“And if I can’t?”
“Then you’ve got a beautiful demo that’ll never see daylight because you’re too decent to release someone else’s heart without permission.”
The truth of it sits heavy in the room. Bishop’s already pulling up his calendar, blocking out the time. He believes in this song, maybe more than I do. But he doesn’t understand that Rye isn’t someone you convince or pressure or dazzle with studio time. She’s someone who has to choose it herself, every time.
“Send me her info,” Bishop says. “I’ll have legal draw up?—”
“No.”
He pauses, fingers hovering over his keyboard.
“No contracts, no lawyers, no official anything until she decides she wants that. If she wants that.”
“That’s not how this business works.”
“I know how this business works. That’s why I’m doing it differently.”
Bishop leans back, crossing his arms. “You really think she’ll just show up? No guarantees, no contracts, nothing?”
“I think if I approach her the industry way, she’ll run. And she should.” I stand, suddenly needing to move. The control room feels too small, too full of possibilities I might be buildingalone. “This has to be her choice. Real choice, not the kind where we pretend there are options but really we’re just steering toward the outcome we want.”
“You’ve got it bad.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Sure it’s not.” Bishop’s voice carries thirty years of watching musicians fall for each other, usually badly. “But whatever it is, that song deserves to exist. Full version, proper recording, her voice on it.”
I head for the door, then turn back. “Thursday and Friday?”
“I’ll hold them. But Darian?” He waits until I meet his eyes. “Don’t be so noble you let something good slip away. Sometimes protecting people from opportunities is just another kind of control.”
The drive back to my place takes forty minutes in good traffic, fifty in bad. Today it takes forever because I’m thinking about what Bishop said, about protection being control wearing a nicer suit.
My apartment’s quiet when I get back, just me and the guitars leaning against the wall. Good. I need to do this alone.
I need to find a way to reach her. My notebook sits on the kitchen counter where I left it after she brought it back. She has her own lyric book—I’ve seen her writing in it at The Songbird. That’s where I need to leave the message. Somewhere she’ll find it but can choose to ignore it if she wants.
I tear a page from my own notebook, the one filled with half-finished songs and whiskey-stained margins. My handwriting looks rough against the clean paper, but maybe that’s appropriate.
It’s a good song. Let’s finish it.
Simple. Direct. No pressure about studio time or Bishop’s enthusiasm or the way I haven’t been able to stop thinkingabout her melody since she hummed it into existence. Just an acknowledgement and an offer.
I fold the note once and pocket it. Tomorrow I’ll find a way to get it to her - maybe leave it at The Songbird when she’s not around, or slip it under her office door. There are boundaries that matter, lines that mean something even when approaching someone who’s pulled back.
My phone buzzes. Bishop, sending a text about session musicians he could call, producers who might want to hear the track. The industry machine is ready to spin up, to take something fragile and personal and turn it into a product.
I don’t respond.
If Rye wants this, she’ll let me know. If she doesn’t, then the song stays what it is: a moment between two people who understood something without needing to name it. Maybe that’s worth more than any recording contract or studio time.
I pour myself coffee instead of bourbon, progress my sister would approve of if she knew. The Martin sits silent in the corner, holding space for whatever comes next. I’ve spent years charging forward, taking what I wanted and apologizing later when necessary. But this feels different. This feels like something worth doing right, even if right means slow, even if right means maybe never.
The coffee’s gone cold by the time I remember to drink it. Outside, Nashville keeps spinning, writers writing, singers singing, the machine grinding forward. But here, in this quiet space, I’m learning to wait. Learning that sometimes the best thing you can do for someone is give them room to choose, even when every instinct screams to pull them closer.
There’s a song that needs to exist, Bishop’s right about that. But more importantly, there’s a person who needs to decide for herself if she wants to be part of bringing it to life. No contracts,no pressure, no industry machinery. Just a note in a book and space to breathe.
I sit with the Martin across my lap, not to play but just to hold it. The bench still holds the impression of where she sat, or maybe I’m imagining it. Either way, I’m here, waiting without expecting, hoping without demanding.
