“Do what?”
“Know where the music wants to go.”
“Same way you knew where to build the walls.” His voice is gentle. “Practice.”
I finally look at him. His eyes hold something I don’t want to name, something that makes me feel seen in ways I’ve spent years avoiding.
“This doesn’t change anything,” I say.
“I know.”
“I still can’t?—”
“I know that too.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because sometimes the music is enough. Even when nothing else can be.”
Denise returns with the coffee pot, but I shake my head. “I should go.”
“Rye—”
“The venue needs prepping. Tonight’s a full lineup.”
I slide out of the booth, drop cash on the table for both our coffees and the toast. He doesn’t try to stop me, doesn’t argue about the check. Just watches me as I gather my things.
“That song,” he says as I turn to leave. “It needs a bridge.”
“They all do.”
“No, I mean . . . I think I know what it might sound like. If you ever want to hear it.”
I pause at the door, hand on the handle. “I told you. I don’t write anymore.”
“But you just sang.”
“That was a mistake.”
“Was it?”
I leave without answering, but the melody follows me. His harmony follows me. The memory of sitting across from someone who understands the weight of music follows me all the way back to The Songbird.
Inside the venue, I stand in the empty main room, staring at the stage where he played that first night. Where he bled truth into three songs and reminded me what music could do when you stopped protecting yourself from it.
My phone buzzes with a text from Mom:Lily wants to know if she can show you her song tonight. I told her you’d love to hear it.
I type back:Of course.
Because maybe that’s how it works. Maybe you rebuild yourself one shared cup of coffee at a time, one harmony that shouldn’t fit but does, one piece of toast in a diner where nothing fancy happens but everything real does.
Maybe.
But probably not.
Still, as I start prepping the venue for tonight, I catch myself humming. My melody. His harmony. The bridge I swear I can almost hear, waiting just outside my reach.
The Songbird settles around me, familiar and safe. But safe doesn’t feel like enough anymore. And that melody—our melody—keeps pulling at something I thought I’d buried.
