“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Not anymore. But it shaped how I see things. Musicians. The industry. The promises that turn into disappointment.”
“I get that.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re another talented musician making my daughter’s eyes light up. And I’ve seen how that story ends.”
“Not all stories end the same way.”
“No. But enough of them do.”
We sit with that truth for a moment. She’s not wrong. I’ve seen plenty of musicians leave destruction in their wake, intentional or not.
“What if we set clear boundaries?” I suggest. “I teach her once a week, when Benny can’t. Just technical stuff. No promises about anything beyond the next lesson.”
“You’d be okay with that?”
“It’s not about what I’m okay with. It’s about what you need to feel safe.”
“Lily won’t understand limitations like that.”
“Then we explain them. She’s smart. She’ll get it.”
“Maybe.” Another pause. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why do you care? About teaching her?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Because she’s yours. Because when I was teaching her, I kept seeing pieces of you in how she approaches things. Her focus. Her determination. The way she won’t settle for just getting by.” I pause. “And because I miss you.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “Darian . . .”
“I know we said we were keeping things casual. I know this complicates everything. But watching you walk into thatshop today, seeing your face when you realized what was happening?—”
“I was terrified.”
“You were beautiful.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me want things I can’t have.”
“What if you can have them?”
“My daughter comes first. Always.”
“I’m not asking you to choose. I’m asking you to consider that maybe you can have both. Maybe we can figure this out without anyone getting hurt.”
“In my experience, someone always gets hurt.”
“Then let’s change your experience.”
