Chapter 8 Rye
rye
. . .
Music screams through the sound system of The Songbird.
Loud, screeching wails of a singer who likely has the sorest throat when he’s done performing.
Instead of going out to the main part of the bar, I turn into my closet sized office and drop my bag on to my desk.
The force causes the papers to shift, exposing the edge of a notebook.
I sigh, knowing damn well I’m going to have to track down the musician who left it here last night.
I sit down and move my bag to the floor before reaching for the worn leather cover.
I’ve lost count of how many of these I’ve seen, found, and returned.
There’s even a box behind the bar of these, lost and never found.
For me, if I lost my journal of songs and notes, I’d be beside myself.
Tearing every inch of my house, car, and guitar case apart to find it, and retracing my steps.
These books are liquid gold and dangerous if they end up in the wrong hands.
Turning the cover to the first page, my hopes dim at the empty line where it says this book belongs to. A name should be there. It’s what I tell Lily all the time: Write your name. Lyrics are prized possessions. They’re your thoughts, actions, and the reactions of those around you.
With this one being blank, the only step is to toss it in the lost and found box with the other forgotten items musicians leave behind.
I turn the page instead.
The first few pages contain chord progressions in handwriting I don’t recognize.
It’s clean, careful letters that spell out musical thoughts in a language even non-songwriters can read.
Nothing earth shattering or a song I remember from last night’s session.
After years of being in this business, I tend to remember most of everything I heard from the night before.
It’s almost as if those songs play on repeat while I’m sleeping.
I continue to flip, reading a verse here and there, until page seven punches the air from my lungs.
Found myself in a city of second chances
Where the music cuts deeper than the pain
Where you can start over with nothing but the truth
And someone else’s abandoned refrain
My melody. The one I worked on two nights ago when he walked in. The tune I’ve hummed for weeks without finding words that fit. Except here they are, written in Darian’s handwriting, transformed into something beyond my imagination.
The chorus builds on the harmony he played that night:
She left her song unfinished in a room that holds too many secrets
But some melodies refuse to die
They wait for hands that understand their weight
For voices brave enough to try
My ribs tighten around my lungs. He didn’t just use my melody. He turned it into something else entirely, words that fit the music in ways I never imagined. And I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I flip through more pages, variations scattered across notebook paper, different approaches to the same progression. He’s labored over this since that night, working through possibilities, refining.
“Shit.” The word strangles in my throat. Fury blazes through my veins. Not because he stole from me, but because he made it beautiful.
And I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
Jovie appears in the doorway with a box of clean glasses. “You look like someone canceled Christmas and shot your dog.”
“Do you know where Darian lives?”
She freezes mid-step, glasses clinking in their box. “Why?”
“Because I need to have a conversation with him.”
“What kind of conversation?” Her voice carries the careful neutrality of someone who’s witnessed me lose my temper exactly twice in three years and recognizes the warning signs.
I close the notebook and stand, energy coursing through me. “The kind where I discover why he thinks he can take my music and transform it into his personal creative project.”
“Rye—”
“Don’t.” I thrust up my hand. “Just don’t.”
Jovie sets the glasses down and crosses her arms. “What happened?”
I show her the notebook, flipping to pages where my melody becomes his lyrics. Where my emotional fragments transform into something polished and purposeful.
“He wrote this about your song?”
“With my song. Using my song.” The distinction cuts deep, though I can’t explain why. “I need to know what grants him the right.”
“How?”
Her question gives me pause. I hadn’t told her about the night before, when I was here, and Darian walked in. Jovie doesn’t know that I sat at the piano with him and watched him take my song and mesh it eloquently with one of his. He did it so effortlessly too.
“We . . . huh . . .”
“You huh what exactly?” Jovie’s eyebrow rose, testing me.
I groan and cover my face, hoping to give myself a moment to gather my thoughts.
“Rye!” Jovie’s tone demanded an answer.
“Darian came by, on Wednesday.”
“We’re closed on Wednesdays.” She points out the obvious.
Nodding, I sigh. “I had left the door open to air the place out and in the middle of my paperwork I started playing the piano. He heard me playing and came in.”
“Is this where the huh comes in?”
“He sat down and started playing and we may have . . . huh . . . played together for a bit.”
