A Special Tune

Chapter 3 Kaitlyn's POV

"Do you want more?" Dad asked from where he stood near the stove. My father was a good cook when he wanted to be. Some nights dinner was on me, and some nights it was on him. I didn't mind cooking. I definitely think it was a good essential for me to learn. I've been cooking since I can remember.

"I'm good," I tell Dad as I sip on my sweet tea. I had made a pitcher before dinner, and it was delicious and a staple in my house. He nods as he puts away the leftover meatloaf.

My father and I were alike in many ways. It's been him and me since my mom left. The two of them fought a lot, and there was no easy way to say this: my mother was a narcissist. She only ever cared about herself, and at times, I felt neglected and like she didn't care about me. She also made my father feel like he was a constant failure and never enough. One day, my father had had enough and told her to pack her things and go. It was an emotional day for us, but saying goodbye was hard but necessary. Ever since she left, we've been at peace.

Though my mom wasn't the only person I loved who walked out on me.

"How was school?" he asked me as he sat back down at the table. Our dining room was across from the kitchen of the house we had on the ranch. They were white cabinets with wooden lining. It was old-fashioned looking, but I liked the rustic wooden style.

"It was good," I answered. He nods and takes a bite of some apple pie. I look at the time, it's thirty minutes past five o'clock. I stand up, then rinse and wash my plate.

"Off to work?" he guessed.

"Yes," I grabbed my bag, and I was already in my uniform.

Dad walked me to the door. "Why are they giving you so many night shifts?"

I sighed. Dad wasn't crazy about me working at a Honky Tonk bar called Piglets Treats that was twenty minutes away in Plant City. I've been working there for a few months, and I was a server, and I was hoping they would promote me to bartender when I was eighteen, which was the legal drinking age to serve alcohol.

"They need me at this time," I shrugged with my hand on the doorknob.

"Please be careful," He sighed.

"I promise, Dad."

We hug, and he tells me to text when I'm off. I say I will, and I head out and make my way to work. The shift went well, and I served and earned tips. I don't know what it was about restaurants. But I have liked them since I started working here. It was fun and kept me busy, and I made good money. Piglets Treats was in full swing, people dancing and drinking beer on a Friday night. My favorite part was the live music of the guests, bands, and really talented people. During the day, a lot of people from school hung out here, but only eighteen in up can be there after closing. My boss only allowed me here (I was only seventeen) because he desperately needed all the hands he could get during the night shift. He told me as long as I don't touch alcohol, I should be good.

People laughed and socialized and drank beer, and ate wings.

But it was after the shift that I liked.

Because then it was my time to sing.

I waited till it was just me, some cooks, and my closing manager. The closing manager, Chris, was his name walked over to the mic on stage. He turned to look at me over his shoulder and smiled.

"You up to sing a tune tonight?" he asked.

"Yes," I grinned.

"Well, hurry up so I can close up," he said, gesturing to the mic.

I take the stage and grab the microphone. I take a deep breath before I let out a sweet chorus. I was told I was a good singer, but it was I who hesitated to believe that I truly had talent. Every time I sang, I would remember a sweet memory of myself at church, but then I'd also have memories of my best friend singing along with me. He brought me out of my shell, and together we sounded good. We made magic with our voices, and there were times I wished I could relive it again.

I sang a song and hit the high notes. Though I could sing, I don't believe I could go far with my music. It was a hobby, and, in a way, I was okay with that. I saw what stardom does to people. After all, I was just a girl who worked on her father's ranch, and that is all I ever will be.

I never sang well on my own in front of an audience, either. When I was little, I got stage fright. I only did well singing with my old childhood best friend.

I knew how to play the guitar and piano as well, having taken a band elective in middle school and high school. I end the song with a killer note, and the cooks, dishwasher, and closing manager applaud. I grin bashfully at my second family and take a dramatic bow. I hopped to get off the stage and finish wiping down everything.

Later, I drive home in my beat-up old truck, lost in thought and lost in memory. It was the middle of the night, and the roads were dark on my way to the ranch. I was turning a corner when I hit something.

I immediately stop and look. It all happened so fast. One minute, it was me and the dark road, and the next, a figure stepped into view, and I hit it.

Or someone.

With great horror, I scramble to get out of my truck, my hands shaking as I open my car door. I hopped down, and I heard a loud groan. It was a human.

"Oh my god! Are you alright?!" I panicked as I rushed to their side to help them stand. "Are you hurt?" My mind raced between making sure they were okay and then hesitating to call the police.

"I'm fine," the man ground out roughly. He had a country accent, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he stood up. Then we looked at another, and there was no mistaking who he was under the headlights of my truck.

I looked into those blue-green eyes of his.

It was Blake.

Blake Chambers.

My Blake.