Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
She goes back behind the bar, pulls out the good whiskey. “You know Bishop’s right. This is just the beginning. The offers are going to get bigger, the pressure worse.”
“Let them come.”
“Easy to say now—”
“Easy to say, period. I’ve had the big contracts, the approved writers, the whole machine. It nearly killed me. What we’re doing here, at The Songbird, in Bishop’s studio—this is real. This matters.”
She pours two glasses, slides one to me. “To bad business decisions.”
“To good musical ones.”
We drink, and I watch her process everything. She’s scared—I can see it in the way she grips her glass, the tension in her shoulders. Not scared of me, but of what this means. Of being visible to an industry that’s already dismissing her.
“Play me something,” I say.
“What?”
“That new thing you’ve been working on. I heard you humming it yesterday.”
“It’s not ready.”
“Play it anyway.”
She moves to the piano, sits at the bench. Her fingers find the keys, tentative at first, then stronger. The melody is haunting, complex in ways that would never work on pop radio but perfect for what it is—honest, vulnerable, real.
When she finishes, I’m quiet for a moment. “That’s what Mitchell and his approved writers could never create. That’s why we’re going to keep doing this, no matter how many suits show up at my door.”
“You really believe that?”
“I know it.”
“Even when the money runs out?”
“Money always runs out eventually, but I invested well. I’m not afraid. But songs like that? They last forever.”
She closes the piano, comes back to the bar. “Bishop’s expecting us Thursday?”
“Thursday and Friday. Full studio time.”
“Both of us?”
“Both of us. Together. Just like before. Like it should be.”
The door opens and regulars start filtering in for happy hour. Our moment breaks, but the understanding remains. We’re in this together now, for better or worse, nobody and somebody making music that matters.
As the bar fills up and she moves into manager mode, I think about Mitchell’s certainty that I’d change my mind. That reality would set in and I’d choose success over authenticity.
He doesn’t understand that this is success. This bar, these songs, this partnership with someone who writes from her bones instead of from a formula.
Let them all come with their offers and their contracts. We’ll be here, making music that actually means something, even if we’re the only ones who understand its value.
That’s enough. More than enough.
It’s everything.
rye
. . .
The stage lights burn different when you’re planning to stand in them yourself.
I adjust the microphone height for the third time, knowing it’s perfect already but needing my hands busy while my brain processes what I’m about to do. Behind me, four stools sit arranged in their familiar semicircle, waiting for tonight’s performers. Except tonight, one of those stools has my name on it, metaphorically speaking, and the thought makes my stomach twist into knots I haven’t felt in years.
“You’re going to wear a hole in that stage if you keep pacing,” Jovie calls from behind the bar where she’s organizing glasses for tonight’s crowd. “And before you ask, yes, everything’s ready. Yes, the sound system’s checked. Yes, I’ve got the setlist. And yes, you’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re being scared.” She sets down a glass with more force than necessary. “Which is valid, but also unnecessary. These women coming tonight? They’re here because you created something special. A safe space for female artists to be vulnerable without the usual industry bullshit.”
She’s right. When I announced the women-only songwriter empowerment night two weeks ago, the response overwhelmed me. Not just from performers wanting slots, but from women across Nashville wanting to attend, to witness, to support each other in ways this industry rarely allows.
The door chimes and I look up expecting another early arrival, but it’s Zara walking in with purpose, her designer boots clicking against the worn wood floor.
“What are you doing here?” The question comes out sharper than intended, my nerves making everything feel like a potential disaster.
“Supporting women artists,” she says simply, then grins. “And making sure my brother doesn’t do something stupid like try to sneak in dressed as a woman.”
“Darian wouldn’t—”
“He absolutely would. Which is why he’s currently at home with strict instructions to stay there until this is over. Levi’s on babysitting duty with Poppy, probably teaching her to crawl toward guitars.” She moves closer, studying my face with the kind of attention that makes me want to hide. “You’re performing tonight.”
It’s not a question.
“Maybe.”
“Definitely. You’ve got that look. Same one I get before stepping on stage after a long break.” She runs her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit I’ve noticed she shares with Darian. “How long since you’ve performed publicly?”
“Three years.” The admission tastes like copper in my mouth. “Not since everything fell apart.”
“And now?”
“Now I have a song that won’t leave me alone.” I think about the track Darian and I created, how it lives in my bones now, demanding to be heard. “A song that needs to be sung, not just played from a recording.”