Chapter 6 Rye
rye
. . .
The coffee tastes like shit this morning, but I drink it anyway because I need the caffeine to stop replaying last night in my head.
Lily sits across from me at our kitchen table, methodically working through her cereal bowl, while I stare at the steam rising from my mug and try not to think about the way Darian’s voice cracked on the bridge of his second song.
“Mama, you’re doing that thing again.” Lily’s spoon clinks against her bowl.
“What thing?”
“That thing where you look like you’re watching TV but the TV isn’t on.” She tilts her head. “You did it during breakfast yesterday too.
“Just thinking about work stuff.” Not technically a lie. Darian performed at my venue, so he counts as work. Never mind that I spent most of the night replaying the way he moved his fingers across the guitar strings like he was having a conversation with the instrument.
“Is it about the new guitar player? The one Jovie said made you forget to breathe?”
My coffee cup hits the table harder than I intended. “Jovie said what?”
“She called this morning when you were in the shower. She wanted to know if you were still ‘spacing out like a teenager with her first crush.’” Lily grins, revealing the gap where her molar fell out last week. “I told her you were acting weird, but I didn’t know why.”
I’m going to kill Jovie. Slowly. With her own bar towel.
“Jovie has an overactive imagination.”
“So you’re not thinking about the guitar player?”
The question hangs between us while I scramble for an answer that won’t lie to my daughter but also won’t encourage whatever matchmaking fantasies she’s developing.
Lily latches onto any man who shows interest in me, probably because she thinks I need someone to take care of us. Which I don’t. We’re fine on our own.
“Musicians come and go, baby. That’s the nature of the business.”
Lily nods like she understands, but disappointment flickers across her face before she hides it behind another spoonful of cereal.
She wants me to be excited about something beyond work or her camp activities.
She wants me to have the kind of romance that happens in the movies her grandmother lets her watch when I’m not around.
What she doesn’t understand is that musicians are like hurricanes.
They blow into your life with all this energy and passion, make you believe in possibilities you thought were dead, then leave devastation in their wake when they move on to the next city.
I learned that lesson with Jason, and I’m not fucking interested in repeating it.
“You should invite him over for dinner,” Lily says, because apparently we’re not done with this conversation.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you made that face when you talked about him. The same face you make when you hear a really good song.”
Christ. Even my ten-year-old can read me like sheet music.
I finish my coffee and rinse the cup in the sink, using the mundane task to avoid meeting Lily’s gaze. “We should get you ready for your performance.”
She sighs dramatically but doesn’t push further, which means she’ll probably ambush me with more questions later when I’m less prepared. Smart kids know when to retreat and regroup.
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking into the community center. The young band warms up, a few of the kids missing very important notes. My insides seize at the screech, but remember what it’s like learning a new instrument.
I smile at Mrs. O, who has the same look of terror on her face that I felt a moment ago. I don’t know how she does it–teaching young kids all summer–without losing her hearing or sense of calm. It’s hard not to lose your patience when something you think is easy, is hard for someone else.
Lily runs off to sit with her friends. Her early stress about performing is long gone. I make my way over to Mrs. O and greet her with a small hug. “Good morning.”
“Morning. Lily’s ready,” she says matter-of-factly. She doesn’t ask, she just knows. Probably the same way she knew when she taught me.
“She is.” I look at my daughter and smile. “Any chance she can go first? I have a laundry list of things at the bar to take care of.”
“Of course. We’ll get started in a minute.”
Instead of sitting, I stand off to the side so I can duck out after Lily sings her song. My mom arrives, taking the seat closest to where I’m standing.
“Why aren’t you sitting?” Mom asks.
“Gotta get to work,” I tell her.
She nods in understanding. This is the busiest time of the year for The Songbird.
Everyone flocks to Nashville during the summer.
It’s when they have time off from their real jobs or have sitters for their kids.
I’ve considered extending the hours, especially during the songwriting session, but the execs that come in seem to like the way I have things set up.
Mrs. O quiets down the “house band” and stands in front of all us parents and students. She reminds everyone that this is the first of many performances over the summer and tell us that some students aren't ready.
