Page 12 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

Chapter Four

Jack

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I CAN’T STOP SMILING. My cheeks hurt, but hell, I don’t care. Jinnie said she’s proud of me.

Those words loop in my head like a chorus I never want to end.

She’s proud of me.

After all the years I spent chasing scraps of validation, from anyone who’d throw me a nod, hearing her say that? It hits different. It’s not just words. It’s Jinnie. And she means them—at least, I think she does.

Maybe a little off. Her eyes weren’t glowing with the same excitement that’s bubbling inside me, but I chalk it up to sadness. I did see the sadness in her eyes, but she said the right things.

I glance at my phone again, rereading Liz Belfer’s last message: Let’s talk logistics tomorrow. Contract is ready. Memphis is excited.

Memphis. The word sounds like a damn miracle.

Since I called her, she’s been blowing up my phone. I think Liz might be more excited than I am.

No. Impossible.

I think about the studio—real soundproof walls, a producer who knows my name, maybe even a live band. Actual fans. Paychecks. Hell, I might finally be able to buy something more than gas station coffee and new strings. Maybe even fix the old truck.

Shit. The truck. I’ve got to ask Aggie if I can leave it here. Or maybe I can park it at Jinnie’s place.

I picture Jinnie in the front row of some venue, lit up by stage lights, smiling wide while I play the songs I wrote for her. Songs she inspired. That’s how it’s supposed to go, right?

She just needs time. That’s what I keep telling myself.

I think back to how she looked when I first told her about the offer. She didn’t jump into my arms or pop champagne, but she hugged me. Said she was proud. Said she knew how hard I worked.

But there was something behind her eyes. Something I couldn’t quite place. Not fear, exactly. Not disappointment. Just... hesitation.

I try not to let it get to me. She’s probably just thinking about logistics, too. The distance. The time apart. The what-ifs. But those are small things in the grand scheme. Once the checks start coming in, once the crowds are singing my lyrics back to me, she’ll see.

This is my shot. I’ve fought hard to get this. My father’s voice in my head telling me I’d never be anything but a joke was still there. But it was getting much quieter these days. And when I’m there on the stage, it’s going to be drowned out. He’s going to be eating his words.

Jinnie believes in me. She just needs to see what I already know—this is going to work.

And when it does, when the music takes off and I’m not just “Jumping Jack” from nowhere, but someone people actually recognize, I’ll make it up to her. I’ll build her something real. A home. A future.

Because all I want—besides the music—is her.

And I’m not going to lose either.

My phone vibrates in my hand again.

Liz: Make a list of your original songs in order of strongest to weakest. We’ll start recording the top three first.

A grin splits my face. Recording. Actual studio time. I grab my battered notebook I keep all my lyrics in. The pages are dog-eared, coffee-stained, filled with scribbles and cross-outs—years of work about to pay off.

Jinnie’s face flashes in my mind—how she’d smiled at me this morning, how she’d said she wanted this for me. I grab another notebook. One that’s mostly clean. I’ve been keeping track of my tips and jotting down some of the things I need to do around here for Aggie.

Shit.

Aggie. I feel bad that I’m not going to have time to finish all the chores. I’ll make it up to her one day as well. I’ll hire a team of contractors to do all the things around here.