Chapter 10 Rye
rye
. . .
The last time I sat in this corner booth at Maggie’s Diner was three months ago when the venue’s air conditioning died and I needed somewhere cool to work on the books. Today I’m here because I can’t bring myself to walk through the front door of The Songbird.
My laptop screen glows under the dim overhead light, and the cracked vinyl seat pinches my bare legs.
Spreadsheets and booking forms spread across the table like I’m conducting important business.
But my fingers hover motionless above the keyboard, and my eyes drift absently to the coffee in my cup which has grown cold while I stare.
Staring at nothing is better than reliving the past two hours. The way Darian’s hands felt on my skin. The sound he made when I touched him. How he looked at me like I was something precious right before I came undone beneath him.
I should be at the venue. Friday afternoons are for inventory and sound checks, for making sure everything’s ready for the weekend rush.
Instead, I’m avoiding my own business like it might bite me, sitting in a diner that smells like bacon grease and disappointment.
I look around at the others in here, heads bent, earphones on.
To someone on the outside, these people look like anyone else you’d see at a twenty-four-hour diner.
To me, they’re musicians, all waiting for the next call, their next moment to shine.
My phone buzzes. Jovie’s name flashes on the screen along with a text that makes my stomach clench.
Where the hell are you? Gus is asking about tonight’s setup and I don’t have answers.
I type three different responses and delete them all.
What am I supposed to say? That I can’t face him after what we just did?
That I can still feel him between my legs and it terrifies me?
That the way he whispered my name against my throat made me want things I’ve spent years convincing myself I don’t need, so I fucking bailed when he got up to use the bathroom?
The bell above the diner door chimes, and I look up to see Jovie striding toward my table with the kind of purposeful walk that means trouble. Her purple hair catches fluorescent light as she slides into the seat across from me, fixing me with a stare that could melt steel.
“Really?” She gestures at my laptop setup. “You’re running The Songbird from a diner booth now?”
“At least I’m working.” I give her a pointed look since she’s technically the one not working.
“You’re playing hooky from your own business.” She flags down our waitress and orders coffee without breaking eye contact. “The question is, why?”
I close my laptop with more force than necessary. “There’s no question,” I say. “I needed a change of scenery.”
“Bullshit. In three years I’ve worked with you, you’ve never missed a Friday prep session.
Not when you had the flu, not when your mama was in the hospital, not even when that water pipe burst and flooded the storage room.
” Jovie leans back as the waitress sets down her coffee. “So what’s different about today?”
The honest answer sits in my throat like swallowed glass. Everything’s different because I let him inside me. Because this afternoon, I forgot every lesson I’ve learned about keeping people at arm’s length.
“Nothing’s different.”
Jovie’s laugh lacks any humor. “Try again.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation for how I run my business.”
“No, but you owe me honesty about why you’re acting like someone who’s afraid of her own shadow.” She adds sugar to her coffee with deliberate movements. “This about the musician? Darian?”
Heat climbs my neck because of course she knows. Jovie reads people like sheet music, catching every subtle change in key.
“Everything isn’t about men.”
“No, but this is.” She takes a sip and watches me over the rim of her cup. “What happened?”
I could lie. Should lie. Keep this mess contained instead of spreading it around like some kind of emotional infection. But Jovie’s been watching me self-destruct for two days, covering for my absence, probably fielding questions I should be answering myself.
“We slept together,” I mumble, incoherently.
Jovie blinks. “That’s it?”
“That’s enough.”
“Rye, you’re a grown woman. You’re allowed to have sex.”
“Not like this.” The admission comes out sharper, louder than intended. I glance at the other patrons, looking to see who’s watching us. “This was different,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Different how?”
I stare at the table, tracing the pattern in the laminate with my finger. How do I explain that being with Darian felt like coming home to a place I’ve never been? That the way he touched me, looked at me, made me feel like I was worth worshipping instead of just using?
“It just was.”
Jovie sets down her cup hard enough to make the table shake. “You know what? I’m tired of this.”
