Chapter 7 Darian
darian
. . .
Dinner sits heavy in my stomach as I step out into the early evening air. Seven-thirty, and the city pulses with life around me. I need to walk, need to see this place I’m calling home instead of hunkering down in my apartment like I have been.
The streets buzz with energy. Buskers claim corners with guitar cases open for tips.
An Elvis impersonator croons “Love Me Tender” outside a retro souvenir store while tourists snap photos.
Two women argue loudly about the best hot chicken joint while their friend tries to mediate.
Street musicians, artists, dreamers—all of them part of the fabric that makes this city what it is.
I find myself smiling for the first time in weeks. This is what I came here for. Not the industry connections or networking opportunities, but this. The reminder that music and life exists everywhere, not just in studios and venues.
My feet carry me down streets I’m still learning, past murals painted on brick walls and coffee shops with chalkboard signs advertising open mic nights.
Every night, there’s something for someone looking to get ahead in this industry.
The walk loosens something in my chest, makes breathing feel easier than it has since I left California.
I’m not planning to end up at The Songbird. But when I turn the corner and see the venue’s hand-painted sign, my steps falter.
The place should be dark—closed on Wednesdays—or at least from what I remember after memorizing the schedule in the event I wanted to come back. But there’s light coming from inside. Not harsh cleaning lights, but something softer. And I can make out a figure moving around.
Rye?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I cross the street toward the venue. The front door is slightly ajar, and the sound of a piano drifts out into the evening air—soft, tentative, like someone working through an idea they’re not sure about yet.
I pause at the threshold, listening. The melody is beautiful and melancholy. “Hello?” I call out, not wanting to startle whoever’s inside.
The music stops.
“We’re closed.” Rye’s voice carries from somewhere inside, but there’s no irritation in it. Just fact.
“I know. I’m sorry. I was walking by and heard the music.” I stay where I am, half in and half out of the doorway. “I can go.”
A pause. Then footsteps approaching.
Rye appears, and I’m struck by how different she looks outside of work mode. No black tank top and manager mode. Instead, she wears an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder and jeans with holes that look earned rather than purchased, like mine. Her hair falls loose around her face.
“Darian.” She stops a few feet away, studying my face. “What are you doing here?”
“Walking. Exploring. Learning my way around.” I gesture vaguely at the street behind me. “I heard you playing and . . .”
“And what?”
“And I was intrigued,” I tell her. “Nosy, really.” I shrug as if the motion gives me an excuse.
“So you decided to stop in?”
I nod. “Truthfully, I couldn’t walk away from music that beautiful. Not without finding the source.”
She considers this, arms crossed but not defensively. More like she’s deciding something. “Do you want to come in?”
“If you don’t mind the company.”
“I don’t mind.” She steps back, making room for me to enter. “Just doing some paperwork anyway. The music helps me think.”
I follow her inside, and she closes the door behind me.
The venue feels different when it’s empty—quieter, more personal without the usual crowd and energy.
Rye takes me around the bar, and off to the side is an upright piano tucked in the corner.
Sitting on the top board, is some type of flower arrangement with those fake candles flickering.
Opposite of the piano is a long table with sheet music scattered across it, suggesting she was doing more than just paperwork.
“Was that you playing?” I ask, nodding toward the piano
“Yes.” She moves toward the bar and leans against it, studying me.
I push down on one of the keys, mentally and soundly checking to see if it was in tune. It was and I chide myself for thinking otherwise.
“What about you? Do you play?”
I nod, not looking up from the ivory keys. “My sister forced me to go to piano lessons with her when we were younger. Said it would make me a better songwriter.”
“Smart sister. Did you always know you wanted to be a songwriter?”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “My sister has her moments, and yes, I think so. I used to write poetry and then she would sing my poems. We checked books out from the library and taught ourselves what we could about playing music. I remember when she started middle school and could take band class. She signed up to play the guitar and would teach me everything she learned. By the time I got to middle school I could already play.”
