Page 69 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

“There’s some kind of pilgrimage.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask.

“Jack’s last show is going to be in Chicago,” she says. “I guess there’s going to be a European leg of his tour. Chicago is going to be the last time he plays in the U.S. for a while. People are making the trek from all around the area up to Chicago. I imagine we’re going to be seeing a lot more of girls just like that. Maybe you should hide out for a while.”

I snort. “I can’t hide out,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “This is my town too. If they want to come here and talk about Jack, that’s their business. I’ll just keep my head down and focus on the bakery.”

Lisa gives me a sympathetic look but doesn’t push it. She knows better than anyone how much this whole situation has been weighing on me. And she’s been great about not bringing it up unless I do first. But today, of all days, it feels like the universe is conspiring to remind me of him at every turn.

I grab the tray of blueberry muffins and head back to the front counter. The girls are still there, now sipping on iced coffees and gushing about how they managed to snag VIP passes for the Chicago show. I keep my head down as I restock the display case, but their words still find their way to me.

“I heard he’s staying at the Ritz,” one of them says with a dreamy sigh. “Maybe we’ll run into him in the lobby.”

“Or better yet,” another one says on a giggle, “maybe he’ll invite us up to his room after the show.”

I feel a pang of something sharp in my chest—jealousy? Anger? Sadness? It’s hard to tell anymore. The thought of Jack with these wide-eyed fans shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Not because I think anything would happen—Jack isn’t that guy—but because it’s just another reminder of how far apart our worlds have become.

And honestly, maybe Jack is that guy now. He’s nineteen. In his prime. Gorgeous. Of course he would want to take what was being offered. He’s a straight guy, and as far as I know, he believes he’s single. If he thought we were together, he’d text me more than once every couple of weeks.

We aren’t together. I’m the only one holding onto that hope.

The girls finally leave, talking about who’s driving and how much longer until they get there.

The bell above the door jingles as they exit, and I let out a long breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Stephanie gives me a sideways glance but doesn’t say anything, which I’m grateful for. The last thing I need is a pep talk about how I need to “move on” or “let go.” I’ve heard it all before, and it doesn’t help. If anything, it just makes me feel worse. Like there’s something wrong with me for still caring about him.

I grab a cloth and start wiping down the counter, even though it doesn’t need it. The repetitive motion helps calm my mind, if only a little. My phone buzzes in my apron pocket, and I freeze for a second before pulling it out. It’s not Jack.

Aunt Aggie: You doing okay today?

I smile faintly at the screen. She always seems to know when I’m struggling.

Me: Yeah, just a weird day. You know how it is.

I leave it at that and get back to work. As Lisa predicted, there is a steady stream of young women stopping by the bakery on their way to Chicago. It has to be universe’s cruel joke. Rubbing it in.

When my shift finally ends, I cannot wait to get home to the sanctity of my own place. I’m going to shut off the phone. I don’t want to constantly be checking it to see if he’s texted me back. I’m going to assume he’s not going to. Why would he now when he hasn’t in all this time?

“Hi, Max.”

He whacks his tail against the back of the couch where he’s perched.

“You know, I would appreciate a little more enthusiasm when I get home after a long day. You’re a freeloader.”

He doesn’t care.

I change into my comfy sweats, warm socks, and pull on a hoodie. I open the fridge in search of a quick dinner. I need to go to the grocery store. The most mundane tasks feel like monumental chores. I pull out a frozen pizza from the freezer and pop it in the toaster oven.

My phone buzzes.

For one stupid, hopeful second, I think it might be him.

It’s not.

Instagram’s notification glares up at me: Jumping Jack just posted!

I should delete the app. Should block him. Should move the hell on. Instead, I tap the notification like picking at a scab.

The photo hits me like a sucker punch—Jack onstage, bathed in purple spotlights, his shirt half-unbuttoned as he leans toward a sea of reaching hands. The caption reads: CHICAGO—LAST STOP! Who’s coming to party? #BirthdayBash #JumpingJackTourFinale