Jovie eyes me, and slowly a smirk begins to play on her lips. “You like him.”
“No! I don’t.” I pick his notebook up from my desk and show it to her. “He stole my song.”
“I’m sure Darian Mercer didn’t steal your song. He doesn’t need to,” Jovie says. “Have you Googled him?”
I shake my head slowly.
“Right, you should. First, the man is F. I. N. E. fine. He did a photoshoot for some charity calendar a few years back, and whoa.” She fans herself.
“I think I saved every picture I could find. Second, he’s an award-winning songwriter, Rye.
This man shits number one hits. He doesn’t need to steal your song. ”
Jovie takes Darian’s notebook from my hand before I can stop her. She flips through the pages, reads, and then looks at me. “You wrote this?”
I nod. “Half of it,” I tell her. “He added some.”
“Shit, Rye. This is really good.” She hands the book back to me. “Before you go at him with guns blazing, just stop and think. Darian could walk into any venue, but he chose The Songbird.”
“He’s going through some stuff,” I say, before shutting my mouth. It’s really not my business to tell Jovie what’s going on with him.
“Yeah, I know. It’s all over the web.” Jovie sighs and picks up the box of glasses. “Maybe call him instead of showing up wherever he lives like—”
“Like what?”
“Like someone hunting for a fight.”
Jovie speaks the truth and that hurts. My fight or flight is always to fight, damn the consequences.
I’m angry, not because of what he created, but because he did so without asking.
And honestly, it frustrates me that he understood something about my music that I couldn’t and still can’t articulate myself.
“I’m not looking for a fight,” I finally admit.
“Then what do you want?”
An explanation. An apology. Some reason to stop thinking about the way his voice sounded when he played that harmony.
“I don’t know,” I tell her because this is easier than admitting I want to see him again, but away from the prying eyes of employees.
Jovie studies my face, then sighs. “He lives above Rattlesnake Guitars on Fifth.”
After she leaves, I lock up and walk the six blocks to Fifth Street. Morning air carries coffee shop aromas and self-guiding tourists looking on every street corner for Blake Shelton or Gretchen Wilson.
Rattlesnake Guitars sits at the corner of Fifth Street, with a used bookstore on one side and a bakery that already smells like fresh bread on the other.
For years, Benny, the owner, has housed wayward musicians until they can get on their feet, so it doesn’t make a ton of sense to me that Darian is living here.
Unless he’s hiding who he truly is from Benny.
The thing is, I don’t think Darian has a bad bone in his body, but then again, I’ve known enough musicians in my life to know they’re also liars.
I go through the non-descript door next to the main entrance of Rattlesnake Guitars and climb the stairs to the first apartment, assuming Benny still lives upstairs at the end of the hall.
I’ve been here before, about ten years ago to visit a friend, who was trying to make it big in the industry.
It’s almost as if the hallway smells like songwriters, of eagerness, and desperation.
If someone could bottle the hopes and dreams of a musician and sell it on the street corner, they’d make millions.
I knock harder than necessary.
Footsteps approach, then the door opens to reveal Darian in jeans and . . . abs that go places my mind hasn’t gone to in years. Not since the night before Jason left me. Darian’s hair sticks up like he’s been running fingers through it, he looks like he’s been awake for hours.
“Rye.” Surprise flickers across his expression, followed by something resembling guilt. “Hi.” He steps forward and looks down the stairs. “Uh, how did you know where I live?”
“Jovie knew, somehow,” I say.
“Jovie? The purple-haired waitress?”
I nod. “You left this at the venue.” I hold up the notebook, watching recognition dawn in his eyes.
“Fuck. I searched everywhere for that.” He reaches for it, but I pull back.
“I bet you did.”
Something in my voice freezes him. “Is everything okay?”
“That depends. Do you want to explain why my melody appears in here with your lyrics attached to it?”
The question hangs between us. The silence would be deafening but someone downstairs in the guitar shop is rifting so damn hard, it’s echoing. Darian’s expression shifts from surprise to guarded, the careful withdrawal of someone accused of something they’re not entirely sure they’re guilty of.
“Can we talk about this inside?”
“We can talk about it right here.”
“Rye, please.” His voice carries bone-deep exhaustion. “I know how this looks.”
“How does it look?”
“Like I stole something from you.”