The afternoon light shifts through the windows, marking time in ways that have nothing to do with deadlines or recording schedules. Somewhere in the city, Rye’s probably writing, or not writing, or doing whatever she does when she’s not accidentally creating magic at her venue’s piano.
I think about texting her, then don’t. Think about calling Bishop back, then don’t. Think about pouring that bourbon after all, then don’t.
Instead, I sit with the quiet, with the possibility, with the strange peace of having done something right even if it leads nowhere. The song exists now, recorded and saved in Bishop’s system. But whether it becomes more than that isn’t up to me.
It’s a different kind of power, letting go. Not the explosive kind that ends marriages and recording contracts, but the quiet kind that might, if I’m lucky, build something worth keeping.
The sun sets eventually, painting the room gold then gray then dark. I should eat something, should return those calls, should do any number of things that successful musicians do to stay successful.
I wait. Not desperately, not anxiously, just openly. The note sits in my pocket, undelivered. Maybe she’ll read it when I find a way to get it to her, maybe she won’t. But at least it’s her choice, real and uncomplicated by everything else I could have put on the table.
Bishop would say I’m an idiot. Zara would probably tell me to stop overthinking and just talk to her.
But none of them were there when Rye hummed that melody, when she turned something broken in me into something that might sing. They didn’t see the way she pulled back when things got too close, too fast. They don’t understand that some things need to be approached sideways, gently, with patience I’m still learning to have.
My phone lights up with another call. This time it’s Benny, probably checking if I need anything for the apartment. I let it go to voicemail. I’ll call him back tomorrow, thank him for pushing me to get out more.
All true, in their way.
The apartment settles into night sounds, familiar creaks and sighs that used to drive me out to bars and other people’s beds. Now they just feel like company, like the building itself is learning to be alone with me.
I finally get up from the chair, joints protesting the long sit. Tomorrow there’ll be decisions to make, calls to return, the business of being Darian Mercer to attend to. Tonight, there’s just this: a note in a book, a song in the air, and the radical act of letting someone else decide what happens next.
It’s not much. But it’s honest. And maybe, after everything, that’s the only currency that really matters.
rye
. . .
The note sitson my kitchen counter like a live grenade. Seven words that shouldn’t matter this much:It’s a good song. Let’s finish it.I’ve read them at least fifty times since finding the piece of paper tucked into my lyric book this morning. Darian's handwriting is somehow both careful and rushed, like he wrote it fast before he could change his mind.
I make coffee and stare at it.It’s a good song. Let’s finish it.
I take a shower and think about it.It’s a good song. Let’s finish it.
I check the inventory at the venue and the words follow me.It’s a good song. Let’s finish it.
By noon, I’ve memorized every curve of his letters, the way the L loops slightly, how the cross of the T is darker than any other letter. Like everything about him, he's confident but not arrogant. Direct but not demanding. The way he wrote “good” instead of “great” or “amazing” feels honest. Real. Not trying to convince me of anything, just stating a simple truth.
“You’re going to burn a hole through that paper,” Jovie observes from behind the bar.
I fold the note and shove it in my pocket. “I’m just checking something.”
“For the twentieth time today.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m understating.” She sets down the glass she’s cleaning. “Either text him or throw it away, but stop torturing yourself.”
The truth is I’ve written the text message seventeen times. Deleted it eighteen. Each version sounds wrong. Too eager. Too cold. Too much like I care. Too much like I don’t.
My phone feels heavy in my hand as I type again:One song. One session.
Delete.
We can finish the track. Nothing else.
Delete.
