Chapter 9 Darian
darian
. . .
My phone buzzes against the kitchen counter where I left it after making coffee that sits untouched.
The apartment sits quiet, sheets still tangled from earlier.
Rye was gone when I came back from the bathroom, leaving nothing but the impression of her body in my mattress and questions she’s not interested in answering.
The text is from Zara: Family dinner. Levi’s grilling. Stormy’s making her famous mac and cheese. Come hungry and prepared to explain why you’ve been avoiding us.
Three weeks in Nashville, and I haven’t seen my sister once. We’ve texted, sure, but I’ve dodged her invitations to come out to the ranch.
I haven’t been avoiding anyone.
Her response comes immediately: Bullshit. Get your ass out here. The girls miss their uncle.
The girls. Stormy at sixteen thinks she knows everything about everything. Willow at twelve sees through adult lies with uncomfortable precision. And baby Poppy, who doesn’t care about my emotional baggage and just wants to be held and give slobbery kisses.
I’ll be there.
Good. And Darian? Whatever’s eating at you, bring it. We’ll figure it out together.
I set the phone down and dump the cold coffee into the sink, then grab my keys, noticing Rye’s sweater is sitting on my chair.
I could take it over to her, but then that might embarrass her.
I pick it up, and inhale her floral perfume.
Memories from earlier flash through my mind.
No, there’s no way I can walk into The Songbird and hand it to her.
She’d hate me forever. I set it down and look up the venue and press the number.
The phone rings six or seven times. I’m about the hang up when the line clicks on.
“Songbird.”
“Hey, is Rye there?”
“Nah, she’s out. Can I help you?”
“This is Darian Mercer. I’m trying to get a hold of her.”
There’s a laugh on the other end. “Here’s her number. Call her.” Jovie, at least that’s who I’m assuming is on the other end, rattles off Rye’s number. I quickly type it out and save it in my phone.
Calling would be nice, but the thought of doing so gives me anxiety. I text her instead.
Hope you’re okay. Your sweater is still here if you want it back.
Rye: Keep it.
Ouch, that stings. I shake my head and immediately start typing an apology, erasing, and then typing: Rye, what we did—
But I can’t bring myself to say it was a mistake.
I don’t have to because she does it for me.
Rye: Was a mistake.
My mouth opens in shock as my heart hammers in my chest. I shake my head and type back: If you say so.
I grab my keys, Martin, and head for the parking lot. She didn’t even ask how I got her number. That’s how much she hates me.
The drive to Levi’s ranch stretches forty-five minutes through countryside that still surprises me with its rolling green beauty. Nothing like the stark desert around Los Angeles or the concrete sprawl that swallowed most of my twenties.
The Martin sits in its case on the passenger seat. I grabbed it without thinking, muscle memory from years of never leaving the house without an instrument. Now it weighs like armor at a family dinner.
Traffic thins as I leave the city behind. Fields stretch on either side of the two-lane highway, dotted with horses and farmhouses. My shoulders drop for the first time in days.
This is what Zara fell in love with when she moved here. Not just Levi, though their love story reads like something out of a country song, but this sense of space. Room to breathe without someone watching, waiting for you to fuck up so they can sell the story.
The ranch appears around a bend, white fences stretching toward a house with cathedral ceilings and skylights that Levi built on twenty-plus acres of rolling land.
This is his slice of heaven, away from the industry chaos, where his daughters can grow up with space to breathe.
Now it’s home to Zara and baby Poppy too.
I park next to Zara’s Jeep and grab the guitar case. Before I can knock, the front door swings open to reveal Stormy, all long legs and attitude, wearing leggings and a tank top that show she’s been practicing. Her face lights up with a grin that transforms her entirely.
“Uncle Darian!” She launches herself at me, and I drop the guitar case to catch her in a hug that rocks me backward. “Finally. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about us.”
“Never.” I squeeze tight, breathing in the energy that follows Stormy everywhere. “How’s the dancing going?”
“Good. I’m going to start with a new company. I’ll get to travel.” She pulls back to study my face with the intensity she inherited from her father. “You look tired.”
“Thanks. That’s exactly what every man wants to hear. Traveling will be a lot of fun.”
“I’m not trying to flatter you. I’m making an observation.” She links her arm through mine and steers me toward the house. “Willow’s been practicing that song you taught her last time. She wants to show you, but she’s nervous about the bridge.”
