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The guest room’s on the second floor, tucked in between Granddad’s office and the upstairs bathroom. The large multipaned window overlooks a small backyard where Granny used to grow roses before dementia took her away. The garden is wild now, reclaimed by nature, but still full of lush green plants dotted with bright pops of color.

I’m not prepared for the grief that kicks me in the gut. Granny’s been gone for years, but with everything else going on with me, the loss feels as fresh as if it were yesterday.

“Soup’s on,” Granddad hollers up from the kitchen.

I blink away unshed tears. Pull it together, Kash.

“Be right down,” I call back.

After washing my hands and splashing some water on my face to rinse off the travel grime, I head downstairs. The savory scent of ground beef, spicy peppers, and earthy spices greets me by the time my foot hits the bottom tread, and I follow it to the kitchen like a tracking dog. Granddad sets a steaming bowl of chili on the place mat where I usually sit. He turns back to the Crock-Pot on the counter and dishes some out for himself.

“I hadn’t planned on company, so it’s nothin’ fancy,” he says.

This is practically five-star cuisine, as far as I’m concerned.

“It looks great,” I say, digging in.

Our spoons clank against the sides of our bowls as we eat. After a few minutes, Granddad sets his spoon down and sits back in his chair. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

Fortified by comfort food and familiar surroundings, I take a deep breath and lay it all out for him. Granddad listens without interrupting, keeping his expression neutral. When I finish, I slump back into my seat, as exhausted as if I had just finished playing a two-hour set.

There’s a short pause, and then he says, “Well, that sucks.”

I’m not sure what I expected him to say, but that wasn’t it. Talk about the understatement of the century. Our eyes meet, and suddenly I burst out laughing. All the emotions that have been building up in me boil over, and I let them out until my stomach hurts and tears stream down my face. Granddad joins in and soon we’re both roaring with laughter and fighting for air.

It takes a few minutes for us to be able to look at each other without breaking out into another fit of laughter. My sides are sore, my eyes are red, but I feel lighter than I have in weeks. I still have a lot to unpack, but maybe I’m not carrying as much baggage as I thought I was.

I push the chair back and stand to collect our dirty dishes. When I lift my bowl from the table, there’s a house key lying underneath it. When I was little, Granny used to leave little treats under my plate for me to discover after a meal. Usually it was a five-dollar bill, but sometimes it would be a new guitar pick or a gift card to our favorite ice cream shop. I glance up at Granddad, my eyes growing watery at the memories.

“You can stay as long as you’d like,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.

“So, what’s next?” Granddad asks.

“I dunno.” I shrug and toss the damp sponge into the sink. “I’m waiting for my manager to call me back. I think he’s still my manager? But as far as Six String Justice is concerned, I’m done.”

Granddad reaches out and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Sometimes you have to find your own way.”

“I guess I’ll have to get a job.”

Not just any job, Mom’s voice whispers in my head. A stable job.

Now I can’t help but wonder if pursuing a career in music was really the mistake my parents warned me it would be. They’d pressed me to apply to Haslam College at the University of Tennessee so I could get a degree in accounting.

Just like Granddad.

Just like Dad.

I’d promised to fill out the online application. And I had. Thing is, I never promised I’d submit it. Which I hadn’t.

If I’d applied and been accepted, there’s a good chance Mom and Dad would’ve convinced me to quit the band before we got the offer from Wild Burro Records. I’d probably be sleeping through Accounting 101 right now instead of watching my music career spin out before it even hit the racetrack. I’m not sure which is worse.

My pointer finger traces along the beveled edge of the counter. “I’ll have to call Mom and Dad and tell them they were right.” I cringe as a bitter taste fills my mouth.

Granddad frowns. “Right about what?”

“Oh, you know,” I say, crossing over to the table and sinking back down into the kitchen chair with a weary sigh. “Music is a creative outlet, not a career. If I don’t go to college, I’ll regret it. I’m throwing my future away for an unrealistic pipe dream.”

Granddad takes his seat across from me, his graying eyebrows furrowed. “You know, I never thought you had the makings of a good accountant.”