By the time the fourth slot opens, I’m completely absorbed in watching her work. She doesn’t just manage this venue—she owns it with her presence. I have no doubt the welcoming ambience is because of her.
The final songwriter is a guy in his forties with a Martin that I’d love to get my hands on. He plays two original songs that sound like he’s been living between honky-tonks and truck stops for years. After his last note, he invites the other three writers back on stage for a collaborative closer.
The four songwriters pass the microphone between them, each contributing a verse to an improvised song about Nashville nights and dreams that cost more than anyone expects to pay. The kid from Georgia sings about leaving everything behind. The woman adds a verse about starting over at fifty. The mandolin player contributes a chorus that ties everything together. Theolder man brings it home with a bridge about finding family among strangers.
It’s messy and imperfect and absolutely genuine. The kind of music that exists for three minutes and forty-seven seconds, then lives only in the memory of people who were present to witness it.
The audience erupts in applause that feels different from concert crowd appreciation. This is gratitude for being included in something unrepeatable.
This is why Benny sent me here.
As people start gathering their things and settling tabs, I notice Rye moving through the room again, this time thanking the songwriters. She hands each performer a small envelope—probably containing whatever money the venue pays for these events, though I doubt it’s much.
I should leave. Walk back to my apartment and put my pen to paper. Instead, I find myself waiting as the crowd thins, watching Rye stack chairs and blow out candles with the efficient movements of someone who’s closed this room hundreds of times.
The purple-haired server appears at my table. “Can I get you something else?” She rocks back on her heels and looks at the others leaving.
“I’m good.” I leave money on the table and stand, intending to head for the exit.
But Rye chooses that moment to look up from the table she’s wiping down, and our eyes meet across the empty room.
Even from thirty feet away, I can see her taking inventory—my jeans and boots, the way I’ve been sitting alone all evening, the fact that I haven’t talked to anyone or pulled out a phone to take pictures. Her gaze lingers on my hands, and I wonder if she’s looking for calluses that would mark me as a guitarist.
I should introduce myself. Walk over and thank her for hosting such an incredible night. But something in her expression—not unfriendly, exactly, but carefully neutral—makes me reconsider.
Instead, I find myself drawn to the small table near the stage where a clipboard sits next to a handwritten sign: “Next Thursday - Sign Up Here.” My hand moves across the page before my brain catches up:Darian Mercer - Guitar/Vocals.
What the hell am I doing?
Rye glances up, her eyes tracking my movement from the sign-up sheet back toward the door. Our gazes meet one more time, and this time I catch something that might be curiosity before she returns to her work.
I head for the door, nodding once in her direction. She nods back, then returns to her closing routine like I never existed.
Outside, the night air is electric with the sound of music from other venues—guitars and drum kits, cover bands and karaoke nights. The Songbird’s intimate acoustic setting seems almost precious in comparison, and completely different from anything I’ve ever experienced.
I walk slowly back toward Rattlesnake Guitars, replaying the last few hours in my mind. What should be at the forefront is the performers, but instead she is . . .Rye. The way she worked the room to make sure all eyes were on her performers.
When I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Most venue managers I’ve known treat music like a commodity to be managed. Rye treated it like something sacred to be protected. She heard the music, absorbed it into her being. She’s a rare commodity in this business.
My phone buzzes with a text from Zara:How’s Nashville treating you?
I consider how to answer her. Hours ago, I would have said Nashville felt like every other music city—full of people trying toget discovered and venues trying to stay profitable. But watching Rye work changed something in my understanding of what music can be when it exists for its own sake rather than for what it might become.
Still figuring it out,I type back.But I think I found something interesting.
A song?
Maybe. A place where songs matter.
That’s the most hopeful text you’ve sent in months.
She’s right. For the first time since leaving LA, I feel something other than relief or regret. I feel curious about what Nashville might teach me if I stop hiding in my apartment and start paying attention.
Back at Rattlesnake Guitars, I climb the stairs to my apartment and immediately reach for the Martin. The progression I’ve been working on sounds different now—less like therapy and more like possibility.
But instead of the chords I’ve been playing for days, my fingers find something new. A rhythm that matches the way Rye moved through The Songbird, efficient and graceful and completely present.