“She shouldn’t be nervous. She’s got better instincts than most professionals I know. But teaching her will be easier now that I’m here and we won’t have to depend on your dad’s shitty WiFi connection.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me. I wish he understood how important it was for me to post my videos. It’s how I can land other jobs.”
Stormy groans again as we step into the house, and controlled chaos wraps around me.
Everything feels both familiar and foreign—Zara in domestic mode instead of tour mode, the sounds of an actual family instead of roadies and sound checks.
Levi stands at the kitchen island seasoning steaks while Zara chops vegetables for salad.
Willow sits at the breakfast bar with music sheets spread around her, guitar leaning against the stool beside her.
And in a highchair that looks NASA-designed, Poppy bangs a wooden spoon against her tray while making sounds that might be words or might just be pure joy.
“There he is.” Zara looks up from her cutting board, expression shifting from welcome to assessment in a heartbeat. She sees too much, always has. “You look like hell.”
“Everyone’s a critic today.”
“Everyone who loves you.” She sets down the knife and moves around the island to hug me properly. “How are you really doing?”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” But she says it with affection, the way only sisters can. “Levi, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence.”
Levi glances up from his steaks and grins. “About time. I was starting to think you didn’t like us anymore.”
“I like you fine. It’s your wife who’s the problem.”
“Hey!” Zara swats my arm, laughing. “I’m delightful.”
“You’re something,” I agree, then move toward Poppy’s highchair. “Hey there, beautiful girl.”
Poppy drops her spoon and reaches for me with chubby arms, babbling something that sounds like “Da-da-da” but probably means “pick me up right now or I’ll scream until your ears bleed.”
I lift her from the chair, and she immediately grabs a handful of my hair with an iron baby grip. “Miss me?”
She responds by blowing a raspberry against my cheek, which I choose to interpret as yes.
“She’s been doing that all week,” Stormy says. “Z says it means she’s practicing communication.”
“Or she’s just a gross baby,” Willow adds, voice carrying pure affection. “Uncle Darian, want to hear me play?”
“After dinner,” Zara interjects. “Let him settle in first.”
I wink at Willow. “I’m all yours after dinner,” I tell her despite Zara saying as much.
But I’m settling into this house in a way that surprises me.
The warmth, the easy affection between people who’ve chosen to be a family—it’s everything I avoided in LA.
It’s everything Zara and I didn’t have before.
In Los Angeles, it was like color didn’t exist. Everything had to be stark white or dreary black, and here, life is full of color.
Dinner happens around the massive oak table Levi built himself, with Poppy in her highchair creating abstract art with mashed sweet potatoes while the rest of us navigate family conversations.
School stories from the girls, tour planning between Zara and Levi with Zara suggesting Levi tour only on the weekends so she and the girls can go with him.
There’s a gentle teasing between them, coupled with soft looks of longing and desire. Briefly, I wonder if I’ll ever be in a place in my life where this is the norm.
“Uncle Darian are you listening?”
I shake my thoughts clear and nod. Willow tells me about her art teacher and does what Levi calls an uncanny impression of him. I laugh, right along with everyone at the table.
Poppy snorts and then blows mashed sweet potatoes out of her nose.
When it’s Stormy’s turn, she talks about friendship drama that sounds an awful lot like band drama.
The three of us—me, Levi and Zara—all offer Stormy a different perspective.
Zara and I were popular in school, but our parents weren’t famous.
I can’t imagine what it’s like for Stormy and Willow.
Not only is Levi one of the top country music stars, but their stepmom is Zara.
Everyone in the industry is waiting to see if she switches to country or comes back to her pop/rock roots.
Me, I’m everyone.
I listen to Levi talk about the new foal born last week, and how he can’t wait to teach Poppy how to ride. I’ve yet to get on a horse, but according to my sister, it’s easy, and I’m going to love it.
And then I’m watching my sister and how she multitasks from making sure Poppy is okay in her highchair, to giving her undivided attention to Stormy, Willow, and Levi every time they talk. They do the same for her.
Normal. This is what normal families do. They gather around tables and share food and stories with the people who know each other’s worst qualities and choose to love each other anyway.
“Earth to Darian.” Zara’s voice cuts through my observation. “You’re doing that thing where you analyze instead of participating.”
“I’m participating.”