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)
Not planning to.
Good. She sounds perfect for you. Complicated and musical and unavailable.
She’s not unavailable.
Just mostly unavailable?
Carefully available.
That might be worse.
The light turns green. I pocket my phone and drive with visions of Rye and me together, living in some sort of bliss I’ve never experienced before.
My apartment feels too quiet, too empty of voices and laughter and dinner conversation. I didn’t realize I wanted noise from people surrounding me or the warmth that comes from having someone in your space until now.
My phone buzzes. Rye: She wants to know if you’ll teach her the F chord next time.
Tell her we’ll work up to it. Hand strength matters.
She says her hands are strong enough.
I’m sure they are. Still need to build up to barre chords.
Pause, then: Thank you for tonight.
Thank you for inviting me.
I’m still scared.
I know.
But I’m trying.
That’s all anyone can do.
She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to.
I pick up my guitar and play, working through progressions. The melody that comes out isn’t something I’ve played before. It’s softer than my usual style, more patient. It sounds like waiting. Like showing up even when someone’s not ready for you. Like sitting at a dinner table with matching plates and homemade bread and a ten-year-old who asks too many questions.
Maybe Rye doesn’t need grand gestures or promises. Maybe she needs simple presence. Showing up for dinner. Listening to Lily’s songs. Sitting on the porch until life calls us back inside.
I think about what Benny said earlier, about playing like I remember why I started. He’s right. Somewhere between Reverend Sister falling apart and meeting Rye, I forgot that music could be simple. Could be just three people in a living room, one of them learning, all of them listening.
The melody shifts, becoming something more complex. I grab my notebook, start scribbling notes before I lose it. The progression is unusual—not quite major, not quite minor. Suspended between two feelings. Like Rye herself, caught between wanting and protecting, between opening up and staying safe.
I play it through again, making adjustments. Add a bass run between the C and G. Throw in a hammer-on that reminds me of what I taught Lily. The song builds, becomes something fuller.
My phone buzzes again. Zara: So? Don’t leave me hanging.
It went well.
Define well.
Her kid hugged me. Rye held my hand. I ate homemade dinner.
She HELD YOUR HAND? This is huge!
I can’t help but laugh.
It’s progress.
It’s more than progress.
Maybe.
Don’t maybe me. I know you, little brother. You’re already half in love with her.
Zara—
And from what you’ve told me, she’s worth it. Complicated and damaged and careful, but worth it.
Yeah. She is.
rye
. . .
The house sounds wrong without Lily. I keep expecting to hear thundering down the hall, yelling my name or her music through the walls. She packed her overnight bag three times, adding and removing items until she had exactly what she needed—clothes, her dinosaur, and the twenty I tucked in her pocket.
“Call if you need anything,” I told her at Felicity’s door, fighting the urge to walk her inside and check the sleepover setup myself.
“Mom, I’m literally next door.”
“I know, but—”
“Mom.” She gave me that look, the one that says she’s ten going on thirty. “I’ll be fine. Sophia’s mom has your number, grandma’s number, and probably NASA’s number just in case.”
Smart ass.
Right. Next door. Where she’ll eat junk food and stay up late and forget about me until tomorrow afternoon when I pick her up, probably overtired and slightly nauseous from too many Doritos. Which gives me eighteen hours that belong to just me.
The venue’s covered—I arranged everything yesterday. Jovie’s handling tonight with Gus on security, plus the new hires we brought on last week. Jessa’s proving herself behind the bar already, and Cade’s eager enough that he’ll probably reorganize the entire storage room just to impress someone. They all insisted I take a full night off.
“Go live your life,” Jovie said, practically shoving me out the door yesterday. “Between me, Gus, and the newbies, we can manage one Saturday without you hovering.”
“The newbies need more training,” I protest.
“Jessa mixed drinks in Memphis for five years, and Cade’s been haunting this place for so long he knows where we keep the extra toilet paper. They’re fine. We’re fine.”
She’s right. They can manage. The question is whether I can manage this—whatever this is about to be.
I check my phone again. The text I sent Darian twenty minutes ago shows delivered but unread.
Lily’s at a sleepover. Come over if you want. I’ll make dinner.
Not exactly subtle, but after weeks of careful distance, even this feels huge. We’ve been navigating around each other since the family dinner, since Lily decided he was worth her French toast, since my boundaries started feeling less necessary and more like obstacles to something I actually want.
Except he’s exactly the type I swore I’d never get involved with again. Another musician. Another man who lives on the road, in studios, in that world that chewed me up and spit me out. Jason was a session player, but Darian—Darian’s the real deal. Sold-out tours, platinum records, the whole package that comes with groupies and late nights and promises that dissolve when the tour bus rolls out.