I shake my thoughts clear and nod. Willow tells me about her art teacher and does what Levi calls an uncanny impression of him. I laugh, right along with everyone at the table.
Poppy snorts and then blows mashed sweet potatoes out of her nose.
When it’s Stormy’s turn, she talks about friendship drama that sounds an awful lot like band drama. The three of us—me, Levi and Zara—all offer Stormy a different perspective. Zara and I were popular in school, but our parents weren’t famous. I can’t imagine what it’s like for Stormy and Willow. Not only is Levi one of the top country music stars, but their stepmom is Zara. Everyone in the industry is waiting to see if she switches to country or comes back to her pop/rock roots.
Me, I’m everyone.
I listen to Levi talk about the new foal born last week, and how he can’t wait to teach Poppy how to ride. I’ve yet to get on a horse, but according to my sister, it’s easy, and I’m going to love it.
And then I’m watching my sister and how she multitasks from making sure Poppy is okay in her highchair, to giving her undivided attention to Stormy, Willow, and Levi every time they talk. They do the same for her.
Normal. This is what normal families do. They gather around tables and share food and stories with the people who know each other’s worst qualities and choose to love each other anyway.
“Earth to Darian.” Zara’s voice cuts through my observation. “You’re doing that thing where you analyze instead of participating.”
“I’m participating.”
“You’re watching us participate. There’s a difference.”
She's right. I've been watching them instead of actually participating. Old habits. I'm used to keeping my guard up around people. “Sorry. Just enjoying the show.”
“We’re not a show, Uncle Darian,” Willow says with quiet wisdom that makes her seem older than twelve. “We’re your family.”
The simple statement hits harder than it should.
Family.
After dinner, the girls disappear, and Levi excuses himself to check on the horses, taking Poppy with him. Which leaves me alone with Zara and me alone.
She pours two glasses of wine and leads me out to the back porch, where string lights create golden circles in the gathering darkness. The silence stretches comfortably until she breaks it with the directness I’ve learned to expect.
“So. Who is she?”
Wine catches in my throat. “Who is who?”
“The woman who’s got you looking like you’ve been hit by a truck and liked it.” Zara settles into the swing beside me, tucking her legs underneath her. “Don’t even try to deny it. You’ve got that particular brand of male confusion that only happens when someone gets under your skin.”
“There’s no woman.”
“Bullshit.” She studies my face in the dim light. “You’ve been in Nashville three weeks, and this is the first time you’ve agreedto come out here for dinner. You’re not writing—don’t tell me you are, because I know your writing face and this isn’t it. And you’ve got that careful way of not talking about anything important that means something important is happening.”
Sometimes I forget how well she knows me. A lifetime of shared experiences from writing our first songs together, learning music and instruments, to starting our band. We’ve shared stages and hotel rooms and late-night conversations about everything and nothing. You can’t hide from someone who has been there from the beginning and never left your side, even when you contemplated staying in the band, despite your piece of shit drummer.
“It’s complicated.”
“Good. Simple is boring.” She takes a sip of wine and waits. Another thing she learned over the years—how to use silence as a tool to get me talking.
“There’s this venue manager. Rye. She books incredible talent at this place called The Songbird.” The words come slowly, like I’m testing each one before committing to it. “I played a songwriter’s round there, and we got to talking.”
“Just talking?”
Heat climbs my neck. “Not just talking.”
“Ah.” Zara’s voice carries the satisfaction of someone whose suspicions have been confirmed. “And let me guess—you’re overthinking it to death and finding reasons why it can’t work.”
“I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being scared.”
