“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.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“Then it doesn’t. But at least you’ll know you tried. Right now, you’re both so busy protecting yourselves that you’re guaranteeing failure.”
The door chimes again. Jovie walks in, takes one look at us, and immediately turns around. “I’ll come back.”
“No, stay,” Zara says. “I was just leaving.” She looks back at me. “The job offer has a deadline. End of the week. He’ll probably take it unless someone gives him a reason not to.”
“I can’t?—”
“I’m not asking you to promise him forever. I’m just saying maybe stop pushing him toward the door.” She heads for the exit, then pauses. “Oh, and that song you two wrote together? He played it for me. It’s the best thing he’s written in years. Both of you brought something to it the other couldn’t create alone. Think about that.”
She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with the echo of her words.
Jovie approaches cautiously. “Was that Zara Austin? Like, the actual Zara from Reverend Sister?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she want?”
I laugh, but it comes out bitter. “To tell me I’m an idiot, basically.”
