Fine. When?
Delete.
Lily texts me from camp asking if she can go to her friend’s house after class, and I respond on autopilot, giving permission while my mind stays stuck on those seven words. The melody we started creating has been looping in my head for days, incomplete and maddening. Every time I try to work on it alone, it feels wrong. Like trying to harmonize with my own echo.
He’s right. It is a good song. Could be better than good if we let it.
By three o’clock, I’ve accomplished nothing productive. The venue’s ready for tonight’s show, thanks to Jovie handling most of the prep while I pace circles in my own head. The repair Darian helped with looks perfect after two coats of paint, and I hate that I notice it every time I walk past.
I pull out the note again while sitting in my office. The afternoon light catches the paper, and I notice something I missed before. There’s a tiny smudge near the edge, like his hand dragged across the ink before it dried. For some reason, thatsmall imperfection makes it real. Makes him real. Not just the fantasy musician who showed up and complicated everything, but an actual person who writes notes with actual hands that sometimes smudge actual ink.
My phone buzzes. Jovie again:Stop overthinking. The song deserves to exist.
She’s right. The song does deserve to exist. That’s what makes this so hard. I can feel what it could become, the potential sitting there waiting for us to reach for it. But reaching means touching. Means being in the same room. Means trusting him not to take what we create and disappear with it.
Means trusting myself not to give him more than just music.
Four-thirty. The sun’s starting its descent, casting long shadows through the venue windows. I unfold the note one more time, smooth it flat on my desk.It’s a good song.Let’s finish it.Such a simple assessment. No pressure, no expectations. Just acknowledgment of what we both know is true.
I grab my phone before I can think myself out of it again.
One song. One session.
Send.
The response comes faster than expected, like he’s been waiting by his phone:Tonight? After the venue closes?
My heart does something complicated in my chest.Yes.
I’ll bring whiskey.
I’ll bring boundaries.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally:Fair enough.
The rest of the hours crawl by. Tonight’s performer is a folk duo from Memphis, harmonies so tight they could make you believe in God or love or whatever you’ve been avoiding believing in. I watch from the back of the room, arms crossed, trying not to check the time every thirty seconds.
“You look like you’re going to your execution,” Jovie whispers during the break between sets.
“I might be.”
“Drama queen.” She bumps my shoulder. “It’s just music.”
But it’s not just music. It never has been with him. From that first night when he played like he was bleeding out through the piano keys, there’s been something else. Something I don’t have words for. Something I definitely don’t have defenses against.
The venue finally empties at eleven-fifteen. I send the staff home, even Jovie who offers to stay and “supervise.” The silence after everyone leaves feels thick, expectant. I light the candles we use for acoustic sets, turning off the harsh overheads. If we’re doing this, at least the lighting won’t feel like an interrogation.
He knocks at eleven-thirty exactly. I find him at the door holding a bottle of bourbon and his guitar case, looking like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
We stand there for a moment, the space between us charged with everything we’re not saying. He’s wearing the same worn jeans from that first night, a black henley that fits him too well, and I have to look away before my brain starts cataloging all the ways this could go wrong.
“Come in.”
I lead him to the corner where the piano sits, pulling two stools close but not too close. Professional distance. Creative partnership space. Not knee-touching, skin-remembering proximity.
