Rye winces. “Jesus.”
“The worst part is, Van thought I’d give him rights to most of the songs, even the one I wrote about him cheating on my sister. He said it’s about the pain he suffered too, but I didn’t see him have to face the paparazzi day in and day out, knowing your husband was a cheating bastard, and the people you were supposed to trust, turning against you.” My hands clench into fists. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear about my family drama.”
“Maybe I want to hear about it.” She shifts on the bench, turning slightly toward me. “What happened after you found out?”
“About what?” I ask, wanting verification.
Rye stares at me and for a moment it feels like she’s looking deep into my soul. “About Van cheating on your sister?”
I sigh. “At first, I stayed. I was torn and thought Zara would stay—that everything would work out, but in the end, I walked away. I told the label they can have Van and his version of the band, but Revered Sister was mine and Z’s. Before the ink was even dry on our separation agreement, I had my shit packed and I was on my way here.” I meet her eyes. “Zara thinks I’m running away.”
“Are you?”
The question lingers. I could give her the easy answer—that I’m starting fresh, building something new. But sitting here in the candlelight with our knees almost touching, honesty feels more important than self-protection.
“Maybe. But I’m also running toward something. I just don’t know what yet.”
“Music without the bullshit?”
“Music without the bullshit,” I agree, chuckling. “Music that matters to the people making it, not just the people buying it.”
She nods slowly, like she understands something about that distinction. “Is that why you came here? To The Songbird, I mean?”
“In general?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “I’m wandering. Trying to learn how the city works and figure out how this place is better than LA. Zara loves it here and I want to love it here because she’s my best friend, my sister and the mother of my niece. We’ve never really spent much time apart and I couldn’t really imagine living two thousand and whatever miles away from her,” I say, shrugging.
“And today?”
Another heavy sigh. “I came here because I was walking and heard something beautiful. But I walked in because . . .” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence. Why did I walk in here knowing they were closed?
“Because what?”
“Because there was something about what I heard coming from here.” I shrug.
Her cheeks flush slightly. “I used to write songs. Before.”
“Before what?”
“Before life got complicated.” She picks out a few notes, something that sounds like the beginning of a melody. “Before I learned that wanting things can be dangerous.”
There’s a story there, hidden under layers. I want to ask what made her stop writing, what kind of danger she’s protecting herself from. But I recognize the look in her eyes—the same guardedness I see in my own mirror when someone gets too close to truths I’m not ready to share.
“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly, “whatever you were working on when I walked in? It didn’t sound like someone who stopped writing. It sounded like someone who’s still fighting to find their way back to it.”
She looks at me then, really looks at me, like she’s seeing past the performer who played her stage last week to something more essential underneath. She’s naturally beautiful, with her dark impressive eyes that seem to dig deep into my being. I swallow hard as my eyes find her lips.
“Are you fighting your way back in?”
I grimace and shake my head. “Nah, the doors open, but I’m not sure I want to be someone's puppet again,” I say.
“Are you sure?” She turns on the bench to face me fully, our knees bumping in the small space. “Because you look like someone who’s still fighting a war inside his head.”
The observation cuts close. She’s right—I am still fighting. Fighting the urge to call Van and tell him exactly what I think of him. Fighting the voice that says maybe I deserved what happened because I let my guard down. Fighting the fear that eventually everyone here will want something from me that costs more than I’m willing to pay.
“Sometimes I think about giving up,” I admit. “But music is all I know.”
“And you’re here.”
“I’m here.”
