Page 48 of Echoes of a Southern Song

I can hear yelling in the background. I know that voice—Dad.

“We have to go,” Michael says. “We’ll talk later.”

“Bye,” I say.

I go in the house, get something cold to drink and then return to the deck. I plop my ass down on it, staring into the fading afternoon. I feel like I’m in my sixteen-year-old skin again. Angry. Hurt. Wanting so badly to be someone different.

I should be thinking about Jinnie.

I should be texting her, checking in, asking how her day went. Instead, I’m stuck in my own head. She doesn’t need to be bothered with my bullshit. She’s got her own stuff to worry about. And my shit compared to what she’s dealing with is nothing. Mine is just me being stuck in my own feelings.

I finish the lemonade and head back inside to shower and get ready for another night at the bar.

I’m looking forward to getting on stage. I’ve played a couple of times since that night that I bombed. Well, I didn’t bomb, but one song did. Tonight, I’m ready to redeem myself.

The song is different now. It’s not just chords and lyrics anymore. It’s got soul. Her fingerprints are on it in a way no one else would notice, but I do. She made it real. I can’t wait to play it and watch people love it. It’s like the big middle finger. Maybe I shouldn’t have trotted it out the first time. I should have waited until it was ready. It won’t happen again.

I set up like usual—guitar tuned, mic tested, stool angled toward the center of the room. Aggie gives me a thumbs up from the bar. I nod back.

People start filtering into the bar. I spot a few familiar faces—locals who’ve been showing up every week, cheering a little louder each time. I love that feeling, like I’m building something here. I know a lot of them would come in for drinks whether I was here or not, but it’s nice to think they might be here for me.

And then the music starts.

I ease into the first song, and the crowd sways with it. The second track gets some claps. By the third, they’re singing along.

It’s a good night.

The kind that makes you forget about all the shit weighing you down. Makes you believe, for a little while, that maybe you’ve got something people want to hold onto. I let myself imagine the song on a radio, blasting through speakers while young people sit around talking or maybe stand around a bonfire drinking out of red solo cups.

I get to the song that nearly ruined my career before I ever really got started.

“All right guys, if you were here the other night, I played this and you hated it.”

There were a few laughs.

“You had every right to. It wasn’t right. But it’s damn good now. And I know you’re going to love it.”

I strum the opening chords, heart beating a little faster. The crowd quiets. They lean in.

And I play.

It flows like water.

Every line hits.

The chorus lifts, and people cheer.

They cheer like it’s their favorite one of the night. I grin wide as hell because damn, this is what I live for.

It ends, and I thank the crowd, jumping into the next song before the moment cools. And it’s not until two songs later, riding that wave of adrenaline, that I realize something gut-deep and awful.

I never said her name.

Never gave her credit.

I meant to. I wanted to. I told myself I would.

But I didn’t.

I said it was good but I didn’t explain why it was good. They obviously assume I fixed it. But it was her. I got caught up in the applause. In the way it made me feel. In the moment where it was all about me.

And now, I feel like shit for not giving credit where credit was due.

After the show, people come up to talk. A couple of girls ask for selfies. One guy says he drove in from out of town to check me out.

“That new one,” he says. “Hit like a freight train, man.”

I thank him, smile, take the compliments. But inside, there’s a voice getting louder.

You didn’t even say her name.

I leave earlier than usual, slipping out the side door and into the cool night. I get back to the house and go in my room. I check the time. It’s eleven and too late to text her. I know she’s in bed and I don’t want to wake her.

I flop onto the mattress and stare up at the ceiling. Am I already becoming someone who steps all over people to get ahead? I want success, but I can’t be one of those guys who kicks people on my way up.