Page 40 of Echoes of a Southern Song

Chapter Fifteen

Jack

––––––––

THIS DAMN SONG’S DRIVING me nuts.

I strum it again, slower this time, trying to find some magic in it. But it still doesn’t feel right. The words aren’t the problem. Neither is the melody, exactly. It’s the vibe. It just doesn’t sit right in my chest.

And if I don’t believe in it, no one else will.

The fire pops beside me, sending a burst of sparks into the air. The campsite is quiet otherwise. Peaceful. A good place to get in my head—but tonight, being in my head feels like wandering around in the dark. I keep bumping into things.

I run a hand through my hair, frustrated.

I play the intro again—slow, then faster, trying to feel something, anything.

Nothing.

I’m so frustrated I’m ready to toss the damn guitar into the fire.

Is this it? Have I finally hit the wall? I wrote all the songs I have and that’s it. I’m a one-hit wonder that never actually got a chance to be a star. I can’t make it fit.

I stare at the fire, the flames dancing in front of me, mocking my frustration. My fingers tighten around the neck of my guitar. I strum another chord, but it’s hollow. Empty. Just like me right now.

What happens if I can’t write another song?

The thought hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve always had music. Even when everything else in my life was falling apart, I could pick up my guitar and lose myself in the strings. It’s been my escape, my lifeline, my identity. But what if that’s it? What if I’ve burned through all the melodies, all the words, and there’s nothing left?

I can just see my father’s face when I have to go crawling back after I spectacularly fail. He never understood why I couldn’t just buckle down and take over the family business like he wanted. He would be so happy to tell me he told me so.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Maybe I should have stayed, swallowed my pride, and become the son he wanted me to be. I close my eyes and let out a long breath. It wasn’t a bad life. It just wasn’t mine.

But what if this isn’t mine either? What if I’m just fooling myself, chasing a dream that was never meant to be mine?

My shoulders slump, and I set the guitar down beside me, staring into the fire. If I can’t do this—if I can’t write another song—what then? Do I go back? Do I crawl home with my tail between my legs and admit defeat? Do I let Dad win? I’ll have to face all those assholes who called me a loser. I’ll have to deal with them laughing at me when I prove they’re right.

I shake my head, clenching my fists. No way in hell am I going back there. Not after everything I’ve done to get here. Not after all the nights I spent sleeping in a tent, playing for tips at dive bars, scraping together every penny just to keep going. Not after meeting Jinnie and feeling like maybe, just maybe, this crazy dream of mine could actually work out somehow if she was by my side.

I grab the notebook from where it sits on the log beside me and flip through the pages. The lyrics stare back at me like they’re waiting for something—waiting for me to figure it out. It’s there. Why won’t it work?

I pick up the guitar again and strum softly, closing my eyes and hoping the melody will find me.

“You need to alter the chord progression. It doesn’t suit the mood.”

My eyes pop open and I barely stop myself from screeching like a girl.

Jinnie is standing just a few feet away. “Sorry,” she says, suppressing a giggle. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine. I wasn’t expecting to see anyone out here.”

“I heard you playing,” she says, walking closer.

“Would’ve turned it down if I knew I was serenading an audience,” I say, setting the guitar to the side as I get up. “But I’m glad to see you.”

She opens her mouth to say something else, but I don’t wait. I close the space between us and kiss her, pulling her in by the waist. Her mouth opens, inviting my tongue inside. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers tangling in the fabric of my shirt as she kisses me back with a hunger that matches my own. It’s just her and me and the way we fit together like two pieces of a puzzle that have been waiting to click into place.

When we finally pull apart, she rests her forehead against mine, her breath warm on my lips. “I missed you,” she whispers.