Page 76 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

Jack’s face lights up a little at the mention of Thai. “Pad Thai. And spring rolls. And maybe something spicy.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You sure your stomach can handle that? You’ve been living on whiskey and fast food for months.”

He grins weakly. “If it kills me, at least I’ll die happy.”

Order placed; I sit down across from him on the edge of the bed. “How are you, Jack?”

He runs a hand through his messy hair, sighing deeply. “I don’t know, Jinnie. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Jumping Jack is gone, and I’m not sure what’s left.”

“The real you is still in there,” I say softly. “The guy who wrote songs by the fire, who played music because it made him feel alive, not because it made him famous. That’s the guy I came here for.”

He looks at me, his eyes searching mine like he’s trying to find something he lost. “What if he’s gone, too?”

“Then we’ll find him,” I say firmly. “But first, let’s get some food in you and figure out your next move.”

The food arrives, and for a while, we eat in silence. It’s the first real meal he’s had in days—maybe weeks—and I can see some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

“I have an idea,” I announce.

“I take my money and move to Mexico?” he jokes.

I flip open my laptop at the tiny desk. “No.”

He peers over my shoulder as I pull up his social media accounts. “What are you—”

“Fixing this.” My fingers fly across the keyboard. “First, we counter the narrative. Then we—”

“Jinnie.” His hand covers mine, stilling it. “It’s over. The label owns my name, my image, everything. I can’t just—”

I turn to face him. “Yes, you can. Because the Jack Hayes I know doesn’t need a label to make music.”

“They have all my music, Jinnie. I fucked up. I didn’t read the contract. All the songs, they’re not mine. They said I can’t perform them. They took my music.”

“Then you make new music,” I say.

“How? That was some of my best stuff.”

“Jack, you’ve barely lived. That was your good stuff. But you have so much more to write about. Experiences to have. Let them have it. You’re going to keep writing your own songs and they are going to be even better because they are yours. They’re not going to be heavily produced. Just you and your guitar like it should be.”

Something flickers in his eyes—the first spark of life I’ve seen since I arrived.

We draft posts. We dig up old photos from Aggie’s bar, from backyard bonfires, from before the sequins and stage names. At two in the morning, we go live with a simple video—just Jack on the hotel bed with his guitar, playing an acoustic version of a song he wrote about his hometown.

No pyrotechnics. No Jumping Jack.

Just him.

The comments pour in:

This is the artist I fell in love with

So much better without the label’s garbage

Who’s cutting onions??

Jack stares at the screen like he’s seeing a ghost. “Holy shit.”

I squeeze his hand. “Told you.”