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)
“But the lesson’s not over. We have twenty more minutes.”
“Lily—”
“Mom, please. This is the best lesson I’ve ever had.”
Rye looks at me, a question in her eyes. I shrug slightly. Her call entirely. I’m not going to push either way.
She watches us for a moment, sees Lily’s enthusiasm, sees my casual position across from her daughter. Nothing inappropriate, nothing concerning. Just a guitar lesson. Whatever she’s looking for, she must find it.
“Ten more minutes,” she says, moving to lean against the counter where she can watch.
“Fifteen?”
“Ten.”
“Fine.”
“Okay,” I tell Lily. “Let’s put it all together. Play your G-C-D progression, but use everything we worked on. Dynamics, bass runs, harmonics, hammer-ons. Make it yours.”
She starts tentatively, just the chords with some dynamic variation. Then she adds a bass run between G and C. On the repeat, she throws in a harmonic on the 12th fret. By the third time through, she’s incorporating hammer-ons and pull-offs, creating melodic lines within the chord structure.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s it. You’re not playing someone else’s song now. You’re playing music.”
She grins and keeps playing, adding new variations each time through. I glance at Rye. She’s watching her daughter with an expression I can’t quite read. Pride, definitely. But also something like worry. Or recognition.
“Okay,” Rye says when Lily finishes another run through. “Time’s up.”
Lily starts to protest, then sees her mother’s face and stops. “Okay.”
She starts packing her guitar, moving carefully. The way she wraps the cord, wipes down the strings, positions it in the case—all of it speaks to someone who’s been taught to respect the instrument.
“Thanks for teaching me,” she says, closing the case latches.
“You’re welcome.”
“Will you be here next week if Benny’s still gone?”
I look at Rye. She’s watching me, weighing something behind her eyes.
“We’ll see,” I say.
Lily nods and heads for the door. “Coming, Mom?”
“One second. Wait in the car.”
Lily glances between us, and for a moment I think she’s going to ask questions. But she just shrugs and leaves.
Once she’s outside, Rye approaches me. “I didn’t know you were teaching.”
“I’m not. Benny asked me to cover. His sister’s in the hospital. I had no idea the lesson was for your daughter.”
“And I had no idea you’d be here.” She pauses, choosing words carefully. “You were good with her.”
“She makes it easy. She’s talented.”
“I know.” Rye glances toward the car where Lily waits. “She doesn’t know about us.”
“I figured that out.”
“I need to keep it that way.”
“Understood.”
She looks surprised by my easy acceptance. “Just like that?”
“She’s your daughter. Your rules.”
“Thank you.” She moves toward the door, then stops. “She wasn’t wrong, you know. You are better than Benny, but if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny it.”
“Benny’s a fine teacher. I just approach things differently.”
“No, it’s more than that. You taught her things Benny probably wouldn’t have gotten to for months. Harmonics, hammer-ons, all of it. You compressed weeks of lessons into one hour.”
“She was ready for it. Sometimes students just need someone to show them they’re capable of more than they think.”
“Maybe.” She studies my face. “She’s all I’ve got, Darian.”
“I understand.”
“I need to think about this. About what it means.”
“Take all the time you need.”
She turns to go, then looks back. “What Benny said, about his sister. Is she okay?”
“I think so. He didn’t seem panicked, just needed to be there.”
“Good. He’s a good man.”
“He is.”
She leaves, and I watch through the window as she gets in her car. Lily’s animated in the passenger seat, hands moving as she demonstrates the techniques I taught her. Rye listens, nods, even smiles at something Lily says.
My phone buzzes. Text from Benny: Sister’s fine. Just a scare. I’ll be back tomorrow. How’d the lesson go?
Good, I type back. Smart kid.
The smartest. Hope it wasn’t too much trouble.
No trouble at all.
Thanks for covering. I owe you one.
No problem.
Another text comes through, this one from Rye: She won’t stop talking about harmonics.
She learns fast, I type back.
She wants to know if you’ll teach her again.
What do you want?
A long pause. Three dots appearing and disappearing. I don’t want her to love music, but she does. Today, she’s different. You did something to change the way she feels about playing.
So?
So maybe we figure this out. Carefully.
Your rules. Your timeline.
Can we talk? Later? After she’s asleep?
I’ll be here.
10 o’clock?
Works for me.
I set the phone down and pick up my guitar. The simple progression Lily was working on flows under my fingers, but I find myself adding the variations she discovered. The harmonic at the end. The hammer-on run she figured out. She’s right that the basic chords sound boring. But with the right touch, the right intention, they become something more.
Kind of like teaching. I wasn’t planning on it, didn’t even know I’d be good at it. But showing her those techniques, seeing her face light up when she nailed the harmonics—that felt right. Natural. Like something I could be good at.