Rye?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I cross the street toward the venue. The front door is slightly ajar, and the sound of a piano drifts out into the evening air—soft, tentative, like someone working through an idea they’re not sure about yet.
I pause at the threshold, listening. The melody is beautiful and melancholy. “Hello?” I call out, not wanting to startle whoever’s inside.
The music stops.
“We’re closed.” Rye’s voice carries from somewhere inside, but there’s no irritation in it. Just fact.
“I know. I’m sorry. I was walking by and heard the music.” I stay where I am, half in and half out of the doorway. “I can go.”
A pause. Then footsteps approaching.
Rye appears, and I’m struck by how different she looks outside of work mode. No black tank top and manager mode. Instead, she wears an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder and jeans with holes that look earned rather than purchased, like mine. Her hair falls loose around her face.
“Darian.” She stops a few feet away, studying my face. “What are you doing here?”
“Walking. Exploring. Learning my way around.” I gesture vaguely at the street behind me. “I heard you playing and . . .”
“And what?”
“And I was intrigued,” I tell her. “Nosy, really.” I shrug as if the motion gives me an excuse.
“So you decided to stop in?”
I nod. “Truthfully, I couldn’t walk away from music that beautiful. Not without finding the source.”
She considers this, arms crossed but not defensively. More like she’s deciding something. “Do you want to come in?”
“If you don’t mind the company.”
“I don’t mind.” She steps back, making room for me to enter. “Just doing some paperwork anyway. The music helps me think.”
I follow her inside, and she closes the door behind me. The venue feels different when it’s empty—quieter, more personal without the usual crowd and energy. Rye takes me around the bar, and off to the side is an upright piano tucked in the corner. Sitting on the top board, is some type of flower arrangement with those fake candles flickering. Opposite of the piano is a long table with sheet music scattered across it, suggesting she was doing more than just paperwork.
“Was that you playing?” I ask, nodding toward the piano
“Yes.” She moves toward the bar and leans against it, studying me.
I push down on one of the keys, mentally and soundly checking to see if it was in tune. It was and I chide myself for thinking otherwise.
“What about you? Do you play?”
I nod, not looking up from the ivory keys. “My sister forced me to go to piano lessons with her when we were younger. Said it would make me a better songwriter.”
“Smart sister. Did you always know you wanted to be a songwriter?”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “My sister has her moments, and yes, I think so. I used to write poetry and then she would sing my poems. We checked books out from the library and taught ourselves what we could about playing music. I remember when she started middle school and could take band class. She signed up to play the guitar and would teach me everything she learned. By the time I got to middle school I could already play.”
“That’s amazing. Your parents didn’t mind the racket?”
I shake my head. “Funny story, our mom is a music teacher, but neither of us ever took choir.”
“And yet, you both sing?”
I nod and press a few more keys as I recall the melody I heard that brought me in. I find myself drawn the sheet music that’s clearly been worked over—notes crossed out, measures rewritten, the kind of careful revision that comes from someone who cares about getting it right. “Mind if I . . .?”
She nods, and I settle onto the bench.
