Rye’s house sits on a quiet street, small but maintained, with a porch and a basketball hoop that leans left. Lily doesn’t strike me as the sporty type, although playing music can cause someone to break out in a sweat. I stand there for a moment, wondering if the hoop is left over from the previous owner or if Rye put it up in hopes her daughter would choose a different path. Everyone in this business knows the path chooses us.
The door opens before I knock. Lily stands there in pajama pants and an oversized Nirvana shirt. I want to give her a fist bump for her excellent taste in music. I refrain because I hear the sound of pots and pans clanking together.
“Mom’s freaking out in the kitchen.”
“I am not freaking out,” Rye calls from inside.
“She changed her shirt three times,” Lily says.
“Lily Grace Hayes.”
Ooh, she got three-named. That’s never good.
“What? It’s true.” She steps back. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour while she pretends everything’s under control.”
“These are for you,” I hand her one of the bouquets, keeping the other until I can hand them to Rye.
Lily brings them to her nose and in-hales. “Thank you.”
The house is lived in without being messy. Photos line the hallway—Lily at different ages, some of Rye with an older woman, no father anywhere. The living room has a couch, coffee table covered in sheet music, and a guitar stand in the corner.
“That’s where I practice,” Lily says. “Mom says I’m getting better at the hammer-ons you showed me. Want to hear?”
“After dinner,” Rye appears in the doorway. There’s something off about how she’s standing, like she can’t decide if this was stupid. “Food’s ready.”
We make eye contact, and pause, studying each other. She looks from me to the flowers in my hand. I slowly push them toward her and a smile slowly forms, reaching her eyes. It’s like they sparkle.
“Thank you,” she says, repeating the same thing her daughter did and inhaled. Only Rye closes her eyes. I continue to watch her, taking her all in.
Yep, I’m definitely falling hard.
“I got some too, Mom.” Lily waves her flowers so her mom can see.
If I wasn’t watching Rye, I wouldn’t have seen her grin extend from ear-to-ear or see the whispered ‘thank you’ she gives me.
“Come on, let’s put these in water and eat. I’m starving. Are you hungry?” Rye asks me.
“Famished.” But not for food, for her.
I follow behind her and Lily. Every few steps, Rye looks over her shoulder, giving me a look . . . a look of longing or desire, at least that’s what I’m hoping.
The kitchen smells like roasted chicken and garlic. The table’s set for three with actual plates and a pitcher of water with lemon slices.
“I helped cook,” Lily announces, pulling out a chair. “I made the salad and didn’t even complain about touching lettuce.”
“Major accomplishment,” I say, taking the seat across from her.
“Mom usually burns everything,” Lily continues. “But tonight she used a timer and everything.”
“I cook fine,” Rye protests, sitting down.
“Remember the pasta incident?”
“We agreed never to speak of the pasta incident.”
“What was the pasta incident?” I ask.
Lily launches into a story about smoke alarms, three firetrucks, and spaghetti that bonded to a pot. Rye corrects parts while serving food, and suddenly we’re just three people eating dinner. Nothing forced about it.
