“How what works?”
Rye’s brows furrows. She opens her mouth to say something but then closes it quickly. Her expression changes from confusion to anger.
Jovie clears her throat. “I’m going to check on the plumber,” she announces, making herself scarce before either of us can protest.
Rye and I stare at each other across the construction debris. She looks tired in a way that goes deeper than one sleepless night, and I wonder how much of that is the water damage and how much is me.
Ego much, Mercer?
“You didn’t have to do this,” she says finally.
“I know.”
“I can handle my own problems.”
“I know that too, at least I’m assuming you can.”
“Then why?—”
“What happened between us doesn’t go hand-in-hand, Rye? I stopped by to see you and found this.” I spread my arm out, pointing to the mess. “I have the skills to help, and me helping now means you can open tonight instead of waiting for a contractor to come in. This way, The Songbird makes money, and the performers don’t lose a gig. And because I needed to do something that mattered. I’m a little lost here in Nashville,” I ramble longer than I intended.
She stares at me for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression. Not acceptance, exactly, but maybe understanding.
“The wall looks good,” she says quietly.
“It’ll be better when it’s painted.”
“I was going to do that myself.”
“I figured.”
She moves closer, running her hand along the smooth joint compound. Her fingers are careful, testing the repair. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But this doesn’t change anything.”
“I’m not doing this to change anything, Rye.”
She nods and heads back upstairs without another word, leaving me alone with the sound of Jovie and the plumber debating pipe pressure somewhere overhead.
I spend another hour finishing the drywall work, then clean up the tools and sweep construction dust into neat piles. The repair will need to dry overnight before it can be painted, but the structure is solid. It’ll hold.
My phone rings as I’m washing drywall dust off my hands in the venue’s tiny bathroom. Unknown Nashville number.
“Darian Mercer.”
“Darian, this is Bishop Hart. I produce here in town—worked with some folks you might know. Levi Austin, Sarah McKinnon, that new kid everyone’s talking about, Cole something.”
I recognize the name. Bishop’s got a reputation for finding artists before they blow up, for having an ear that can spot potential three albums out. “What can I do for you, Bishop?”
“More like what I can do for you. I was at The Blue Note the other night and caught your set. That song you played, “Almost There,” that's the kind of writing that stops conversations.”
“Almost There” is a song I’ve tinkered with for a bit, but the gaps filled in easily after sleeping with Rye.
“I appreciate that.”
“Appreciate it enough to come into the studio? I’ve got some ideas about how to develop that sound, maybe build an EP around it.”