“Up first, Lily Hayes.”
Everyone claps, but I’m the loudest. Lily sends daggers my way and I think of it as pay back for her little quips she made to me this morning, which reminds me that I need to have a long talk with Jovie. The last thing she needs to do is discuss my reaction to guitar players with my daughter.
Lily belts out her song, acappella no less, without missing a beat or faltering on the tune. She sings her heart out and earns a standing ovation. This time, I whistle loudly and then clap until my hands hurt. Lily has way more talent than I ever had at ten.
She rushes over to me, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I did it!”
“You did, now no more fear,” I say, rubbing my hand down her back. Lily looks at me, her smile beaming from ear to ear.
“Next time, I’ll play the guitar and sing.”
“That’ll be perfect.” I kiss the tip of her nose and tell her not to wait up for me, but she will and my mom will let her. There are battles I’ll fight, but this isn’t one of them.
The drive to The Songbird takes longer than usual because I’m deliberately taking side streets, avoiding the main routes.
Not because I’m dreading work, but because I’m not ready to face the space where Darian played last night.
Where his voice filled every corner and made me remember what it’s like when music gets under your skin.
I park behind the venue and sit in my car for a moment, staring at the building that’s housed my second home for three years. This place is my sanctuary, the one space where I control everything and nothing surprises me. Last night changed something about that dynamic, and I don’t like it.
“You’re early.” Jovie’s voice startles me, and I turn to find her emerging from the storage room with a box of napkins balanced against her hip. “Figured you might be.”
“Why would you figure that?”
“Because you’re avoiding something, and when you avoid something, you throw yourself into work.” She sets the box down and crosses her arms.
I grab the broom from its hook and start sweeping around the stage area, because busy hands mean I don’t have to make eye contact. “I’m not avoiding anything. I’m doing my job.”
“Uh-huh. That’s why you called me three times last night after closing to discuss the lineup for next month.”
Fuck. I forgot about that.
“I was being thorough.”
“You were being manic.” Jovie appears beside me, plucking the broom from my hands before I can protest. “Sit down. We need to talk.”
“We don’t need to talk about anything.”
“Rye Elizabeth, sit your ass down.”
The use of my full name means she’s serious, so I settle onto one of the stools and prepare myself for whatever wisdom Jovie thinks I need to hear. She leans against the bar, watching me with the careful assessment of someone who’s seen me navigate three years of barely controlled chaos.
“He got to you,” she says finally.
“Who got to me?”
“The guitar player. Darian. Don’t play dumb—it doesn’t suit you.” Jovie’s voice carries the gentle firmness she uses when she’s trying to save me from myself. “I watched you during his set. You looked like someone was performing surgery on your chest.”
The observation hits too close to home, but I’m not ready to admit that watching him play felt like emotional archaeology. Like he was digging up parts of myself I buried for good reasons.
“He’s a talented musician. That’s all.” But he’s also hot, fucking sexy, and looks like someone who only wants to be called good when he’s doing something very, very bad.
“Bullshit.” Jovie moves closer, perching on the stool beside mine. “I’ve seen you watch talented musicians for three years. This was different.”
“Different how?”
“Different like you recognized something in him. Like maybe he recognized something in you too.”
My shoulders tense because she’s right, and I hate that she’s right. There was something in the way Darian looked at the room, at the audience, at me. Like he understood what this space means, what it costs to create something worth protecting.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in complications.”
“Who said anything about complications? Maybe he’s just a good guy who writes good songs.”
The pregnancy test sits on the bathroom counter like a loaded gun.
Two pink lines that might as well be prison bars, trapping me in a future I never planned for.
My hands shake as I stare at the plastic stick, willing the lines to disappear or at least rearrange themselves into something that makes sense.
Jason’s voice carries from the bedroom where he’s packing for the tour that starts tomorrow. Three months opening for a country act that could change everything for him. He’s been talking about nothing else for weeks—the venues, the crowds, the industry connections he’ll make along the way.
“Rye, have you seen my lucky pick? The tortoiseshell one?” His footsteps approach the bathroom door. “I can’t find it anywhere.”