Chapter 2 — Pressure from Jonah

Jaxon

The morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains of Jaxon’s modest kitchen, casting long, golden streaks across the weathered wooden table. The faint scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with that of dew-covered grass outside, carried in by the occasional creak of the screen door as it swayed in the breeze. Jaxon sat at the table, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. The Refurbished Bus Key Pendant rested beneath his shirt, its weight a familiar comfort against his chest, though it seemed heavier today as Jonah’s words from the night before continued to churn in his mind.

“Jaxon, man, you’re sitting on a goldmine,” Jonah had said, leaning forward across the kitchen counter with an intensity that made Jaxon’s stomach twist. “You could buy a new house, a new car—heck, get out of this town entirely. What’s the point of having all that money if you’re not gonna use it?”

Jaxon had only nodded at the time, too tired to argue, but the suggestion lingered like an itch under his skin. He didn’t want a mansion or a flashy car. The idea of leaving, of turning his back on the life he’d built here, stirred nothing but unease in him. Still, Jonah’s words poked at the edges of his resolve like splinters he couldn’t quite pull free.

He stared into the dark surface of his coffee, swirling it absently. The faint groan of the screen door snapped him out of his thoughts. Jonah strode in without knocking, his usual habit. “Morning, big brother,” he said, grabbing a slice of bread from the counter like it was his own kitchen. His grin was easy, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Jaxon noticed the faint shadows beneath them.

“Morning,” Jaxon replied, keeping his tone neutral. He took a deliberate sip of his coffee, trying to ignore how Jonah’s presence seemed to swell, making the small kitchen feel even smaller.

Jonah plopped into the chair across from him, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. He tore into the bread with exaggerated enthusiasm, gesturing with it as he spoke. “You think any more about what I said? About, you know, doing something big with your winnings?”

Jaxon set his mug down gently, his thumb brushing the ceramic rim. “I’ve thought about it,” he said, his voice measured. “But I don’t need a new house or a fancy car. That’s not me.”

Jonah groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Come on, Jax. You’re killing me here. You’ve got this incredible opportunity, and you’re just… sitting on it. It’s like winning the lottery didn’t even happen.”

Jaxon’s eyes flicked toward the window. Beyond the thin fabric of the curtains, the Old Bus Depot stood in the distance, its once-bustling lot overgrown with weeds and wildflowers. A memory flickered—himself as a young man, sitting in the driver’s seat of his first bus, the smell of oil and vinyl seats filling the air. That depot had been alive once, a vital part of the town’s heartbeat. Now it was just… forgotten.

“I’ve been thinking about the depot,” Jaxon said slowly, his gaze still fixed on it.

Jonah frowned mid-bite. “The depot? What about it?”

“I was thinking it could be… something,” Jaxon began, his words deliberate. “A place for the community. An arts center, maybe, or a space for events. Something that brings people together again.”

For a moment, Jonah just stared at him. Then he let out a sharp laugh, the sound grating against the quiet of the room. “An arts center? Seriously? You’ve got millions of dollars, and you want to dump it into that old rust bucket? No offense, Jax, but that’s not exactly what I’d call a smart investment.”

“It’s not about the money,” Jaxon said, his voice tightening. “It’s about doing something that matters.”

Jonah leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His grin faded, replaced by something sharper—a mix of irritation and something softer, almost concern. “And what happens when people start taking advantage of you? When they expect you to fix every little problem in town just because you’ve got the cash? Generosity’s great, Jax, but it can’t fix everything. You’re gonna burn yourself out trying.”

Jaxon hesitated, his fingers tightening around the mug. Jonah’s words hit uncomfortably close to home. He had already noticed the way people’s eyes lingered on him a little longer now, the way casual conversations seemed to veer toward cautious remarks about his winnings. The idea of being seen as a walking bank account gnawed at him, but the thought of doing nothing gnawed even harder.

“I’m not trying to fix everything,” Jaxon said quietly, his gaze returning to the table. “I just… I want to give back in a way that feels right. The depot was important once. It could be important again.”

Jonah shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “You’re too good for your own good, Jax. Always have been. Just… don’t let this town suck you dry, alright?”

Jaxon didn’t respond. Jonah stood with a scrape of the chair legs, tossing the crust of his bread into the trash. “I’ve got to get to work. Think about what I said, okay? There’s a whole world out there, and you don’t have to tie yourself to this dusty little corner of it.”

As the door slammed behind him, Jaxon exhaled slowly. The quiet of the kitchen settled around him again, like a blanket of calm after a storm. He reached for the pendant beneath his shirt, running his thumb along its worn grooves. Jonah wasn’t entirely wrong—there were risks. But the thought of pouring money into meaningless luxuries left a sour taste in his mouth. What good was wealth if it didn’t make a difference?

Later that day, Jaxon stood outside the Old Bus Depot, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt. The building seemed smaller than he remembered, its paint faded and peeling, its windows clouded with grime. He hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, the sound of distant birdsong and the crunch of gravel beneath his boots filling his ears.

Pushing open the rusted door, he stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of aged oil and rust, the faint groan of the hinges echoing through the cavernous space. Rows of buses stood in quiet disrepair, their once-vivid paint dulled by time. One in particular caught his eye—the bus he had driven for years. Its number, though faded, was still faintly visible on the side. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cool, weathered metal.

A memory stirred—early mornings spent warming up the engine as frost clung to the windows, the quiet smiles of passengers boarding, the murmured thanks as they stepped off. This place had been alive once, a hub for the town’s rhythm. Standing there, surrounded by echoes of the past, Jaxon could see it again—not just as it had been but as it could be.

A space filled with light and laughter, where kids could take art classes, couples could gather for dances, and neighbors could reconnect. It wouldn’t be easy, and there would be plenty of people—Jonah included—who would doubt him. But the thought of breathing life back into this space filled him with a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt in a long time.

As he stepped back outside, the cool evening breeze tugging at his shirt, Jaxon made a silent vow. No matter how many voices told him to aim higher, to think bigger, he would trust his instincts. The money wasn’t about escaping or proving anything—it was about staying true to the person he had always been.

And maybe, just maybe, it was about proving to Jonah—and to himself—that being grounded didn’t mean being small.

The sun dipped below the horizon as Jaxon walked home, his steps steady and his heart a little lighter. Tomorrow, he would begin sketching out the details of his idea. For now, he would let himself savor the possibilities.

The Refurbished Bus Key Pendant glinted faintly in the fading light, a quiet reminder of where he had come from—and where he hoped to go.