“Just remember,” Zara says as I stand to leave, “some things are worth fighting for. Even if you’re not sure you’ll win.”
Before I leave, Levi tells me that his buddy at The Blue Note has a spot open tomorrow night if I want it. I say fuck, because why not. I should play, test out these songs on a new audience.
I say goodbye to the girls and make promises I fully intend to keep. I drive back to Nashville with the windows rolled down, letting the air wash over me, carrying the smell of hay, summer heat and eventually the sounds of the city.
By the time I reach the city limits, something has shifted in my chest. The tight knot there since Rye abruptly left has loosened, replaced by something that might be resolve.
I don’t know what happens next between us. Don’t know if her boundaries are permanent or temporary, if her careful distance is protection or preparation for something else. But I’m tired of hiding from possibilities because they might hurt.
Zara’s right. Hiding isn’t a life strategy.
And Levi’s right too. Music isn’t my problem.
The problem is thinking I can control what happens when I let someone matter. The problem is choosing safety over truth, protection over connection, certainty over hope.
I park behind Rattlesnake Guitars and sit in the dark car for a moment, looking up at the windows of my temporary apartment. For the first time since leaving LA, I feel like someone who might be brave enough to find out what happens when you stop running from the things that scare you most.
Tomorrow I’ll probably second-guess everything I figured out tonight.
Tomorrow the fear might return, along with all the logical reasons why getting involved with Rye Hayes is a terrible idea.
Only one way to find out. I know I should take a hint, but there’s something about Rye that’s worth fighting for. I text her again, leaving the ball in her court.
Playing at The Blue Note tomorrow night. Nothing fancy, just me and a guitar. Would love to see you there.
rye
. . .
The last timeI sat in this corner booth at Maggie’s Diner was three months ago when the venue’s air conditioning died and I needed somewhere cool to work on the books. Today I’m here because I can’t bring myself to walk through the front door of The Songbird.
My laptop screen glows under the dim overhead light, and the cracked vinyl seat pinches my bare legs. Spreadsheets and booking forms spread across the table like I’m conducting important business. But my fingers hover motionless above the keyboard, and my eyes drift absently to the coffee in my cup which has grown cold while I stare.
Staring at nothing is better than reliving the past two hours. The way Darian’s hands felt on my skin. The sound he made when I touched him. How he looked at me like I was something precious right before I came undone beneath him.
I should be at the venue. Friday afternoons are for inventory and sound checks, for making sure everything’s ready for the weekend rush. Instead, I’m avoiding my own business like it might bite me, sitting in a diner that smells like bacon grease and disappointment. I look around at the others in here, heads bent,earphones on. To someone on the outside, these people look like anyone else you’d see at a twenty-four-hour diner. To me, they’re musicians, all waiting for the next call, their next moment to shine.
My phone buzzes. Jovie’s name flashes on the screen along with a text that makes my stomach clench.
Where the hell are you? Gus is asking about tonight’s setup and I don’t have answers.
I type three different responses and delete them all. What am I supposed to say? That I can’t face him after what we just did? That I can still feel him between my legs and it terrifies me? That the way he whispered my name against my throat made me want things I’ve spent years convincing myself I don’t need, so I fucking bailed when he got up to use the bathroom?
The bell above the diner door chimes, and I look up to see Jovie striding toward my table with the kind of purposeful walk that means trouble. Her purple hair catches fluorescent light as she slides into the seat across from me, fixing me with a stare that could melt steel.
“Really?” She gestures at my laptop setup. “You’re running The Songbird from a diner booth now?”
“At least I’m working.” I give her a pointed look since she’s technically the one not working.
“You’re playing hooky from your own business.” She flags down our waitress and orders coffee without breaking eye contact. “The question is, why?”
I close my laptop with more force than necessary. “There’s no question,” I say. “I needed a change of scenery.”
“Bullshit. In three years I’ve worked with you, you’ve never missed a Friday prep session. Not when you had the flu, not when your mama was in the hospital, not even when that water pipe burst and flooded the storage room.” Jovie leans back as the waitress sets down her coffee. “So what’s different about today?”
The honest answer sits in my throat like swallowed glass. Everything’s different because I let him inside me. Because this afternoon, I forgot every lesson I’ve learned about keeping people at arm’s length.
“Nothing’s different.”
