Page 63 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

Chapter Twenty

Jinnie

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I’M STANDING IN THE kitchen, chopping onions for the pasta sauce when Max jumps onto the counter, his tail flicking lazily as he watches me with those big green eyes. I don’t even bother shooing him off anymore. He’s stubborn, and honestly, I kind of like the company. The knife hits the cutting board in a steady rhythm. The dinner is too fancy for just me, but it’s keeping me busy. That’s my goal these days. I have to keep myself busy or I will think about him. So, if that means making enough pasta sauce to feed a small army, that’s what I’m going to do. My plan is to freeze it for quick dinners in the future.

“You’re not gonna like this,” I tell him, nodding toward the pan on the stove. “Garlic and onions aren’t your thing.”

Max doesn’t seem to care. He stretches out, sprawling across the counter like he owns it. I sigh and push him gently to the side so I can toss the onions into the pan. The sizzle is satisfying, and soon the kitchen fills with that warm, savory smell that always makes me feel like I’m home. The onions and garlic are from my parents’ garden. I can’t remember the last time, if ever, that I’ve bought any produce really.

I grab a wooden spoon and stir, leaning against the counter as I watch the onions soften. My phone buzzes on the counter next to me, and I glance at it without picking it up. It’s probably another notification from some random account tagging Jack in a post. I’ve stopped checking those. It’s easier that way.

Max nudges my arm with his head, demanding attention, and I scratch behind his ears absentmindedly. “You’re lucky you don’t have social media,” I mutter to him. “No drama, no heartbreak—just naps and tuna.”

He purrs like he agrees.

The sauce simmers while I boil the pasta water. I lean over the pot, stirring the noodles occasionally, my mind drifting despite my best efforts to stay present. Max jumps down from the counter and winds himself around my ankles, his purring a low rumble that fills the quiet kitchen.

I try to focus on the task at hand, the rich scent of tomatoes and herbs filling the air. But it’s no use. My thoughts keep circling back to Jack, no matter how hard I try to push them away. It feels like forever since I walked away from him and that life. And yet, he’s everywhere. In every song that comes on the radio, in every article that pops up online, in every whispered conversation I overhear at the bakery. He’s inescapable.

I drain the pasta and mix it with the sauce, the act so routine that my hands move on their own. Max watches me intently from the floor, his tail flicking back and forth as if he’s waiting for a taste. I dish myself a plate and sit at the table, but I barely taste a bite.

After dinner and freezing the leftover sauce into small portions, I crawl into bed. My plan is to watch the baking show and completely zone out.

But of course, my damn phone is begging me to look at it. Just one peek. What will it hurt? I reach for it and thirty minutes later I’ve learned all about ‘Jumping Jack’s’ sexiness. His eyes. His style and every other shallow detail. All those people talking about how hot he is doesn’t know the man. They don’t know he’s ticklish in just one spot on his left side. Or that he’s an absolute animal lover...even with my surly cat. They are all in love with the man they see on the stage. I’m in love with the guy who loved to sit by a campfire and play music directly under the stars.

That gives me an idea. I get out of bed and pull on warm boots and my coat. I dig around and find some matches. I snatch some paper and stuff it in my pockets. Then I go on the hunt for the little flashlight my parents insist I keep around in case of a power outage.

I set out in the dark. It’s chilly, but not cold. I know this path by heart—past the oak with the gnarled trunk, left at the pile of river rocks Aggie keeps meaning to do something with, down the gentle slope to the flat clearing where Jack’s tent used to stand.

The fire ring is still there. I drop to my knees, a sad smile on my lips. This is where he played me my first song. I use the flashlight to collect branches and a couple of pieces of wood. It takes a few minutes to get the fire started. I sit down on Jack’s ‘couch’ and hold my hands out to the fire.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I already know what it’ll be before I pull it out—another notification from Jack’s account. I shouldn’t look but clearly I’m a glutton for punishment. The screen glows unnaturally bright in the dark:

Jumping Jack’s West Coast Tour breaking records! Who’s ready for San Diego tomorrow night? #LivingTheDream #JumpForJack

Attached is a photo of him onstage, drenched in sweat and colored lights, wearing some ridiculous sequined shirt that makes him look like a Vegas magician. The caption is all exclamation points and hashtags—nothing like the Jack who used to scribble lyrics on napkins and mutter about “selling out.”

A twig snaps behind me.

“Thought I smelled smoke,” Aunt Aggie says. She walks into the clearing, wrapped in an ancient flannel robe, her gray braid fraying at the end.

I quickly lock my phone. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d come out here and...”

I don’t want to tell her I’m trying to be closer to Jack. That’s silly.

Aunt Aggie lowers herself onto the log beside me with a grunt. “Your fire is going out.”

I quickly add a few more branches. I don’t have any intention of making it too big. I’m just trying to recreate a moment I know would never happen again.

“What are you doing out here?” Aggie asks.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” She laughs. “Show me.”