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)
“Thank you for teaching me,” she says, pulling back. “I’m going to be the best student ever.”
“I believe it,” he tells her.
She carefully puts her guitar back in its case and carries it to her room like it’s made of glass. Leaving us alone in the living room.
“Thank you,” I say. “She’s really excited.”
“She’s a natural. Picks things up quickly.”
“When she’s interested. When she’s not . . .” I shrug.
“Most kids are like that.” He stands, shoving his hands in his pockets. “So tomorrow?”
“If you really don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” He pauses. “Actually, I was thinking. If you want, we could do something else too. All three of us. The park or lunch or something.”
It’s an invitation to more than guitar lessons. To actual time together, the three of us.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
He smiles. “That means yes. Lily told me.”
“She did?”
“While you were in the kitchen getting water. She said when you say you’ll think about it, you usually mean yes.”
“My daughter: the spy.”
“She also asked if I was your boyfriend.”
My face heats. “She mentioned that to me too.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you’re a friend.”
“And if that changes?”
The question hangs between us. This is the moment. The one where I decide whether to stay safe or step forward.
“Then it changes,” I say simply.
His smile widens. “Good to know.”
Lily appears in the doorway. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Same time?”
He looks at me. I nod.
“Same time,” he confirms.
She disappears again and he heads for the door. I follow, not ready for him to leave but not sure how to make him stay without making it something it’s not. Not yet.
“Hey,” he says at the door. “Thanks for this. For trusting me with her.”
“She trusts you. That’s what matters.”
“And you?”
“I’m getting there.”
“Fair enough.” He opens the door, then turns back. “For what it’s worth, this feels like something. You, her, this.” He gestures vaguely at our house, our life. “It feels like something real.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone, walking to his car with that easy stride. I watch until he drives away, then close the door and lean against it.
It does feel like something. Something real. Something worth the risk.
“Mom?” Lily calls. “Can you help me practice?”
“Coming,” I call back.
I find her in her room, guitar out, trying to remember the finger positions. She looks up at me with bright eyes.
“I really like him,” she says simply.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Me too, but Darian said no more practicing today. Let’s watch a movie.”
Lily begrudgingly puts her guitar away and follows me into the living room. I search until I find the movie August Rush. I figure watching a movie about a young, talented musician will be right up her alley.
Later, after dinner and bath time, we’re snuggling in her bed, “Is it okay that I hugged him?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. Some people don’t like hugs.”
“He seemed okay with it.”
“Yeah.” She yawns. “He gives good hugs. Safe ones.”
Safe ones. From a ten-year-old’s perspective, that might be the highest compliment.
“Sleep,” I tell her. “You’ve got practice tomorrow.”
“And maybe the park?”
“Maybe.”
“That means yes.”
I kiss her forehead and turn off her light. In my own room, I check my phone. There’s a text from Darian.
Today was perfect. Thank you.
I type back: Thank you for being patient with her.
She’s easy to be patient with. Like her mom.
Smooth talker.
Just honest. See you tomorrow.
See you tomorrow.
I set the phone aside and stare at the ceiling. Tomorrow he’ll be back. And the day after that, probably. And somewhere in all these tomorrows, we’re building something. Not rushing, not forcing, just building.
This feels like something, he said.
Yeah, it really does.
darian
. . .
The text comes through while I’m changing guitar strings at the shop, and I have to read it three times.
Dinner. My place. 6pm. Lily wants to show you something she learned.
No question mark. Not an invitation. Just Rye stating what’s happening, making it about Lily when we both know this is bigger.
I type back: Should I bring anything?
Just yourself.
You sure about this?
Three dots appear and disappear four times before: No. Come anyway.
At least she’s honest. I finish restringing the Gibson and clean the space Benny graciously gave me so I could work on my guitars. I head upstairs to shower and figure out what to wear to dinner with a woman who I’m falling for but doesn’t trust anyone and her daughter who doesn’t know we’ve been together.
Fun times.
I go with jeans and a henley, my Doc Martens, and go back and forth on whether I should put a hat on or not. Stormy told me girls dig guys who wear their hats backward. I don’t really want to take advice from my teenaged niece, but she definitely knows way more than I do. After adjusting my ball cap one too many times, I leave it on the bed, run my fingers through my hair and call it good.