Chapter 4
rye
. . .
The last customer leaves 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 he knew . . .
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.”
I sigh heavily. “I wasn’t watching, and I didn’t rush.”
Maybe a little.
“I went to pick it up because it was already full.”
“Uh, huh,” she says, smirking. “Who is he?”
Shaking my head, I sigh. “Some guy who wanted to play Thursday. That’s literally all I know.”
“Some guy who made you forget to breathe for thirty seconds when he walked up to sign in.”
Fuck. She noticed that too.
“Maybe he just looked like someone who gets it,” I say finally.
“Gets what?”
“That music isn’t entertainment. That it’s . . .” I trail off because I sound like an idiot.
“That it’s what?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Jovie studies me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “When’s the last time you looked at a man like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you wanted to know what he was thinking.”
My phone buzzes against my hip before I can answer. Lily’s name fills the screen.
“Hey, baby girl.”
“Mama, I can’t sleep.” Her voice sounds small and tired. “My brain keeps making up scary stories about tomorrow.”
I settle onto one of the stools. “What kind of stories?”
“Like what if I mess up my song? What if everyone laughs? What if Mrs. O changes her mind and doesn’t let me perform?”
“Whoa. Remember what we do when your brain gets loud?”
“Take three deep breaths and find something that’s definitely true.”
“Exactly. So what’s definitely true right now?”
Lily pauses. Bedding rustles. “You love me no matter what happens tomorrow.”
“That’s definitely true. What else?”
“Mrs. O picked my song because she likes it, not because she wants me to fail in front of everyone.”
“Also true. One more.”
“Winny smells like the lavender spray, which means I’m safe in my room with my things.”
The knot in my chest loosens. “You’re getting good at this.”
“Will you sing the sleepy song?”
I glance around the empty venue. Jovie’s stopped cleaning and is listening with a soft expression I rarely see on her face.
“Right now?”
“Please? Grandma tried, but she does it wrong.”
Of course she does. Mom changes everything to make it her own, even lullabies.
“Okay. But quietly.”
I hum the opening, then sing the words I wrote when Lily was six and afraid of thunderstorms. Simple melody about brave girls and moonlight standing guard. Lily joins in on the chorus, her voice floating through the phone like a reminder of what actually matters.
“Thanks, Mama. My brain’s quieter now.”
“Good. Call me if it gets loud again, okay?”
“Okay. Love you bunches.”
“Love you bunches back.”
After we hang up, I sit in the silence.
“That was beautiful,” Jovie says quietly. “The song, but also how you talk to her.”
“She gets nervous before performances. You know how she gets before the showcase.”
“Tomorrow’s the big day, right? Her original song debut?” Jovie drops her cleaning rag. “You recording it?”
“If she doesn’t chicken out.” Pride sneaks into my voice. “Mrs. O says she has real potential.”
“Like her mama.”
The words hit me sideways. “I manage a venue. That’s different.”
“Bullshit.” Jovie crosses her arms. “You think I don’t see how you move during the good songs? How your fingers tap rhythms when something speaks to you? You’re not just managing this place. You’re curating it. That takes the same instincts that write songs.”
“Managing and curating aren’t the same thing.”
“Aren’t they? You create something new every time you book a lineup. You find voices that work together, build evenings that tell stories. That’s composition.”
I want to argue, but something about her words digs under my skin. The truth is, I do think about programming like songwriting. How voices interact, where to place quiet moments, where to build energy.
“It’s not the same,” I repeat, but my voice sounds hollow.
“Whatever.” Jovie grins and goes back to cleaning. “All I know is mysterious guitar players don’t usually make venue managers forget to breathe unless something about them speaks to the musical part of their brains.”
My cheeks burn. “I already told you—”
“I know what you told me. I also know protective deflection when I hear it.” Jovie hangs the towel on its hook. “The question is, what are you protecting yourself from?”
The question follows me as I finish closing—checking candles, setting the alarm, locking up. Jovie heads to her car with a wave, leaving me alone with thoughts I don’t want to examine.
I walk to my car slowly, keys jingling. Nashville winds down around me—someone practicing guitar through an open window, a dog barking in the distance, air conditioners humming against the August heat.
This is my favorite time. When the performance ends and the city relaxes into something real. When musicians become people again, when venues turn back into empty rooms waiting for tomorrow’s magic.
But tonight feels different. Like something shifted in the careful balance I’ve built around work and motherhood and small dreams that don’t risk too much.
The man at table twelve—Darian—unsettled that balance somehow. Not because he was attractive, though he was. Not because he seemed interested in the venue, though he clearly was.
Because he watched tonight’s round like someone who understood what it costs to play original music for strangers. Like someone who knows what it feels like to offer your heart through melody and hope it doesn’t get torn apart.
I’ve spent three years protecting this space, making sure musicians feel safe enough to take real risks.
But watching him absorb everything with that careful attention made me wonder what it would cost to be on the other side.
To be the one offering something fragile instead of the one making sure others feel safe to do it.
The thought scares the shit out of me.
I reach my car and pause, looking back at The Songbird’s dark windows. Thursday feels too far away and too soon at the same time. Part of me wants to cancel his slot, claim it was a mistake, protect myself from whatever energy he’ll bring.
But the bigger part of me—the part that watched him sign up like he was taking a leap—wants to see what happens when someone who listens carefully gets the chance to be heard.
My phone buzzes. Text from Mom: Lily’s asleep.
I text back thanks and get in the car, cranking the engine. The drive home takes fifteen minutes through empty streets lined with houses full of musicians and artists and dreamers who moved here because they believe music can change everything.
Most nights, that belief feels like enough. Tonight, it feels like the first chord of a song I don’t know how to finish.
I drive slowly, letting traffic lights wash over me.
Tomorrow I’ll wake up early for breakfast with Lily before her rehearsal.
I’ll spend the afternoon reviewing next week’s lineup, returning calls from musicians wanting to book shows.
I’ll prepare for another evening of protecting the space where songs come to life.
But Thursday will come. And with it, the chance to find out if the stranger who watched tonight’s round with such attention has something worth saying. If the instinct that made me watch him sign up was musical intuition or something else entirely.
Either way, I’ll find out soon enough.
The thought should make me nervous. Instead, as I pull into my driveway, something builds in my chest that might be anticipation.
Just enough to matter.