I play for an hour, maybe longer, letting the melody develop without forcing it toward any particular destination. Outside, Nashville settles into its late-night rhythm—cars honking on the street below, distant music from venues that stay open past midnight, the joyous laughter of people walking home from the bars and shows.
When I finally set the guitar aside, I realize I’m looking forward to tomorrow in a way I haven’t since leaving California. Not because I have plans or appointments or places to be, but because Nashville might have something to offer me if I allow it.
And because something about the way Rye nodded at me—polite but interested. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself because I know our paths will cross again.
Soon, I hope. I want to understand how someone learns to protect music the way she protected it tonight. I want to know what kind of songs someone like that writes when no one’s listening because there isn’t a doubt in my mind she’s a writer.
Most of all, I want to discover whether the curiosity I saw in her eyes—gone so quickly I might have imagined it—means she’s wondering the same things about me.
The night air drifts through my open windows, carrying the sound of someone practicing guitar in a nearby apartment. The notes are hesitant, like someone working through an idea that hasn’t fully formed yet.
I know exactly how that feels.
I move toward the window and open it wider so I can hear whoever it is playing. Part of me wants to yell out into the open words of encouragement—like Zara had done for me when I was learning—but putting myself out there right now seems like such a massive step toward acceptance. That this is my life now, and I’m not there yet.
But for the first time in months, instead of feeling frustrated by the incomplete melody, I feel patient with it.
I settle into bed with that thought, grateful to Benny for pushing me out of my comfort zone and to The Songbird for reminding me why music matters more than the industry that packages it.
Tomorrow, I’ll write, and then maybe, just maybe I’ll find the courage to get on stage again.
Maybe.
rye
. . .
The last customerleaves at midnight. Gus, my bouncer, turns the key in the lock and then pockets it. He lets out an audible sigh as he makes his way to the back where I know he’ll check the bathrooms for any stragglers, as well as the windows, walk-in cooler, and the backdoor. The best part, he’ll linger until I tell him it’s okay to leave. He’s a gentleman and always wants to walk Jovie and I to our cars.
I blow out the mason jar candles one by one, watching smoke curl toward the exposed beams while Jovie counts the register behind the bar. Soft music—the filler music—plays over the sound system. I don’t pay attention to the songs because if I did, I’d spend the rest of the night wondering if they were songs that got their start here.
“Hell of a round.” Jovie’s voice carries across the empty room. “That kid from Georgia’s getting better. And Constance’s song about her ex? Brutal.”
I stack chairs onto tables. Four per table, legs twisted together, clear paths for morning cleaning. My hands know this routine, but my brain keeps drifting to table twelve.
The man who sat alone all night, nursing one beer and watching everything like he understood what it cost to get up there. Not hunting for the next big thing like the industry vultures. Not killing time like the tourists. Something else.
Something that heknew . ..
I’ve watched thousands of people listen to music in this room. Most treat it like background noise for their conversations. This guy listened differently. Like the songs mattered. Like the voices said more than the lyrics.
“You’re doing that thing again.” Jovie appears beside me, bar towel slung over her shoulder.
“What thing?”
“Stacking chairs in slow motion while your brain goes somewhere else.” She grins. “Usually means you’re thinking about next week’s lineup. Or whether we should book that terrible blues band again.”
I grab another chair. “Just thinking about tonight.”
“Uh-huh. Thinking about tonight, or thinking about the dark-haired stranger who sat by himself and signed up for Thursday?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right. That’s why you’ve looked at that clipboard six times since he left.” Jovie waves toward the stage where the sign-up sheet now sits. “Darian Mercer. Nice name. Looks like a songwriter’s name.”
“Every name looks like a songwriter's name,” I tell her, despite my mind recalling his rushed handwriting, as if he were second-guessing himself.
“You know, you usually don’t watch people sign up, and then rush over to check the board.”
