Page 35 of Echoes of a Southern Song

Chapter Thirteen

Jack

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I HAVEN’T SEEN JINNIE in a few days.

Not that I’m counting, or pacing, or checking my phone like a lovesick teenager. Never mind I am exactly that. She said she’s busy, and I get it. Life’s full of stuff. She’s working extra hours to help out her boss at the bakery. She needs the money.

I get it.

Of course, I get it.

She’s working all those hours to try and break free from her husband. It’s still so weird to think of her married. If I had money, I’d give it to her. I want her free of him. My reasons are selfish. I want her to myself. And I do want her to be happy and I don’t like seeing her stressed out. She’s trying so hard to keep her secret to avoid her family finding out. From what I know of her family, they wouldn’t look down on her. They would be there for her. They would support her. She didn’t know how lucky she was to have such an amazing family.

And it’s not just her who’s been busy. I’ve been running between gigs, tweaking songs, and trying to keep up with the many projects around the house, I’m busy. But still. There’s this low hum of missing her. She became such a huge part of my life. She quickly became my best friend without even trying.

I smile when I think about the last night we were together. We stayed up too late, tangled up in her bed with Max pissed as hell we were making noise. It was the kind of night that makes you feel like the world’s spinning a little slower just for you. Her laugh still echoes in my ears. And her smile—damn. That thing could wreck me if I let it.

But I can’t let myself get too tangled up in the wanting. Not tonight. I’ve got a show to play, and the strings aren’t going to tune themselves. I miss my muse. The new song I’ve been working on doesn’t feel quite as perfect without her. But it’s one of those songs that’s been bouncing around in my brain for more than a year. I’ve tweaked it a bit. I’m going to give it a run tonight. Usually, I’d have Jinnie give me her honest opinion, but not this time.

I’m on my own. It’s crazy how quickly she became the person I trusted and leaned on. I spent most of my life doing this music thing on my own and in the shadows. And then Jinnie came into my life and I was able to share it with her. It brought us closer together.

“I’m headed out,” Aggie calls out.

“I’ll see you in a couple hours,” I reply.

I sort through the clothes I bought yesterday. My old black t-shirt was getting boring. I wanted to change things up. I wasn’t wearing Gucci, but I did want to update my style a bit. I carry the new jeans and short-sleeve button-up shirt into the bathroom. I pause and look at myself in the mirror.

I’m still me, but I feel different. I’m not the same kid who ran away from home. I’ve got scars—both the kind you can see and the kind you carry inside—but I’ve also got something I didn’t have back then: a purpose. Music has always been my escape, but now it’s becoming something more. It’s becoming my future. I hope Jinnie is part of that future.

I change into the new clothes after my shower. I feel casual but put together. The jeans fit better than I expected, and for a second, I almost don’t recognize myself. Cleaner, sharper, like I’ve finally stepped into the version of me I’ve been trying to become.

Grabbing my guitar case, I head out to the truck, the night air cooler now that the sun’s gone down. The drive to The Hollow is short, but it gives me time to run through the new song in my head one more time. It’s raw, still a work in progress, but it feels honest.

Aggie’s setting up behind the bar. She gives me a nod as I walk in, her eyes scanning my outfit with a smirk.

“Look at you,” she says, wiping down the counter. “You clean up nice.”

“Trying something new,” I say, setting my guitar case down by the stage.

“It suits you,” she says. “Looking more like a rock star every day.”

I chuckle. “That’s the goal.”

I love this place. There’s something about the wood floors and old neon signs that makes it feel like home. Maybe it’s because this is where people first started paying attention. Maybe it’s because I spilled more emotions into this mic than I have in any therapy session. Not that I’ve ever been to therapy, but people have long said music is a form of therapy.

I run through my setlist in my head as I check my strings. Everything looks good. Sounds good. Feels... mostly good.

That new song I’m on the fence about, I haven’t played it live yet. Something about tonight feels like the right time. Or maybe I’m just tired of waiting. I think the few fans I have expect me to play something new every few days. When I say fans, I might be reaching a bit. But there were a few people that just happened to be in the bar almost every night and they seemed to like my music.

Didn’t that make them fans?

“Hey, y’all. Thanks for coming out tonight. Let’s make it a good one.”

And we do. The first few songs land like punches—in the best way. People are tapping their feet, clapping along, shouting the choruses like they were born knowing them. I feed off that energy. It makes the songs lighter, makes me braver.

Then I get to that song.