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)
rye
. . .
The Songbird sits quiet this afternoon, the lull between lunch rush and evening crowd giving me too much space to think. I wipe down the bar for the third time, reorganizing bottles that don’t need reorganizing, trying not to think about how Darian hasn’t called since our conversation about the Rex Lawson opportunity three days ago.
The door chimes and I look up, ready to tell whoever it is that we’re closed for another hour. But it’s not a customer. It’s Zara Austin, Darian’s sister, standing in my doorway looking like she stepped out of a magazine despite the Tennessee humidity.
“We’re closed,” I say automatically, even though we both know she’s not here for a drink.
“I know.” She steps inside anyway, designer boots clicking against the worn wood floor. “I’m not here as a customer.”
“Then why are you here?”
She crosses to the bar, sliding onto a stool with the kind of confidence that comes from years of commanding stages. “My brother called me last night. Drunk. Which he hasn’t done since Van destroyed our band.”
My hands still on the glass I’m polishing. “I don’t know what that has to do with me.”
“Don’t you?” She studies me with eyes that are eerily similar to Darian’s, that same ability to see through bullshit. “He told me about the job offer. About how you told him to take it.”
“It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“It’s a test and you know it.”
I set the glass down harder than necessary. “I don’t play games.”
“No, but you push people away before they can leave on their own.” She leans forward. “Trust me, I recognize the move. I did it to Levi for months before I figured out that good men don’t always leave.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you run this venue like it’s the only thing keeping you standing. I know you have a daughter you’re protecting. I know you used to write music but stopped when someone betrayed that trust.” She ticks off each point on her fingers. “And I know my brother is in love with you even though he’s too scared to say it.”
The words hit like physical blows. “He’s not—”
“He is. The man who called me last night? He wasn’t torn about a career opportunity. He was torn about choosing between what he thinks he should want and what he actually wants.”
“Which is?”
“You. Your daughter. Sunday morning guitar lessons and quiet dinners and all the small things that make a life.” She shrugs. “But you told him to go, so now he thinks that’s what you want.”
“It’s what’s best for his career.”
“Fuck his career.” The profanity sounds wrong in her polished voice. “Sorry. But seriously, fuck it. Do you know what careers in music actually cost? I gave up my marriage, my home, my sense of self for Reverend Sister. And in the end, my husband was screwing around and the band imploded anyway.”
I turn away, busying myself with the register. “That’s not going to happen to Darian.”
“No, because he already learned that lesson. He walked away from everything in LA to figure out who he is without the noise. And then he met you and suddenly he’s writing again, playing again, remembering why he loved music before it became business.”
“He doesn’t need me for that.”
“Maybe not.” She stands, moving around the bar to face me directly. “But he wants you for it. There’s a difference.”
“Why are you here?” I ask again, feeling cornered.
“Because my brother won’t fight for himself. He’s been trained to believe that wanting something personal means being selfish. That choosing love over career makes him weak.” Her expression softens. “But I’ve watched him these past months. He mentions you in every conversation. Not directly, but you’re there. ‘Rye would find this funny.’ ‘Rye’s daughter is learning guitar.’ ‘The Songbird had this amazing act.’ You’re all through his stories even when he’s trying not to talk about you.”
“So?”
“So he’s about to take a job he doesn’t want because you made him think you don’t want him here.”
“I never said that.”
“You told him to go. For someone like Darian, someone who’s been rejected and betrayed by people who were supposed to love him, that’s the same thing.”
I sink onto the stool behind the bar, suddenly exhausted. “I can’t be the reason he stays. That’s too much pressure.”
“No one’s asking you to be the reason. But maybe you could stop being the reason he leaves.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the venue’s quiet amplifying the weight of her words.
“I don’t even know you,” I say finally. “We’ve met what, twice? You don’t get to come in here and tell me how to handle my life.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” She pulls out her phone, checking something. “But I know what it looks like when two people are about to let fear make their choices for them. Levi and I almost did the same thing. He was convinced I’d leave, go back to LA and my old life. I was convinced he’d realize I didn’t fit in his world. We wasted months pushing each other away instead of just admitting we were terrified of how much we wanted it to work.”