Back in my apartment, I pull out the pieces of Rye’s torn lyrics and spread them across my kitchen table. I don’t try to piece them together—that would be invasive. But I study the handwriting, the word choices, the emotional landscape they reveal.
She’s struggling with the same questions I am. How to want someone without losing yourself. How to trust someone when trust has cost you everything before.
Tomorrow I’ll wake up and make coffee and decide whether to call Bishop Hart. I’ll play guitar and maybe write new songs and try to figure out what comes next.
But tonight, I’ll fall asleep knowing that somewhere in this city, another songwriter is fighting the same battles I am. And even if we can’t figure out how to fight them together, at least we’re not fighting them alone.
The torn lyrics go in the drawer beside my bed. Not because I plan to use them, but because throwing them away felt wrong.
Some things deserve to be kept, even when they’re broken.
rye
. . .
The melody hauntsme through breakfast. Through Lily’s chatter about her upcoming field trip to the Country Music Hall of Fame. Through loading the dishwasher and pretending the mundane task requires my complete concentration.
I heard him playing last night.
Not just playing—creating something that wrapped around the spaces I thought I’d sealed shut. Something that reminded me why music used to matter more than safety.
“Mom?” Lily watches me from across the kitchen table, her cereal spoon suspended midway to her mouth. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“That staring-at-nothing thing. Like when you’re trying to remember lyrics.”
The observation hits too close to home. I turn to wipe down counters that don’t need cleaning. “Just thinking about inventory for the venue.”
“Sure you are.” Her tone carries that pre-teen wisdom that sees through adult deflection.
I turn to rinse my coffee mug in the sink. “Just a busy week at the venue.”
“Okay.” Lily returns to her cereal, but I catch her small smile. “Can I go to Grandma’s after camp? She said she’d help me with my song.”
“What song?”
“A new one I started working on. About the bird who forgot how to sing.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah, sweetheart. You can go to Grandma’s.”
After dropping Lily at camp, I drive to The Songbird on autopilot. The venue sits quiet this early, morning light exposing every imperfection the evening shadows usually hide. I unlock the door and step inside, breathing in the familiar cocktail of old wood, spilled beer, and possibility.
The wall Darian repaired looks better than it has in years. Smooth, professional work that didn’t need doing by someone who owes me nothing. I run my fingers along the fresh paint Jovie must have applied after I left yesterday, the surface still slightly tacky.
In my office, I try to focus on next week’s lineup. Three emails wait from musicians wanting slots, but their bios blur together. My mind keeps drifting to that melody. To the way it seemed to know things about me I haven’t admitted to myself.
By ten o’clock, I give up pretending to work. The venue doesn’t open until four, and my restlessness feels like electricity under my skin. I need coffee. Or air. Or something to stop this relentless replaying of music I wasn’t supposed to hear.
I grab my keys and head for Maggie’s Diner, the one place in Nashville where anonymity still exists. Where servers don’t ask questions and coffee comes black and strong enough to dissolve whatever’s eating at you.
The bell above the door announces my arrival to mostly empty booths. The morning rush ended an hour ago, leaving only the dedicated newspaper readers and unemployed philosophers. I slide into a booth near the back, facing the door out of habit.
“Coffee?” The server, a woman named Denise who’s worked here longer than I’ve been alive, doesn’t wait for an answer before pouring.
“Thanks.”
“Food?”
