“Oh, tell him about the Belle Meade Plantation,” she said, fishing a black mug out of an upper cabinet and setting it beneath a shiny chrome Keurig, a purchase Jack had made the last time he visited. “It’s one of the most beautiful landmarks in Nashville. You should take him to see it while you’re here.”
And this is what his mother did. Made plans for Jack to tour the city every time he came into town, despite knowing he had only two days set aside before a grueling concert schedule took over every second of the next seven months of his life. Sightseeing was the last thing he wanted to do. But ever the dutiful son, he agreed.
“Sure thing, Mom. I’ll try to fit it in.”
He wouldn’t, but she didn’t need to know that. His mother was the best woman he’d ever met—provided for him and raised him alone, when the only thing they could afford was a trailer park on the outskirts of town and Ramen noodles most nights for dinner. The last thing he would do was hurt her, not when she was excited about the idea of Jack playing Nashville tour guide. But the only thing about sightseeing in Nashville . . . sometimes you ran into people you’d rather not see.
Jack stared at the table, his thoughts a swirling tornado wrapping itself around the same familiar subject.
April Quinn.
He knew he owed April everything, and for the last three years his conscience had begged for release. And now it would have it in the form of a big, fat face-to-face with her. He had no idea what he would say, no idea how he would feel seeing her after all these years. But he knew one thing: if he had to sing ninety-seven verses of “Wind Beneath My Wings” on repeat, he’d do it the entire wedding to keep her from slapping him.
The next morning Jack picked up two grocery bags and set them on his hips, then turned to walk to the car, trying to change his attitude but failing miserably. He hated grocery shopping. Hated it almost as much as mowing the lawn and unclogging a hair-filled drain. But his apartment contained nothing edible except for a bag of stale Doritos he didn’t recall buying and one unopened can of beer tucked away in the back of his refrigerator. Brian was taking yet another nap, so Jack figured now was as good a time as any to get the errand over with. Which meant he’d spent the last half hour of life cursing his existence.
But every internal foul word that had flitted across his brain in the grocery store was nothing compared to now.
He stepped off the curb and stopped short. Twenty feet away from him stood April Quinn depositing bags inside the trunk of her car. She reached for the last bag inside her shopping cart and turned back around, giving him a nice view of her backside. So he looked. Of course he looked. Until it occurred to him that any second now, she would notice him standing there and quite possibly yell at him across the parking lot.
Jack decided to make himself invisible. After looking over his shoulder to make sure April was still preoccupied, he walked in the opposite direction toward his own car. Everything went well until he made the bonehead move of setting both bags on the back of his Lexus to retrieve car keys from his pocket. Just as he fished them out, one bag toppled onto the other bag and both started shooting contents onto the ground. While he lunged to grab them, his hand hit the panic key. His car alarm blared across the parking lot like a bullhorn announcing a battlefield retreat while Jack just stood there among the carnage.
He clicked the Off button and surveyed the disaster.
A carton of eggs lay upside down with four—maybe five—yolks oozing out from the top. An untied bag of apples rolled underneath cars and in the driving lane, fruit heading in too many directions to rescue. Jack watched as a minivan obliterated one. Cereal toppled end over end, but it was cereal, so nothing much happened there, thank God. But the chocolate milk fared worst of all. One side busted and gushed brown liquid in a puddle around his feet. He had to jump out of the way to keep any from getting on his new two-hundred-dollar leather combat boots. A silly expenditure, but he swore it was love at first sight even though he didn’t believe in that crap. Seeing no hope for his situation, he gave the heavens a great big eye roll and bent to retrieve an apple. The eggs could stay there and scramble in the hot afternoon sun for all he cared.
“Need help with that?”
Jack’s spine stiffened even though he was kneeling down. Who knew spines could do that? But apparently spines could because his did, right then and right there, making it painful and awkward to stretch for more apples. So he gave up trying and straightened, dread and nervousness filling up every crevice of his insides because he would know that voice anywhere. Only this time, it rang with a definite chill. That same sound haunted him at night when he lay awake with nothing on his mind except time and emptiness. It taunted him from its place in the crowd as he stood onstage and pretended to be a songwriter. It jabbed at him in his dreams that played out like real-time memories on repeat. He’d listened to her early messages so often he could recite them on command.