Chapter 3 #2
The four songwriters pass the microphone between them, each contributing a verse to an improvised song about Nashville nights and dreams that cost more than anyone expects to pay.
The kid from Georgia sings about leaving everything behind.
The woman adds a verse about starting over at fifty.
The mandolin player contributes a chorus that ties everything together.
The older man brings it home with a bridge about finding family among strangers.
It’s messy and imperfect and absolutely genuine. The kind of music that exists for three minutes and forty-seven seconds, then lives only in the memory of people who were present to witness it.
The audience erupts in applause that feels different from concert crowd appreciation. This is gratitude for being included in something unrepeatable.
This is why Benny sent me here.
As people start gathering their things and settling tabs, I notice Rye moving through the room again, this time thanking the songwriters. She hands each performer a small envelope—probably containing whatever money the venue pays for these events, though I doubt it’s much.
I should leave. Walk back to my apartment and put my pen to paper. Instead, I find myself waiting as the crowd thins, watching Rye stack chairs and blow out candles with the efficient movements of someone who’s closed this room hundreds of times.
The purple-haired server appears at my table. “Can I get you something else?” She rocks back on her heels and looks at the others leaving.
“I’m good.” I leave money on the table and stand, intending to head for the exit.
But Rye chooses that moment to look up from the table she’s wiping down, and our eyes meet across the empty room.
Even from thirty feet away, I can see her taking inventory—my jeans and boots, the way I’ve been sitting alone all evening, the fact that I haven’t talked to anyone or pulled out a phone to take pictures.
Her gaze lingers on my hands, and I wonder if she’s looking for calluses that would mark me as a guitarist.
I should introduce myself. Walk over and thank her for hosting such an incredible night. But something in her expression—not unfriendly, exactly, but carefully neutral—makes me reconsider.
Instead, I find myself drawn to the small table near the stage where a clipboard sits next to a handwritten sign: “Next Thursday - Sign Up Here.” My hand moves across the page before my brain catches up: Darian Mercer - Guitar/Vocals.
What the hell am I doing?
Rye glances up, her eyes tracking my movement from the sign-up sheet back toward the door. Our gazes meet one more time, and this time I catch something that might be curiosity before she returns to her work.
I head for the door, nodding once in her direction. She nods back, then returns to her closing routine like I never existed.
Outside, the night air is electric with the sound of music from other venues—guitars and drum kits, cover bands and karaoke nights. The Songbird’s intimate acoustic setting seems almost precious in comparison, and completely different from anything I’ve ever experienced.
I walk slowly back toward Rattlesnake Guitars, replaying the last few hours in my mind. What should be at the forefront is the performers, but instead she is . . . Rye. The way she worked the room to make sure all eyes were on her performers.
When I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
Most venue managers I’ve known treat music like a commodity to be managed. Rye treated it like something sacred to be protected. She heard the music, absorbed it into her being. She’s a rare commodity in this business.
My phone buzzes with a text from Zara: How’s Nashville treating you?
I consider how to answer her. Hours ago, I would have said Nashville felt like every other music city—full of people trying to get discovered and venues trying to stay profitable.
But watching Rye work changed something in my understanding of what music can be when it exists for its own sake rather than for what it might become.
Still figuring it out, I type back. But I think I found something interesting.
A song?
Maybe. A place where songs matter.
That’s the most hopeful text you’ve sent in months.
She’s right. For the first time since leaving LA, I feel something other than relief or regret. I feel curious about what Nashville might teach me if I stop hiding in my apartment and start paying attention.
Back at Rattlesnake Guitars, I climb the stairs to my apartment and immediately reach for the Martin. The progression I’ve been working on sounds different now—less like therapy and more like possibility.
But instead of the chords I’ve been playing for days, my fingers find something new. A rhythm that matches the way Rye moved through The Songbird, efficient and graceful and completely present.
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.