Page 67 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

“Just drink it. Trust me, you’ll feel better. That was a hell of a show. You need to do that every night. I think we should have you shirtless earlier in the set. Those women want to see you bare-chested.”

I roll my eyes before I swallow the whiskey in one go, the burn doing nothing to chase away the hollowness. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Maybe I’ll take off my pants next time.”

She flips through her phone ignoring my comment. She pulls up the social media feed she monitors every minute of the day. And if she’s not monitoring it, there’s some chick who does. She follows Liz around with three phones at all times.

“Look at this,” Liz says. “You’re trending in three countries.”

The screen flashes with clips from tonight—me dropping to my knees during the guitar solo, me winking at a redhead in the front row, me belting out lyrics that are nothing but words. The comments are a blur of heart-eye emojis and sexually-charged comments.

Liz squeezes my arm. “See? They love you.”

I stare out the window at the clouds below. “What would my dad think?”

The words slip out before I can stop them.

Liz snorts. “Who cares what some grumpy old farmer thinks?”

The way she says it—like it’s a dirty word—makes my jaw tighten. But I don’t argue.

Because she’s right, isn’t she?

I’m not that kid getting shoved into lockers anymore. I’m not the boy begging for his father’s approval. I’m Jumping Jack. I’m a rockstar. I’m untouchable.

So why do I feel so fucking lost?

Somewhere over Montana, I pull out my phone. The screen is cluttered with notifications—emails from the label, DMs from fans, and a dozen missed calls from my publicist.

I scroll past them all, searching for one name.

Jinnie.

Our last messages are weeks old. A stupid meme I sent her from LA. Her reply: Miss you.

I never answered.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I want to text her. I want to reach out just to say hello, but that feels wrong. What do I even say? Sorry I ghosted you? Sorry I became this glitter-covered caricature? Sorry I let Liz erase every real part of me?

“Jack.” Liz’s voice cuts through the silence. “We land in Chicago in three hours. You should sleep.”

I lock my phone.

The screen goes dark.

She gets up and moves to one of the chairs, giving me the space to stretch out on the couch. It gets easier to fall asleep despite my body still humming with adrenaline.

Liz leans over, her lips brushing my ear. “You’re on top of the world, superstar,” she whispers. “No one can touch you now.”

I think that’s the problem. No one can touch me and I can’t touch anyone. I’ve never felt lonelier.