“That’s amazing. Your parents didn’t mind the racket?”
I shake my head. “Funny story, our mom is a music teacher, but neither of us ever took choir.”
“And yet, you both sing?”
I nod and press a few more keys as I recall the melody I heard that brought me in. I find myself drawn the sheet music that’s clearly been worked over—notes crossed out, measures rewritten, the kind of careful revision that comes from someone who cares about getting it right. “Mind if I . . .?”
She nods, and I settle onto the bench.
The opening chords take me a second, and then the sound flows easily. But as I play, something interesting happens—my fingers drift into a variation, a harmony line that sits underneath her melody like it was always meant to be there.
“That’s not what I was playing,” she says, but she doesn’t sound annoyed. More curious than anything.
“I know. But it could be.” I play both parts, switching between the melody and the harmony line I added. “Sometimes songs want to be bigger than we first imagine them.”
She moves closer, close enough that I catch the scent of her shampoo when she leans over to look at the keys. “Show me the harmony part again.”
I play it slower this time, and she hums along, finding her way into the melody that sits above my chords. Our voices blend in a way that surprises both of us—not perfect, but complementary. Like two puzzle pieces that fit together even though they came from different boxes.
“There,” she whispers, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “That’s what it was missing.”
She slides onto the bench beside me, our thighs barely touching.
The contact sends electricity through me that has nothing to do with the music and everything to do with her proximity.
Her shoulder presses against mine as she reaches for the lower keys, creating a bass line that grounds the harmony we just discovered.
We keep playing together. I handle the melody while she provides the foundation, the kind of accompaniment that doesn’t just support a song but makes it better than either of us could create alone.
“It needs words,” she says as we reach what feels like a natural ending.
“Yeah. I’ve been trying to write them, but they keep coming out too . . .”
“Honest?”
I look at her, surprised by her understanding. She sounds like Zara. Oddly, it doesn't turn me off. “Exactly.”
“Honesty’s not a bad thing. Not in music.” Her fingers drift across the keys absently, picking out fragments that sound like conversations between old friends. “What’s it about? The song you’re not writing.”
The question hangs between us. I could deflect, make something up, keep my truth buried, but then again if she looked me up online, there are articles about everything that went down.
I tilt my head, just enough to look at her without staring.
There’s something about sitting beside her in this dimly lit room that makes honesty feel safer than protection.
“Starting over. Learning how to trust music again after people you loved used it as a weapon against you.”
She goes still beside me, but she doesn’t pull away. “People you trusted?”
“People like former bandmates who do things to hurt you and the people you love and then gaslight you into thinking you’re the one in the wrong.”
I hadn’t meant to verbally vomit all over her.
“Fuck.” The word comes out soft, not like profanity but like a prayer for people who’ve been betrayed by the things they love most. “I’m sorry.” I rub my hand over my face and groan.
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault some people are assholes.” She pauses, fingers still resting on the keys. “How long were you in the band together?”
Now I look at her. “Do you really not know?”
She shakes her head.
I nod, a bit thankful she didn’t look me up online, but also laugh at the absurdity of my situation. “Our downfall was and probably still is, all over the internet.”
Rye laughs softly. “I appreciate that you think I have time to look up every musician that walks through that door.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” I adjust slightly, angling my body toward hers.
“My sister and I started Reverend Sister when we were teens. We were one of the typical garage bands, playing covers and what not. In our free time, Zara and I would work on original music, and record it in our makeshift studio. She then took our demos everywhere, booked our gigs, got us our first deal, all while falling in love with our drummer.”
I play one of the melodies from one of our biggest hits. “Van and Zara got married, and things were good, until they weren’t. He cheated on her and the people we paid and trusted told her to get over it, and when she said no, the label pushed her out of the band . . . the band we started together.”
“That’s . . . horrible.”
Nodding, my fingers keep moving across the ivory. “Van wasn’t just my drummer. He was family. My brother and best friend.”
“That makes it worse.”