Chapter 10 Rye #2
But every line I write sounds like justification, like I’m trying to convince myself that isolation is noble instead of cowardly.
I tear out page after page, balling them up and throwing them across the room until my floor looks like a paper snowstorm.
The sight of crumpled lyrics scattered around my feet triggers a memory without warning.
Five years ago. Different apartment, different notebook, same feeling of intimacy turned sour.
His name was Gage Sharp, and he had the kind of smile that made you forget to be careful. We met at an open mic night downtown, two struggling songwriters who bonded over terrible coffee and shared dreams of making it big. When he suggested we try writing together, it made sense.
For three months, we met twice a week at his place or mine, crafting songs that felt like conversations between souls.
I’d bring melodies and half-formed verses, he’d add bridges and polish the rough edges.
Our voices blended beautifully, and I started to believe that maybe I’d found my creative soulmate.
The song that broke everything was called “Phoenix Rise.” I’d written it after a particularly bad night, when Lily was still small and I was struggling to balance single motherhood with my dreams of musical success.
The lyrics were deeply personal, drawing from my experience of rebuilding myself after abandonment.
Gage loved it immediately. Said it was the best thing we’d written together, that it had commercial potential. He wanted to workshop it more, maybe pitch it to some industry contacts he claimed to have.
But somewhere between creative partnership and stolen songs, lines got blurred. Late night writing sessions turned into wine and confessions. Confessions turned into his hands in my hair, his mouth promising things his actions would never deliver.
I should have been suspicious when he started meeting with those contacts without me.
Should have questioned why he needed to take the demo home “for reference” when we always worked together.
I should have trusted the uneasy feeling in my gut when he became evasive about the timeline and next steps.
Instead, I trusted him with my music and my body. Right up until I heard “Phoenix Rise” on the radio six months later, performed by a rising country star and credited solely to Gage Sharp.
The worst part wasn’t the theft itself, though that felt like being gutted with a rusty knife.
The worst part was how he justified it when I confronted him.
Said the song was “inspired by our collaboration” but ultimately his vision.
That my contribution was more emotional than creative, and emotion couldn’t be copyrighted.
What he didn’t say—but what his smirk implied—was that sleeping with me had been part of the creative process. Just another way to mine material from my life.
I blink back to the present, my notebook still open to the unfinished song about Darian.
The parallel is obvious and terrifying. Another talented musician interested in getting close to me.
Another situation where I’ve opened myself up completely, offering pieces of my body and soul without guarantee of protection.
The smart thing would be to learn from history. To recognize the pattern and extract myself before I get used again.
My phone buzzes with another text, and I reach for it despite my better judgment.
Playing at The Blue Note tomorrow night. Nothing fancy, just me and a guitar. Would love to see you there.
I type and delete responses for ten minutes. I’ll be there. Delete. I can’t. Delete. We need to talk. Delete.
Finally, I set the phone aside without responding at all.
The sound of Lily’s key in the lock makes me quickly gather up the scattered papers, shove the notebook under my bed, and rush to meet her at the front door. The bus driver leaves after I wave.
“Hey, baby. How was camp?” I ask as we make our way into the kitchen. She dumps her backpack onto the bench and sits down.
“Camp was boring. The music part was fun, but my day was even better when I went to Benny’s for my lesson. He’s so cool and the name of his place is rad. Have you been there?”
My stomach seizes. Rattlesnake Guitars. Darian.
“Yep. Rattlesnake Guitars. I know Benny. He’s a great teacher.” I’m thankful she can’t see my expression because she wouldn’t understand it and I don’t want her to think I don’t like Benny. He’s the least of my worries. It’s his upstairs tenant that has my stomach in knots.
I slice up an apple, add some granola to a cup of yogurt and bring it over to her.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“Of what?”
“Of me taking lessons from Benny?”
“I think it’s a great idea.” I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her even if it means I have to see the man upstairs. I know I’m being silly. No matter how hard I try, I won’t be able to ignore him.
“Are you sad about something, Mama?”
The question catches me off guard. Lily’s always been intuitive, but lately she seems to see straight through every protective facade I construct.
“Not sad, exactly. Just thinking about work stuff.”
“Is the venue okay?”
“The venue’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push either. Sometimes I think she understands the fragility of my emotional state better than I do.
“Can we make dinner together? I want to try that pasta thing we saw on TV.”
“Of course.” I stand and follow her toward the kitchen, grateful for the distraction of normal domestic routine.
I text Gus to let him know I’ll be late. Making dinner with my daughter is far more important to me right now.
We cook together, laughing at my failed attempts to twirl spaghetti properly, part of my mind stays trapped in the memory of Gage’s betrayal. The way intimacy became ammunition. And in the growing certainty that letting Darian touch me was a risk I can’t afford to have taken.
When an alarm sounds on my phone, Lily sighs heavily.
“What’s wrong?”
She shrugs. “I wish you could stay home.”
“Me too, but it’s my job,” I tell her as I meet her gaze. “How about since it’s Friday, you come with me? You can sit at one of the tables and pretend you’re a music critic.”
Her eyes light up with so much happiness. “Yes!”
On our way, I call my mom to let her know Lily’s coming to work with me. I text Jovie and Gus as well, so they know to keep everyone on their best behavior. Thank God the music is mostly clean, and no one will be biting the head off a bat tonight.
Back at The Songbird, I look out at the crowd, and smile.
Three bands will perform tonight, to a packed crowd.
I love every part of it. After setting Lily up with a Shirley Temple, a notepad, and a bowl of popcorn, I make my rounds.
Doing everything I can to forget about my tryst with Darian.
It was a mistake, and it won’t happen again.
From this point forward, any relationship between us is strictly professional.
I take my phone out and look at his texts. They’re innocent and there’s a part of me that feels bad. I’m too messed up and damaged to bring him down with me.
I can’t make it tomorrow. Sorry.
I hit send and immediately pocket my phone.
His response comes five minutes later: I understand.
Two words that somehow contain more disappointment than a paragraph of accusations would have. I stare at the message until the letters lose meaning, then delete the entire conversation thread.
This is for the best.