“Tired of what?”
“Tired of watching you punish yourself for wanting things. Tired of pretending like you don’t deserve good things in your life. Tired of you acting like being happy is some kind of betrayal.”
Her words sting. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” She leans forward, voice dropping to the tone she uses when she’s done being patient. “From the moment he walked into The Songbird, you’ve been captivated by him. Maybe it’s the way he smiles, or the brooding rocker look that has you all giddy. Either way, if you got yours, who cares.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.” Jovie lifts her shoulder as if sleeping with someone who could be considered a random stranger is no big deal.
I open my mouth and close it again, because how do I explain that letting him see me naked felt more vulnerable than any song I’ve ever written? How do I tell her that every time I let someone close enough to touch my body, they end up taking pieces of my soul I can’t afford to lose?
“I need to get back to work.” I start gathering my papers, shoving them into my bag without organizing them.
“Running away won’t fix this.”
“I’m not running away. I’m protecting my business.”
“From what? From someone who might actually give a damn about more than just getting between your legs?”
The question stops me cold because it cuts too close to truth I’m not ready to examine. I finish packing my laptop and stand, tossing bills on the table for my untouched meal.
“Tell Gus I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Rye—”
“One hour.”
I’m halfway to my car before Jovie yells after me. “Whatever happened before, it doesn’t mean it’ll happen again.”
I don’t turn around because we both know that’s not how trauma works. Past betrayal doesn’t guarantee future betrayal, but it sure as hell teaches you to recognize the warning signs. And right now, every instinct I’ve developed over the last decade is screaming danger.
The drive back to my house takes longer than it should because I keep making wrong turns, my mind replaying not Jovie’s words but the memory of Darian’s mouth on mine.
The way he said my name, like it was a prayer.
How gentle his hands were even when I was anything but gentle with him.
By the time I pull into my driveway, my hands are shaking, and my chest feels so tight, it’s going to explode.
Lily’s still at camp, which gives me some time alone with my thoughts. The most logical thing to do is shower, to scrub away the lingering scent of Darian’s cologne.
But then I can’t smell him on my body, my clothes.
Instead, I find myself sitting on my bedroom floor with my guitar and a notebook, trying to write my way out of the emotional maze I’ve constructed.
The first chord sounds hollow in my room. I try to find a melody that matches what I’m feeling, but everything comes out fractured and incomplete. Like trying to capture lightning in a mason jar.
I write down three words and scratch them out. Start a verse and tear out the page. The notebook fills with false starts and frustrated scribbles, each failed attempt a reminder that I’m better at running venues than I am at processing emotions.
Maybe that’s all I’m good for.
The thought appears unbidden, bitter and familiar. It tastes like every doubt I’ve swallowed over the years, every time I’ve chosen safety over risk, management over vulnerability.
I flip to a fresh page and try again.
Running from the feel of gentle hands Like they might expose what I’ve been hiding
The words flow easier this time, honest in a way that makes my throat tight. I keep writing, letting the verses spill out without editing, without judgment.
Built these walls so high I can’t see over
Forgot what it feels like to be held
But his touch found every broken place in me
And I remembered what I used to need
I stop writing and stare at the page. The lyrics are raw, unpolished, probably terrible. But they’re mine in a way that feels dangerous and necessary.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I reach for it automatically. Darian’s name on the screen makes my pulse spike.
Hope you’re okay. Your sweater is still here if you want it back.
The casual mention of my sweater—evidence of how quickly I fled—makes my stomach twist with shame. I stare at the message for a full minute, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Five different responses form and dissolve before I type anything.
Keep it.
I hit send before I can change my mind, then immediately want to take it back. The typing indicator shows he’s responding, and I hold my breath waiting for his reply.
Rye, what we did—
I stare at the words he’s unable to finish. I delete three attempts at answers and type: Was a mistake.
This time his response takes longer.
If you say so.
The resignation in those four words cuts deeper than anger would have. I set the phone aside and return to my notebook, trying to lose myself in lyrics that make sense of the chaos in my head.