darian
. . .
My phone buzzesagainst the kitchen counter where I left it after making coffee that sits untouched. The apartment sits quiet, sheets still tangled from earlier. Rye was gone when I came back from the bathroom, leaving nothing but the impression of her body in my mattress and questions she’s not interested in answering.
The text is from Zara:Family dinner. Levi’s grilling. Stormy’s making her famous mac and cheese. Come hungry and prepared to explain why you’ve been avoiding us.
Three weeks in Nashville, and I haven’t seen my sister once. We’ve texted, sure, but I’ve dodged her invitations to come out to the ranch.
I haven’t been avoiding anyone.
Her response comes immediately:Bullshit. Get your ass out here. The girls miss their uncle.
The girls. Stormy at sixteen thinks she knows everything about everything. Willow at twelve sees through adult lies with uncomfortable precision. And baby Poppy, who doesn’t care about my emotional baggage and just wants to be held and give slobbery kisses.
I’ll be there.
Good. And Darian? Whatever’s eating at you, bring it. We’ll figure it out together.
I set the phone down and dump the cold coffee into the sink, then grab my keys, noticing Rye’s sweater is sitting on my chair. I could take it over to her, but then that might embarrass her. I pick it up, and inhale her floral perfume. Memories from earlier flash through my mind. No, there’s no way I can walk into The Songbird and hand it to her. She’d hate me forever. I set it down and look up the venue and press the number. The phone rings six or seven times. I’m about the hang up when the line clicks on.
“Songbird.”
“Hey, is Rye there?”
“Nah, she’s out. Can I help you?”
“This is Darian Mercer. I’m trying to get a hold of her.”
There’s a laugh on the other end. “Here’s her number. Call her.” Jovie, at least that’s who I’m assuming is on the other end, rattles off Rye’s number. I quickly type it out and save it in my phone.
Calling would be nice, but the thought of doing so gives me anxiety. I text her instead.
Hope you’re okay. Your sweater is still here if you want it back.
Rye: Keep it.
Ouch, that stings. I shake my head and immediately start typing an apology, erasing, and then typing:Rye, what we did?—
But I can’t bring myself to say it was a mistake.
I don’t have to because she does it for me.
Rye: Was a mistake.
My mouth opens in shock as my heart hammers in my chest. I shake my head and type back:If you say so.
I grab my keys, Martin, and head for the parking lot. She didn’t even ask how I got her number. That’s how much she hates me.
The drive to Levi’s ranch stretches forty-five minutes through countryside that still surprises me with its rolling green beauty. Nothing like the stark desert around Los Angeles or the concrete sprawl that swallowed most of my twenties.
The Martin sits in its case on the passenger seat. I grabbed it without thinking, muscle memory from years of never leaving the house without an instrument. Now it weighs like armor at a family dinner.
Traffic thins as I leave the city behind. Fields stretch on either side of the two-lane highway, dotted with horses and farmhouses. My shoulders drop for the first time in days.
This is what Zara fell in love with when she moved here. Not just Levi, though their love story reads like something out of a country song, but this sense of space. Room to breathe without someone watching, waiting for you to fuck up so they can sell the story.
The ranch appears around a bend, white fences stretching toward a house with cathedral ceilings and skylights that Levi built on twenty-plus acres of rolling land. This is his slice of heaven, away from the industry chaos, where his daughters can grow up with space to breathe. Now it’s home to Zara and baby Poppy too.
