Welcoming.
I walk slowly toward Rattlesnake Guitars, case bumping my leg with each step. The neighborhood pulses with late-night energy.
My phone buzzes with a text from Zara:How did it go?
An hour ago, I would have admitted to crippling pre-performance anxiety. Now anticipation for the next opportunity courses through my veins.
Better than expected,I type.Remembered why I started writing songs.
Zara: That’s the most hopeful text you’ve sent in months.
I roll my eyes and slip my phone back into my pocket.
Back in my apartment, I make myself a quick dinner and eat it by the window. The old me—the one who lived in LA—would’ve gone back out and partied. The thought of being out there though gives me anxiety. I don’t want to be recognized, at least not yet. I want to establish a routine before someone figures out, I’m Darian from Reverend Sister. My anonymity won’t last through, not after tonight. I shouldn’t have played a song that has been on the radio or used my real name.
The music playing from open windows and reverberating off buildings makes my fingers itch to play. I finally pick my guitar up, and discover a new melody that captures the sensation of being truly seen for the first time in months.
I play for thirty minutes, letting the sequence develop without forcing a destination. I’m thinking about the strangerswho trusted me with their attention tonight, and how good that felt.
And I’m thinking about the woman behind the bar who watched like she understood what the songs meant to me.
The melody builds toward a bridge, then circles back to the main progression. Like the song is learning to trust itself the same way I’m learning to trust this version of my musical life.
When I finally set the guitar aside, I realize I’m anticipating next week with a hunger that has nothing to do with career advancement and everything to do with creating another moment like tonight.
Another chance to remember that music, at its best, is just organized honesty.
Another chance to be in the room with Rye–if she’s there when I go sign up.
But if I’m lucky, it’s another chance to see that expression on her face—the one that suggested she was listening not just with her ears, but with parts of herself she doesn’t usually let strangers access.
The thought follows me toward sleep, weaving through dreams of small stages and honest songs and audiences who understand the difference between entertainment and art.
For the first time since leaving California, those dreams don’t taste like nostalgia for lost possibilities. They taste like blueprints for something I might actually build.
rye
. . .
The coffee tasteslike shit this morning, but I drink it anyway because I need the caffeine to stop replaying last night in my head. Lily sits across from me at our kitchen table, methodically working through her cereal bowl, while I stare at the steam rising from my mug and try not to think about the way Darian’s voice cracked on the bridge of his second song.
“Mama, you’re doing that thing again.” Lily’s spoon clinks against her bowl.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you look like you’re watching TV but the TV isn’t on.” She tilts her head. “You did it during breakfast yesterday too.
“Just thinking about work stuff.” Not technically a lie. Darian performed at my venue, so he counts as work. Never mind that I spent most of the night replaying the way he moved his fingers across the guitar strings like he was having a conversation with the instrument.
“Is it about the new guitar player? The one Jovie said made you forget to breathe?”
My coffee cup hits the table harder than I intended. “Jovie said what?”
“She called this morning when you were in the shower. She wanted to know if you were still ‘spacing out like a teenager with her first crush.’” Lily grins, revealing the gap where her molar fell out last week. “I told her you were acting weird, but I didn’t know why.”
I’m going to kill Jovie. Slowly. With her own bar towel.
“Jovie has an overactive imagination.”
