My closet offers too many options. This isn’t a date. It’s guitar lessons for my daughter. But it’s also Darian coming to our house, seeing where we live, how we live. It matters, even if I pretend it doesn’t.
I settle on jeans and a comfortable sweater. Casual but put together. Not trying too hard but not looking like I just rolled out of bed.
The next two hours pass slowly. Lily practices sitting with good posture, holding an imaginary guitar. She watches YouTube videos about finger positions. She writes down questions in a notebook she’s designated her “Guitar Journal.”
I clean the kitchen, straighten the living room, try not to watch the clock. This is normal. Just a friend coming over to teach my daughter guitar. Nothing more.
Except it is more, and I know it. This is me choosing to let him in. Choosing to see where this goes. Choosing to trust not just my instincts but Lily’s too.
At ten-fifty, Lily takes her position by the front window.
“He’s not going to be early,” I tell her.
“He might be.”
“Don’t press your face against the glass.”
“I’m not.” She is.
At ten fifty-eight, a car pulls up outside. Lily squeals.
“It’s him! He’s here!”
She’s at the door before I can tell her to wait. But she does wait, bouncing on her toes, for me to actually open it.
Darian stands on our porch holding a guitar case, looking exactly like himself. Jeans, t-shirt, that easy smile.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say back.
“Hi!” Lily practically shouts. “Is that your guitar? Can I see it? Is it acoustic or electric? What color is it?”
“Lily, let him come inside first.”
“Right. Sorry. Come in!” She backs up, giving him space.
He steps inside and I close the door behind him. Our house isn’t fancy, but it’s ours. Comfortable. Lived in. Real.
“Nice place,” he says, looking around.
“Thanks.” I watch him take it in. The photos on the walls, Lily’s artwork on the refrigerator, the lived-in comfort of our space.
“Can we start now?” Lily asks. “Please?”
Darian looks at me, questioning. I nod.
“Where would you like to do this?” he asks.
“Living room?” I suggest. “More space.”
We move to the living room and he sets the guitar case down carefully. Lily hovers, vibrating with anticipation.
“Okay,” he says, kneeling to open the case. “First rule of guitar: respect the instrument.”
“Respect it how?” Lily asks, dropping to her knees beside him.
“Take care of it. Keep it clean. Don’t bang it around. Treat it like it matters.”
