“That was beautiful,” I tell her.
“Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“Really. You’ve got something.”
She grins, then yawns. “I’m not tired.”
“Go read,” Rye says.
“Fine.” Lily puts her guitar away, then surprises me with a quick hug. “Thanks for coming to dinner.”
“Thanks for having me.”
She goes to her room, leaving us alone. The air changes.
“Want to sit outside?” Rye asks. “I need air.”
The porch has two old chairs and a small table. It’s warm. Crickets singing. Someone’s grilling down the street.
“That went well,” I say.
“She likes you.”
“Good.”
“It’s terrifying.” She pulls her knees up. “She doesn’t attach easily. When she does, it matters.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Everyone says that.”
“I’m not everyone.”
She looks at me. “What do you want from this, Darian? Really?”
I could lie, make it smaller. But she let me into her home.
“I want Sunday dinners and Tuesday recording sessions. I want to teach Lily new chords and watch you remember you’re an artist. I want complicated and messy and real. I want you to stop being afraid of wanting things.”
“That’s a lot.”
“What do you want?”
Long pause and then, “I want to stop running from things that might matter.”
“So stop.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is. You just stay instead of go.”
“And if it falls apart? If you decide we’re too much trouble?”
“Then we deal with it. But what if it doesn’t fall apart? What if it works?”
She uncurls, feet finding the floor. “I don’t know how to believe that.”
“You don’t have to believe. Just don’t close the door.”
