I glance around the empty venue. Jovie’s stopped cleaning and is listening with a soft expression I rarely see on her face.
“Right now?”
“Please? Grandma tried, but she does it wrong.”
Of course she does. Mom changes everything to make it her own, even lullabies.
“Okay. But quietly.”
I hum the opening, then sing the words I wrote when Lily was six and afraid of thunderstorms. Simple melody about brave girls and moonlight standing guard. Lily joins in on the chorus, her voice floating through the phone like a reminder of what actually matters.
“Thanks, Mama. My brain’s quieter now.”
“Good. Call me if it gets loud again, okay?”
“Okay. Love you bunches.”
“Love you bunches back.”
After we hang up, I sit in the silence.
“That was beautiful,” Jovie says quietly. “The song, but also how you talk to her.”
“She gets nervous before performances. You know how she gets before the showcase.”
“Tomorrow’s the big day, right? Her original song debut?” Jovie drops her cleaning rag. “You recording it?”
“If she doesn’t chicken out.” Pride sneaks into my voice. “Mrs. O says she has real potential.”
“Like her mama.”
The words hit me sideways. “I manage a venue. That’s different.”
“Bullshit.” Jovie crosses her arms. “You think I don’t see how you move during the good songs? How your fingers tap rhythms when something speaks to you? You’re not just managing this place. You’re curating it. That takes the same instincts that write songs.”
“Managing and curating aren’t the same thing.”
“Aren’t they? You create something new every time you book a lineup. You find voices that work together, build evenings that tell stories. That’s composition.”
I want to argue, but something about her words digs under my skin. The truth is, I do think about programming like songwriting. How voices interact, where to place quiet moments, where to build energy.
“It’s not the same,” I repeat, but my voice sounds hollow.
“Whatever.” Jovie grins and goes back to cleaning. “All I know is mysterious guitar players don’t usually make venue managers forget to breathe unless something about them speaks to the musical part of their brains.”
My cheeks burn. “I already told you?—”
“I know what you told me. I also know protective deflection when I hear it.” Jovie hangs the towel on its hook. “The question is, what are you protecting yourself from?”
The question follows me as I finish closing—checking candles, setting the alarm, locking up. Jovie heads to her car with a wave, leaving me alone with thoughts I don’t want to examine.
I walk to my car slowly, keys jingling. Nashville winds down around me—someone practicing guitar through an open window, a dog barking in the distance, air conditioners humming against the August heat.
This is my favorite time. When the performance ends and the city relaxes into something real. When musicians become people again, when venues turn back into empty rooms waiting for tomorrow’s magic.
But tonight feels different. Like something shifted in the careful balance I’ve built around work and motherhood and small dreams that don’t risk too much.
The man at table twelve—Darian—unsettled that balance somehow. Not because he was attractive, though he was. Not because he seemed interested in the venue, though he clearly was.
