Page 46 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

“Sorry,” I mumble into her shoulder. “Got distracted.”

She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length and studying my face. Her eyes narrow slightly, and I know she sees right through me—the dark circles, the forced smile, the way I’m holding myself like I’m trying to keep it all together. My aunt has a way of seeing things before I even say them.

“Come on in,” she says gently, stepping aside to let me pass. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

I follow her into the kitchen. A pot of something bubbling on the stove fills the air with the scent of garlic and herbs. Aunt Aggie bustles around, grabbing a loaf of bread from the oven and setting it on the counter to cool.

“Sit,” she commands, nodding toward the table. “Tea or soda?”

I hesitate for a second before nodding. “Tea is fine.”

But I can’t sit down. There’s a nervous energy in me I can’t escape.

“Stop pacing,” Aggie says without turning around. “You’re wearing a hole in my floor.”

I slump into a chair at the scarred oak table—the same one where Jack used to sit. I can’t help but smile thinking about the many mornings I showed up before he even had coffee. I can picture his bedhead. He’d be in a little bit of a stupor after staying up late playing at the bar.

“You’re still vibrating,” Aunt Aggie says with a laugh. “Talk. What’s going on?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Aggie snorts. “Bullshit.” She drops into the chair opposite me. “We haven’t talked since you got back from Memphis. How’s our rockstar?”

“Good.”

“Good? Come on, you have to give me more than that.”

I take a deep breath, twisting the hem of my hoodie in my hands. “It was surreal,” I start, my voice quiet. “The penthouse, the studio, all of it. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before. He’s got this insane view of the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows. And the studio? It’s like something out of a movie—all these blinking lights and equipment I don’t even know the names for. He was in this little booth, singing into a microphone with headphones on, and everyone was just watching him like he was some kind of god.”

Aggie leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “Sounds fancy.”

“It is,” I say, but there’s a strain in my voice. “But it’s also not him. Not really. He’s got this whole team around him—producers, writers, that woman Liz who’s always hovering over him like she owns him. They’re all trying to shape him into something polished. Something marketable. And he’s fighting it, but I don’t know if he can win.”

“What do you mean?”

I shrug and shake my head. “They’re changing him, Aggie. His songs, his sound, even the way he dresses. It’s like they’re sanding off all his rough edges to make him fit some mold. And he hates it—I can tell—but he doesn’t know how to push back without risking everything he’s worked for.”

She nods slowly. “And how is he handling all of it? The fame? The pressure?”

I bite my lip, staring down at the table. “He’s different. Tired, mostly. When he called me after I left Memphis last week, it was like talking to a stranger.”

I pause for a second to build up my courage to say what follows next. “But those moments are getting rarer.”

She hums quietly in response as she leans back in her chair and studies me with careful eyes. “And did you have a good visit?”

“Yeah. Really good. At least, I thought it was.”

“And now?”

“Now he’s gone radio silent again.” The words taste bitter. “Just like before.”

Aggie gets up to turn off the stove. “You think he’s changed?”

“I think the world around him has.” I swallow hard.

“And that Liz woman certainly seems to have more than a professional interest in him.”

My head whips around. “You think so, too!”