He sets the bourbon on the piano bench and pulls out his guitar, fingers automatically finding strings, adjusting tuning. I grab my notebook, the one with half-finished lyrics and whole-finished doubts, and flip to the page where our song exists in fragments.
“You were right,” I say without preamble. “It is a good song.”
Something shifts in his expression, surprise maybe, or relief. “I’m happy you got my note.”
“Hard to miss when you tucked it into the most important pages.”
“I wanted to make sure you’d find it.”
“It’s how you’re here . . . sitting next to me.”
Darian smirks and pours bourbon into two glasses I grabbed from behind the bar, slides one toward me. Our fingers don’t touch, but they almost do, and that almost feels louder than contact would.
“I’ve been thinking about the bridge,” he says. “The melody wants to climb there, build to something.”
“I know. I tried writing it alone but—” I stop, not wanting to admit how empty it felt without him.
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Play what you have,” I say.
He starts with the verse melody I wrote, the one he found that day I want to forget but can’t. His interpretation has evolved since I heard him working on it. There are layers now, complexity that honors the simplicity of the original. When he reaches the pre-chorus, I hum the harmony without thinking, and he smiles without looking up.
“There,” he says. “That. Do it again.”
We work through it three more times, each pass revealing new possibilities. I scribble lyrics as we go, crossing out lines, adding new ones. He suggests a key change I resist until I hear it, then wonder how I ever thought it could work any other way.
An hour passes. Maybe two. The bourbon level drops slowly, responsibly. We’re not drinking for courage or escape, just taking small sips between musical phrases. At some point, our stools drift closer. At another point, his knee bumps mine and neither of us pulls away.
“Try this,” he says, playing a variation on the chorus that makes my chest ache with how right it sounds.
I sing the words I’ve been holding back, the ones that feel too honest:”I built these walls with careful hands, mortared tight with fear. You show up with your wrecking ball disguised as harmony I need to hear.”
He stops playing. “Rye.”
“It’s just a metaphor.”
“Is it?”
I reach for the bourbon instead of answering, but he catches my wrist gently. Not holding, just touching. A question, not a demand.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper.
“The worst,” he agrees, but his thumb traces the inside of my wrist where my pulse gives me away.
“I can’t do complicated.”
“Neither can I.”
“I have a kid.”
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“I have a venue to run.”
“I know.”
“I have trust issues and control issues and probably ten other issues I haven’t even diagnosed yet.”
