“Your daughter. You’ve never told me her name.”
Surprise flickers in her eyes. “Lily.”
“Lily.” I test the name, let it settle. “My nieces are Stormy, Willow and Poppy. Poppy is the baby, babbles, drools and makes a mess everywhere. Stormy is a dancer and has been in a handful of music videos. It’s how my sister met Levi. Willow is a musician. I’m teaching her how to play the guitar.”
“Lily writes songs and is learning to play the guitar. In fact, she’s taking lessons from Benny,” Rye adds with pride in her eyes.
“She takes lessons from Benny?”
Rye nods. “He’s the best and she deserves it. She wrote and sang an original piece for her summer camp. She was terrified and brilliant.”
“I bet she gets that from her mom.”
“Gets what?”
“The terrified and brilliant part. The part that creates beauty even when it’s scary.”
Something shifts in her expression, defenses lowering just slightly. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“I know you well enough to know you write lyrics in the margins of inventory sheets when you think no one’s looking. I know you hum harmony lines while you’re cleaning, unconscious melodies that are usually better than most professional songwriters manage on purpose.” I lean forward. “I know you touched my back when I left the other night because part of you didn’t want me to go.”
“Observation skills.”
“Experience.”
She turns away, starts wiping down clean glasses with deliberate focus. “Your family won’t like me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m complicated. Because I come with baggage and boundaries and a child who needs stability.”
“You think that disqualifies you from dinner?”
“I think it disqualifies me from whatever you’re hoping this becomes.”
“What am I hoping this becomes?”
She sets down the glass and finally meets my eyes. “Something I can’t give you.”
“What if I’m not asking for anything you can’t give?”
“Everyone asks for more than they say they want.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“No,” she agrees quietly. “You’re not.”
We stare at each other across the bar, two people who’ve said too much and not enough. I can see her calculating risks, weighing the safety of solitude against the possibility of connection.
“One dinner,” I say again. “If it’s awful, you never have to see them again. If it’s not . . .” I shrug. “We’ll figure out what comes next.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“And Lily?”
“What about her?”
