Page 61 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

“Go?”

“The jet.”

I groan. “I thought we were getting rooms tonight?”

“Not tonight. You can sleep on the plane. We have to get to San Francisco.”

I let out a long sigh and drink more tea.

“I have dinner being served on the plane,” Liz says. “Grilled chicken salad.”

“I want a burger.”

“You have to eat right,” she says dismissively. “The nutritionist has already planned your meals. We can’t have you collapsing from exhaustion.”

I get to my feet. “I’m taking a shower.”

“When we land. We have to go.”

I want to stomp my feet. I have zero control of my life. I’m told what and when to eat. What to wear. When to sleep. What to say. I may as well be an action figurine.

But this is the life I dreamed of...right?

I stretch and allow Liz to lead me out of the room. There are more people waiting for us. I’m ushered down a hall and practically pushed into an SUV with what looks like a million flashes going off. I lean my head back against the seat.

Liz is going on about some of the posts on social media.

“Look at this!” she exclaims.

She pushes her tablet into my hands. I open my eyes and look at my Instagram page...except it isn’t mine. It’s Jack the singer’s page. Yes, we are one and the same, but this isn’t my page. Notifications are blowing up. Thousands of new followers. Hundreds of tagged photos from tonight.

One catches my eye—a selfie of me mid-performance, sweat dripping down my temples, guitar slung low. The caption: Jumping Jack is LIFE.

I scowl. “Who the hell came up with that nickname anyway?”

Liz plucks the phone from my hand. “Marketing. It’s sticking.”

I hand her the tablet. “It’s stupid. I want it stopped.”

She ignores me and is already talking to her assistant about what else needs to happen. Ten minutes later, the SUV stops, the back door opens, and more people are there to shuffle me onto the plane. I slide onto the couch, fully planning on stretching out as soon as we’re in the air.

The private plane is full as we climb into the air. I smell the scent of what I suspect is garlic bread to go with the boring salad. I’m starving, but I’m also exhausted. Food can wait.

Someone brings me a blanket and pillow. Liz sits down on the couch, keeping me from stretching out. That’s fine. I’m pretty sure I could sleep standing up at this point. I stuff the pillow behind my head and lean back. I went from never flying to flying more often than my feet are on the ground. But I don’t want to start thinking about how wild the last few months has been. I have to try and rest before I collapse, the hum of the engines lulling me to sleep.

I wake to pressure on my thighs. There’s a head in my lap. Blonde hair fans across my jeans. For a disorienting second, I think it’s Jinnie. Then I remember Jinnie doesn’t have blonde hair.

I shift abruptly, sending Liz jerking upright.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, not sounding sorry at all. “You were comfortable.”

I rub my face, suddenly remembering Jinnie’s worried question months ago: Are you two together?

Liz’s fingers trail along my forearm. “You should sleep more. Big show tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” I stand, needing space. “Gonna hit the bathroom.”

In the tiny lavatory, I splash cold water on my face. My reflection stares back—dark circles under my eyes, stubble coming in rough. I look like a rock star. I don’t look like me. This life is hard. So much harder than I thought it was going to be.