“Your heart, your career, your daughter’s trust, and apparently her commission.”
“She said that?”
“She’s very thorough.”
I stop at my dressing room door, looking back at him. “And you still stayed?”
“Where else would I go?” He shrugs, that easy gesture that makes complicated things simple. “You’re worth the stakes.”
Inside the dressing room, I can still hear people filtering out of the venue, their voices carrying through the walls. They’re talking about the show, about that song, about my voice. For the first time ever, they’re talking about my music, my art.
I change quickly, trading the performance dress for something more party-appropriate, and catch my reflection onemore time. The woman looking back still has traces of stage makeup, slightly smudged from the emotion of the performance. Her eyes are bright with something that might be hope or might be certainty. Maybe they’re the same thing.
“Ready?” Darian asks from where he’s leaning against the doorframe, watching me with that expression that makes me feel like I’m worth watching.
“Yeah,” I say, and mean it. “I’m ready.”
The party can wait another minute. Right now, I just want to stand here in this moment where I remember who I am when I’m not trying to be anyone else. A singer. A mother. A woman who loves a man who makes her grilled cheese at three in the morning. An artist who found her voice by finally listening to it.
The contracts, negotiations and interviews can all wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I’m just Rye, walking into a party on the arm of a man who sees me clearly, carrying the echo of my daughter’s pride and my own voice finally, finally set free.
darian
. . .
The smellof coffee pulls me from sleep. Real coffee, not the instant shit I used to drink on tour buses between cities. I stretch across the bed. Rye’s side is cold but her pillow still smells like coconut shampoo. I press my face into it before laughter from downstairs gets me moving.
Saturday mornings at Rye’s are different now. No alarms. No schedule. No phone calls about interviews or photo shoots. Just the three of us.
I pull on yesterday’s jeans and a shirt from the drawer Rye cleared for me last month. Having a drawer here should mean something bigger than it does. Instead it just feels normal.
Downstairs, Lily sits on the kitchen counter with her acoustic guitar, picking out a melody while Rye flips pancakes at the stove. The radio plays something bluesy. Neither of them sees me yet.
“That progression needs something,” Lily says, adjusting her fingers on the fretboard. “It’s too predictable.”
“Add a minor seventh,” Rye suggests without turning around. “After the second measure.”
Lily tries it and the melody shifts. “Better. How’d you know?”
“Years of practice.” Rye glances over her shoulder and sees me. “Morning.”
“Coffee’s on the counter,” Lily says without looking up. “Made it strong.”
I pour a mug, black, and move behind Rye, arm around her waist. She leans back against me.
“How many?” she asks, holding up the spatula.
“Three. Maybe four.”
“Definitely four,” Lily says. “He ate half my fries last night.”
“You offered them.”
“I offered you some. Not half.”
Rye laughs. “There’s plenty.”
I grab plates from the cabinet. Third shelf, left side. Knowing exactly where things are still surprises me sometimes.
