I’ve got this.”

She takes her lunch, leaving me alone to deal with the customers. Just as we’re starting to clean up for the day, Stephanie returns. There’s a huge smile on her face and she looks like she just won the lottery.

“Jinnie, do you have a minute?”

“Sure.” I wipe my hands on my apron and follow her into her office.

“My sister’s going into labor early—two weeks before her due date! Can you believe it?”

“That’s amazing!” I say automatically, though my stomach sinks. I know where this is going.

“I need to fly out tonight,” she continues. “I want to be with her for the birth and help out those first few days. Do you think you could cover some extra shifts? I know it’s last minute—”

“I can do it,” I say before she finishes. The extra money will help. It has to help.

“You’re a lifesaver,” she says. I’ll make sure you get overtime for anything over forty hours. I’ll need you to keep an eye on things, make the deposits and stuff like that.”

Stephanie gives me a quick rundown of everything she’ll need me to handle while she’s gone—orders, deliveries, inventory. My head spins a little as she talks, but I nod along, scribbling notes on the back of an old receipt. It’s a lot, but I can’t say no. Not to her, and not to the extra cash.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” she asks.

“Totally,” I say, forcing a smile. “It’s just a few days. I’ve got it under control.”

She sighs in relief and pulls me into a quick hug. “Thank you, Jinnie. You’re the best.”

As she grabs her bag and heads out the door, I take a deep breath and straighten my apron.

“What was that about?” Lisa asks.

“She’s heading out of town for her sister’s baby,” I say. “I’m covering some extra shifts.”

Lisa raises an eyebrow. “You sure you’re up for that? You’ve been working nonstop lately.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say, brushing it off, though the weight of it already feels heavy on my shoulders. “It’s just a few days. Besides, the overtime will help.”

Lisa gives me a knowing look but doesn’t push it. She grabs her bag from the counter and heads out, leaving me alone in the quiet bakery.

When I finally lock up for the night, I’m exhausted just thinking about the next week or two. I was supposed to be going to see Jack play tonight, but I need my rest. I’m going to have to get up even earlier to deal with my new workload.

I pull out my phone, staring at Jack’s last text from this morning: Playing at The Hollow tonight. Hope to see you.

My fingers hover over the screen. Between the bakery and the bar, when will we even see each other this week? It was hard enough before, but now, it feels impossible. I need more than a few hours of sleep every night.

I type out a message, cringing and dreading him reading it before he goes on stage: Just got asked to cover extra shifts while Stephanie’s out of town. Might be crazy for a bit. I can’t come tonight. Sorry.

Three dots appear immediately.

Jack: No worries. Aggie wants me playing more nights anyway. We’ll figure it out.

The response is sweet, understanding—exactly what I’d expect from Jack. But something about it makes my chest ache. We’ll figure it out isn’t the same as I’ll see you tomorrow or I’ll come by after my set.

I send back a heart emoji and tuck my phone away, suddenly exhausted.

I walk to my car and drive home. Max is waiting for me as usual. It’s strange to be here without Jack. I don’t know if it’s because it’s such a small space or because he has such a big presence, but it feels empty. I feel empty. I’m going to miss our nights together. I love watching him perform but I’m not going to be able to hang out at the bar for a while.

I dump a scoop of kibble into Max’s bowl, the sound of it clattering against the metal loud in the quiet house. He trots over immediately, tail wagging, and starts eating like he hasn’t been fed in days. I scratch behind his ears absently, my mind already drifting.

I kick off my work shoes, flexing my feet before going into the kitchen and looking for something for dinner. I pull out a pot for pasta. It’s the easiest thing I can think of—just boil water, dump in the noodles, and toss some butter and parmesan on top. Nothing fancy, but it’ll do. As I wait for the water to heat up, I lean against the counter and stare at my phone.

Jack’s probably on stage by now. I can picture it so clearly—the dimly lit bar, the crowd pressed close to the stage, girls with their phones out, recording him as he plays. His voice always has this way of filling a room, low and smooth and just a little rough around the edges when he hits the high notes. And his smile—Damn, that crooked grin he gets when he’s really into a song—it’s enough to make anyone swoon.

I try not to think about it too much, but I can’t help it. The way those women look at him, like he’s some kind of rock god instead of the guy who has captured my heart. I know it’s part of the job. It’s part of his dream. Unfortunately, it feels like I’m losing him to all of it. To the music. To the crowds. To them.

I pull my pasta from the stove, dump it in a bowl, and sit on the small couch.

My phone buzzes. It’s a message from Aunt Aggie: Jack’s killing it tonight. Crowd won’t let him stop playing.

Attached is a blurry photo—Jack on stage, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes as he grins at something off-camera. The sight sends a pang through me. He looks happy. In his element.

And I’m here. Alone. With a week of double shifts ahead of me and a court date looming like a storm cloud.

Me: Tell him I said break a leg.

I flop back on the couch and can’t help but think this may not be something that has any real longevity.