Page 41 of Echoes of a Southern Song

“Yeah?” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “I missed you, too. More than I thought I could.”

Damn, I’ve missed her.

I kiss her again, slower this time, like I’ve got time to savor it. Like maybe this can be real again, if we let it. I stop just before I’m about to strip her naked and throw her on the ground like my body is demanding.

She smiles against my lips. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I murmur, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “You came all this way just to correct my chord progression?”

“Well, someone had to,” she says, tugging me back toward the fire. “You were murdering that song.”

I laugh, letting her pull me down beside her. “You wound me.”

She shrugs, stealing my flannel from the log it was draped over. “You’ll survive.”

We sit close, sharing the heat of the fire and the quiet hum of being near each other again. I pick up the guitar and tilt it toward her. “All right, Miss Expert. Tell me what you mean. This song is in desperate need of help. I have a feeling you are the one person who can give me what I need.”

“It’s the second verse. You start the same progression as the first, but the lyrics shift tone. It doesn’t flow. It’s stiff and unnatural. It needs a softer transition. Something more... vulnerable.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You been holding out on me? Didn’t know I was dating a producer.”

“I’m not. I’m just someone with ears and a basic grasp of emotional storytelling.”

I laugh again and strum the pattern she suggests. It’s not perfect yet, but she’s right. It’s better. Already feels more honest. I adjust the chords, test a few of the lyrics against it and then sing the verse again.

Her eyes meet mine over the flames. She nods. “That’s it. Now, slow it down just half a beat.”

“Damn. Guess I need to hire you as my cowriter.”

She leans her head on my shoulder. “I couldn’t write a song if my life depended on it. But I’m a very critical person.”

“You are not,” I argue. “You have an eye for details. That’s why your social media pictures are so good.”

She chuckles softly. “Maybe. But I still don’t think I could write a song. I just know what I like when I hear it.”

I strum the chord progression again, slower this time, and hum the lyrics under my breath. Jinnie’s right—the softer transition makes all the difference. The song feels less forced now, more natural. It’s like she has this uncanny ability to see—or hear—exactly what’s missing.

“You’re a genius,” I say, glancing down at her. “How do you do that?”

She shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time listening to you play. I know your sound, your rhythm. And I know when something doesn’t feel right.”

I set the guitar down and wrap an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “Well, whatever it is, I’m glad you showed up tonight. This song was driving me crazy.”

We spend the next hour picking apart the rest of the song. It’s slow, a little messy, but good. Comfortable. Sometimes I swear she can hear the notes in my head before I even play them.

When we finish, I play through the whole thing from top to bottom, and it finally clicks. This is what I was trying to write.

I set the guitar down and exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for days. “That’s it. That’s the one.”

Jinnie claps softly. “Knew you had it in you.”

“Correction: we had it.”

The fire crackles, and neither of us says anything for a while. We just sit there, side by side, listening to the quiet of the woods.

Eventually, she speaks. “It’s been a week, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Felt longer.”