The demo. Right. The one we’ve been planning since we met two years ago at an open mic night. Back when I still believed that love and music could coexist without destroying each other.
“What if things change while you’re gone?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
“What do you mean, change?” His arms tighten around me, and I can smell the hotel soap he uses, the faint scent of guitar polish that clings to his fingers. “Nothing’s going to change. I’ll call you every night. I’ll write songs about missing you.”
“Jason.” I pull back to look at his face, memorizing the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the scar above his left eyebrow from falling off his bike when he was eight. “What if something happened that meant you had to choose? Between the music and us?”
“That’s not going to happen.” He laughs, but something flickers across his expression. Too quick for me to read, but there long enough to plant a seed of doubt. “Why are you asking me that?”
Because I’m pregnant. Because there’s a test in our medicine cabinet that says our lives are about to get more complicated than either of us knows how to handle. Because I’ve seen what happens when musicians have to choose between their dreams and their responsibilities, and the dreams always win.
“Just wondering.”
He kisses my forehead, then moves back to his packing. “You worry too much, baby. Some things are meant to be, and we’re one of them. The music’s just part of who I am—it’s not going anywhere, but neither are you.”
I watch him fold a shirt that I bought him for his birthday, the blue one that makes his eyes look like the summer sky. His movements are quick, efficient, already halfway gone even though he doesn’t leave until morning.
“I love you,” I say, testing the words to see if they still fit.
“Love you too.” He doesn’t look up from his packing. “Always will.”
Alwaysturns out to last exactly six weeks—until the tour gets extended and the phone calls become text messages, then silence. Until the pregnancy I finally tell him about through voicemail becomes something he can ignore from a distance of eight hundred miles and counting.
“Musicians don’t just write good songs, Jovie. They write good songs until something better comes along, then theydisappear and leave you wondering what the fuck you were thinking,” I say bitterly as my memory clears.
The acid in my voice surprises both of us. Jovie’s expression softens, and I know she’s thinking about Jason. About how he promised to come back after his tour ended, how he said becoming a father would just inspire better songs. How I waited six months before accepting that some promises get made to be broken.
“Not all musicians are Jason.”
“Enough of them are.”
“So you’re going to spend the rest of your life protecting yourself from maybes?”
The question hangs between us like smoke from a cigarette someone forgot to put out. I want to say yes, that protection is worth more than possibility. That Lily and I have built something stable and safe, and I’m not risking that for anyone.
But the truth is more complicated. The truth is that watching Darian play last night reminded me of who I used to be before fear became my default setting. Before I decided that wanting things was too dangerous.
“I should get back to work.”
Jovie doesn’t try to stop me, but I feel her watching as I move through the routine tasks that keep this place running. Checking inventory, reviewing tonight’s lineup, returning calls from musicians who want to book slots. Normal work that usually grounds me but today feels like busy work designed to avoid thinking about things I don’t want to examine.
Around three o’clock, I’m updating the reservation system when I catch myself replaying last night’s performance for the hundredth time. The way Darian’s voice cracked slightly on “Learning to Land.” How he held that final chord on “Ghosts in the Attic” like he was afraid to let it go. The silence that filled theroom after each song—not empty silence, but the charged quiet that happens when music actually reaches people.
I’ve watched hundreds of performers on that stage. Most of them chase applause, validation, some version of success that exists outside the song itself. But watching Darian play was like watching someone have a conversation with ghosts only he could see. Raw and honest in a way that made my skin prickle.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mom:Lily’s at my house tonight.
Perfect. Now I don’t have to rush home.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a haze of mundane tasks that don’t require thinking. I review next week’s lineup, confirm sound equipment rentals, and respond to emails from musicians wanting showcase slots. Work that usually satisfies me but today feels hollow, like I’m going through motions instead of building something meaningful.
By five o’clock, I need to start prepping for tonight’s show. Friday nights mean a full lineup - three acts plus the house band. I check sound equipment, confirm drink orders, and visit with people I’ve known for a long time.
The venue fills up as the evening progresses. Friday night's crowd is different from Thursday’s songwriter round - more tourists, more people here for the atmosphere rather than the music. I move through my usual routines, but my mind keeps drifting back to the way Darian commanded that room with nothing but his voice and guitar.
Jovie notices, of course. She keeps shooting me looks while she stocks the bar, and I know she’s got more opinions about my mental state that she’s saving for later.
Around midnight, after the last act finishes and we start the closing routine, I finally make it home. The house feels too quiet without Lily’s chatter filling the spaces between rooms. I make myself a sandwich I don’t want and eat it standing at the kitchencounter while staring out the window at the oak tree that’s older than this neighborhood.
