darian
. . .
Nashville needsto be added to the list of cities that never sleep. It’s three in the morning, and the streets are alive–literally with the sound of music–and it doesn’t look like anyone is heading home soon.
I wait at the stoplight with my blinker on and my new–and hopefully temporary–home looming to my left. Rattlesnake Guitars is home to one of the best guitar teachers ever, according to my brother-in-law, Levi. Upstairs, there are two apartments. One for said teacher, Benny, and the other for wayward lost souls like myself.
A song . . . my song . . . A Reverend Sister song comes on the radio. The melody of “Broken Satellite”plays through the speakers of my car. It’s a song I wrote after watching my sister go through the most hellish experience of her life. We recorded it because I thought it would be cathartic for her. It wasn’t. The label screwed her over and made her choose between the band and her new boyfriend.
Love won out. As it always should.
A horn sounds behind me, so I take my foot off the brake and make the turn, and then turn into the back parking lot whereBenny instructed me to park. It’s dark, desolate, and the type of place your parents warned you about. I swear, if I hear a bottle skid across the pavement or shatter, I’m out of here.
Shutting the car off, I sit there and stare at the darkened building. Off in the distance, streetlights flicker, and I can see the distinct glow of neon lights. I grab my duffel bag from the backseat and step out into the humid Nashville air. The metal fire escape clangs under my boots as I climb to the second-floor apartment that’s supposed to be my fresh start. I toe the doormat aside and bend to pick up the key left by Benny.
The key sticks in the lock, then turns with a grudging click. The door swings open to reveal a space that could charitably be called cozy. One room serves as a living area, bedroom, and office. A narrow galley kitchen connects to a bathroom barely large enough for a shower. But two massive windows face east, and when I flip the light switch, warm yellow bulbs illuminate hardwood floors that have seen decades of wear.
Zara has already moved most of my stuff in. Boxes labeled in her neat handwriting stack against one wall:Kitchen,Books,Darian’s Emotional Baggage(trust my sister to use humor as a coping mechanism). My guitar, the one I couldn’t fit in my car, leans against the far wall where the morning light will hit it in a few hours.
I set my bag down and pull out my phone, scrolling through seventeen missed calls from numbers I don’t recognize. Music blogs want to interview me about my next adventure. A&R reps sniffing around to see if I’m available for session work.
I unpack my 1972 Martin D-28 first, running my fingers along the worn finish where my arm has rubbed against the body for fifteen years. She’s traveled from dive bars in Bakersfield to sold-out amphitheaters, survived every single tour and more late-night writing sessions than I can count. The guitar holds the weight of every song I’ve ever written, every melody that keptme sane when the music industry tried to grind me down. I sit down in the chair, ignoring everything around me, and begin strumming.
Heavy footsteps echo through the hallway, and then there’s a loud thumping. I check my phone: 615. How did I lose almost three hours? I go to the door and lean against it, much like Zara and I used to do when we were younger and wanted to hear what our parents had to say about us. The thumping stops, but keys jingle, and then there’s the faint sound of a mechanical beeping, which I’m guessing is an alarm system.
I feel in my pocket for my key and head downstairs, each step creaking a different note on the narrow staircase. At the bottom, a glass door markedPrivategives way into the guitar shop. I knock, wave, and wait for who I’m assuming is Benny to give me the okay to enter.
The guitar shop spreads out like a musician’s fever dream—vintage Martins and Gibsons hanging from every available wall space, mandolins clustered together like family reunions, a 1965 Fender Telecaster that probably costs more than most people’s cars.
“Morning.” Benny emerges from behind the counter, coffee mug already in hand despite the early hour, and extends his hand to shake mine. He’s maybe sixty, with silver hair and the kind of weathered hands that come from decades of restringing guitars and adjusting neck tension. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
“Just got here,” I tell him. I wasn’t supposed to arrive until later, but sleep evaded me at all the hotels Zara booked along the route. Driving calmed me, even though it gave me way too much time to think.
“It’s nice to finally meet you. Levi has told me a lot about you.”
All good, I hope.
“Same.”
He waves away my comment and nods toward the front window, where the first hint of sunrise paints the horizon pink. “Nashville’s got a way of messing with my sleep. Too much music in the air—keeps your brain spinning.” He sips his coffee, studying me with the kind of casual attention that misses nothing. “You settling in okay up there?”
“I will be.” I run my thumb along the neck of a nearby acoustic, feeling for the subtle bow that tells you how often an instrument gets played. This one’s been loved. “Thanks again for the space. I know renting to musicians isn’t exactly a safe bet.”
Benny chuckles lightly. “If it weren’t Levi vouching for you, it would’ve been your sister. She’s a firecracker, that one. She could sell me oceanfront property in Arizona.” Benny moves to the front door, flipping locks and adjusting theOpensign even though it looks like customers won’t show up for hours. “Besides, this building’s been housing musicians since the 1940s. Some famous, some not, all of them trying to figure out what comes next. The walls are used to it by now.”
“Who lived here before me?”
“Kid named Knox Harper. Songwriter. Had some cuts on country radio before he moved out.” Benny gestures toward the corner where two stools and a small PA system wait under a hand-painted sign readingAcoustic Corner. “He used to play down here sometimes. Good for business, good for the soul.”
The offer hangs unspoken between us. I could see myself sitting there, playing my guitar for no one, yet everyone. I’m at a crossroads in my life. I don’t know if I’m coming or going, or where I need to be. Part of me wants to jump back into band life, especially with Zara. Another part of me wants to write songs and let others sing them.
“You know, I might take you up on that sometime.”
“No pressure. Music finds its own schedule.” Benny moves toward an early bird customer who’s just walked in—an olderwoman examining a mandolin with the careful attention of someone who knows what she’s looking for. “Let me know if you need anything,” he calls over his shoulder, already shifting into shop-owner mode.
I take the hint and head back upstairs, feeling oddly comforted by his easy acceptance. No questions about my past, no expectations about my future. Just space to figure things out.
Upstairs, I survey the mess. I either unpack now or go to sleep, although going to bed requires me to unpack my bedding and actually make the bed. I sigh heavily and attack the boxes with methodical efficiency. Kitchen supplies find homes in cabinets that smell like Murphy’s Oil Soap. Books are stacked on built-in shelves that look like someone painted white decades ago. Clothes fill a dresser and closet barely large enough for my LA wardrobe.
