“Indira.” His hand was calloused from guitar strings, his grip warm and confident. “You’re a musician?”
“Trying to be. Right now I’m a music teacher who plays gigs.” His smile was self-deprecating but genuine. “Can I buy you a drink before I have to get on stage?”
I found myself saying yes.
We talked while he waited for his set to start—about music, about Nashville, about the weird adjustment of building a new life in a new city. When I mentioned my job in marketing, he didn’t glaze over like most people did. Instead, he asked what kind of campaigns I worked on, and when I told him about the diabetes awareness project, he said, “So you’re basically saving lives while I’m teaching twelve-year-olds to play ‘Hot Cross Buns’ on the recorder. No pressure.” I laughed harder than I had in weeks. When he mentioned he’d moved to Nashville three years ago from Austin, I found myself relaxing, sharing my own story of starting over.
“So you just packed up and left?” he asked. “That takes guts.”
“Or desperation,” I said lightly.
“Nah. Desperation makes you run away. Courage makes you run toward something better.” He glanced toward the stage where the band was setting up. “I should get up there. But hey, would you stick around? I’d love to talk more after my set.”
I found myself nodding.
Vaughn was good. Really good. His voice had this raspy quality that made every song sound intimate, and the way he played guitar—eyes closed, completely lost in the music—was mesmerizing. I watched him perform and felt something I hadn’t experienced in months: attraction.
When he came back to our table after his set, his hair was slightly sweaty, his eyes bright with performance adrenaline.
“You were incredible,” I told him.
“Yeah?” He grinned. “Incredible enough that you’d let me take you out sometime?”
“Maybe,” I said, surprising myself with how easily the flirtation came. “Tell me more about this music teacher slash aspiring rock star thing.”
We talked for another two hours. At some point Emma and Sarah left—I couldn’t have said exactly when. Vaughn talkedabout teaching middle schoolers to appreciate jazz, about the dive bars where he played his original songs, about his dream of recording an album someday.
“I should let you get home,” he said finally, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost midnight and you said you’re moving tomorrow.”
“I am.” I realized I didn’t want the night to end. “But this was nice.”
“Yeah, it was.” He pulled out his phone. “Can I get your number? I’d really like to see you again.”
I gave it to him without hesitation.
As I drove back to my apartment, I found myself smiling. Not thinking about Dutch, not comparing Vaughn to anyone from my past. Just enjoying the warm glow of a good night with an interesting man who’d made me laugh.
I was living again instead of just surviving. The promotion, the new apartment, Vaughn’s number in my phone—these were all pieces of a life I was actively choosing.
Tomorrow I’d move into my beautiful new apartment. Next week I’d start my new position. And maybe, if Vaughn called, I’d go on a date with a hot wannabe rock star.
My life was finally moving forward. And it felt liberating.
?
Three weeks later, I was laughing so hard I could barely breathe.
“I’m serious!” Emma said, gesturing wildly with her wine glass. “He showed up to the first date wearing a fanny pack. A FANNY PACK. In 2026!”
“Please tell me you gave him a chance anyway,” Sarah said, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Oh, I did. The fanny pack was actually the least weird thing about him.” Emma took a dramatic sip of her Chardonnay. “Halfway through dinner, he pulled out a laminated list of his deal-breakers. LAMINATED.”
We were at The Vine Bar, our new favorite spot on Music Row, celebrating what Sarah had dubbed “Indira’s Fuck Around and Find Out era.” The three of us had grown close over the past few weeks—real friends, not just acquaintances from networking events. They knew about my move to Nashville, though notallthe details about why. They’d watched me go from the quiet, guarded woman I’d been in September to... whoever I was becoming now.
“Okay, but can we talk about how Indira has been on dates with three different men in three weeks?” Sarah raised her glass. “THREE. Meanwhile, I’ve been home reorganizing my closet.”
“Vaughn, David, and who was the third?” Emma asked.
