Page 52 of Echoes of a Southern Song

We finish dinner, clear the table, and my mom packs me leftovers like she always does, even though I say no every time.

I hug them both tightly. Maybe tighter than usual.

“You’ll be okay,” my dad says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Whatever’s going on in that big ol’ brain of yours, you’re stronger than it.”

I nod, trying not to tear up. “Thanks, Dad.”

When I get home, I set the Tupperware in the fridge, change into something a little more comfortable, and stare at the ceiling for a long time.

I should go to bed.

I’m off work. I could sleep early for once. Catch up on rest. Be responsible.

But instead, I find myself walking to the mirror and fixing my hair. Putting on a little makeup. A black top that makes me feel sexy. Jeans that hug just right. A swipe of lipstick that says I care, even if it’s just for one night.

Because Jack’s playing tonight.

And I want to see him.

Not just to hear his music or watch him on stage, though that’s part of it.

I miss him.

Even with the weirdness lately—the distance, the uncertainty, the way he seems to be drifting away. I still want to be near him. Hear his voice. Watch him do the thing he loves.

I grab my jacket and keys, head out the door, and drive toward the bar.