“It’s complicated,” I say instead.
“Most real things are.”
Denise appears with the coffee pot, refilling both mugs without being asked. The interruption gives me time to study him. He looks tired, but not the exhaustion of sleepless nights. This goes deeper—the kind of tired that comes from fighting battles with yourself.
“I heard you playing,” I admit. “Last night. At the piano bar.”
His head snaps up. “Murphy’s? I didn’t see you.”
“I didn’t go in. I was walking around after I closed and heard . . .” I trail off, unable to name what I heard. “It was beautiful.”
“It was just something I was working through.”
“About her? Your ex?”
“No.” His eyes meet mine. “Not about her.”
The weight of what he’s not saying presses against my ribs. I should leave. Should maintain the boundaries I set for good reasons. But something about sitting across from him in this worn booth, both of us raw from our respective battles, makes pretense feel pointless.
“I used to write,” I hear myself say. “Songs. Real ones, not just venue schedules and inventory lists.”
“What happened?”
“Someone I trusted took my words and made them his. Told me I was his muse, then left with three notebooks full of my life turned into his album.”
“Your daughter’s father.”
“How did you know I have a daughter?”
“The other night at the venue, you mentioned needing to get home to her.”
“Right.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “But no, it wasn’t him. Someone else I foolishly trusted.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It taught me valuable lessons about trusting musicians with anything that matters.”
“Including me.”
“Especially you.”
“Why especially me?”
Because you understand music the way I used to. Because you looked at that room full of people and sang to the ghosts instead. Because when you play, I remember what it felt like to believe songs could save us.
“Because you’re actually talented,” I say. “The mediocre ones are easier to dismiss.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing this. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s supposed to be the truth.”
“The truth.” He leans back in the booth. “Okay. Truth is, I can’t stop thinking about that harmony we played. The one you didn’t write down.”
My chest tightens. “That was just?—”
“Real. It was real, Rye. Whatever else you want to call it, it was two people making something that mattered.”
“Music isn’t enough.”
