Good, I type back.
Just good? I need details.
Her kid likes me.
And Rye?
Working on it.
Darian Mercer, don’t you dare fuck this up.
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 thatmusic 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.
