Chapter 17 Darian
darian
. . .
My car idles outside The Songbird while I try to find the words for what I’m about to ask.
Three days have passed since Rye and I finished the song, since she drew lines in the sand and I agreed to respect them.
Three days of keeping distance while the melody we created together won’t shut up in my head.
But sitting in Zara’s kitchen yesterday, watching her fold baby clothes while Stormy and Willow argued over who knows what and Levi came in from the barn smelling like horses and hay, something clicked.
The easy intimacy of a family that chooses each other daily, the way they’ve built something real and lasting without the industry’s toxic bullshit—I want Rye to see that.
I want her to understand what I’m falling toward.
The song we wrote captures something raw and true between us, even if she insists on treating it like a business transaction. Two harmonies finding each other, creating something neither voice could manage alone. What we built together sounds like the beginning of something, not an ending.
My phone buzzes with a text from Zara: Ranch dinner Sunday. Bring Rye.
I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Zara doesn’t invite people lightly. She’s protective of the life she and Levi have created, careful about who gets access to their sanctuary.
The fact that she’s asking about Rye means she’s been listening to my not-so-subtle questions about family dynamics and reading between the lines.
She’s not exactly the family dinner type.
Neither were you. Bring her anyway.
It’s complicated.
Everything good is complicated. Sunday at six.
I lock my phone and stare at the venue’s windows. Light glows from inside where Rye’s probably doing inventory or cleaning things that don’t need cleaning, using work to avoid thinking about us. I’ve learned that’s how she copes with stress.
The memory hits me suddenly: three days ago, watching her lean into the microphone during our final recording session.
Eyes closed, voice finding every nuance of the melody we’d crafted together.
For four minutes and thirty-seven seconds, all her barriers disappeared.
Just two people creating something that mattered.
Then the song ended, and she was back to business. “That’s good. We’re done.”
But the way she touched my back as I packed up my guitar suggested maybe we weren’t quite done. Maybe she felt it too—the pull toward something deeper than collaboration.
I grab my guitar case and head toward the venue entrance. Jovie holds the door open with her hip while she carries out trash bags, purple streaks in her hair catching the late afternoon light.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she says, grinning. “Thought you’d disappeared after your recording session.”
“Just giving her space.”
“Space.” Jovie sets down the bags and crosses her arms. “You musicians are all the same. Create something beautiful with a woman and then vanish.”
“I’m not vanishing. I’m right here.”
“Because you want something.”
She’s not wrong. “Is she inside?”
“Making herself busy with things that don’t need doing. Sound familiar?” Jovie studies my face. “You’re good for her, you know. First time I’ve seen her happy in years.”
“We’re just making music.”
“Bullshit. She played me the song. That’s not just music, honey. That’s two people who can’t keep their damn hands off each other.”
My face goes hot. “Jovie—”
“Don’t Jovie me. I’ve known Rye for a long time, watched her build defenses so high she forgot what sunlight felt like.
Then you walk in here with your guitar and your puppy dog eyes, and suddenly she’s humming again.
” Jovie leans closer. “Whatever you’re here to ask her, the answer’s probably yes. She’s just too scared to say it.”
Inside, The Songbird sits empty except for Rye crouched behind the bar, organizing bottles that were probably already organized. She looks up when the door chimes, going guarded the second she sees me.
“We’re closed.”
“I know.” I set my guitar case against the wall. “Wanted to talk to you about something.”
“If it’s about the song, we already—”
“It’s not about the song.” I approach the bar slowly, giving her space to maintain distance if she needs it. “It’s about this weekend.”
“What about this weekend?”
“My family wants to meet you.”
The bottle in her hand freezes halfway to the shelf. “Your family.”
“Zara and Levi are having dinner at the ranch Sunday.”
“Levi Austin is your brother-in-law.”
Rye says this as if it’s news.
I nod.
“I Googled you,” she says. “I didn’t mean to, but I did because I was curious.
I don’t know why I didn’t put it together sooner.
I know Levi . . . well, of him. He was a star long before I started working here, and I remember him marrying a rock chick from LA, but I never realized his wife was your sister. ”
“She’s still my sister,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. Rye doesn’t smile. “Anyway, they invited both of us.”
“Both of us.” She sets the bottle down carefully. “As in, together.”
“As in two people who’ve been spending time together and might want to get to know each other better.”
“We established boundaries, Darian.”
“And I’m respecting them. This isn’t about crossing lines. It’s about . . .” I search for the right words. “You met my body. Maybe it’s time to meet my people.”
A laugh escapes her, sharp and surprised. “Did you just quote a country song to me?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“No.” But her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. “I don’t do family dinners.”
“Why not?”
“Because families ask questions. They have opinions. They get attached.” She resumes her organizing with unnecessary precision. “And because what we have doesn’t require meeting anyone’s family.”
“What do we have?”
The question hangs between us while she arranges bottles alphabetically for the third time this week. I wait, watching her jaw work like she’s chewing words she doesn’t want to swallow.
“A finished song,” she says finally. “That’s what we have.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“Rye.” I lean forward, elbows on the bar. “Look at me.”
She does, reluctantly. Her eyes carry the same wariness I’ve seen since that first night, like she’s always calculating escape routes.
“The song is finished,” I agree. “But this isn’t.”
“This what?”
“Whatever’s happening between us that has nothing to do with music and everything to do with the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”
She flushes. “I don’t—”
“You do. Same way I look at you.” I keep my voice gentle, non-threatening. “Same way we looked at each other when we were recording and forgot there was a world outside that booth.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the bar’s worn wood surface. “Meeting your family implies things.”
“Like what?”
“Like we’re building toward something. Like this matters beyond convenience and chemistry.”
“Doesn’t it?”
The question sits heavy between us. Her face cycles through emotions—want, fear, resignation, hope. She’s been hurt before, badly enough to make her believe that caring leads to losing. But something tells me she’s tired of those defenses, tired of playing it safe.
“I have a daughter,” she says suddenly as if this is an excuse she uses often.
“I know.”
“She’s ten. Musical. Brilliant. The most important thing in my life.”
“I know that too.” I suspect she’s everything like her mom.
“I can’t bring chaos into her world.”
“Do I look like chaos to you?”
She studies my face for a long moment. “You look like everything I told myself I couldn’t want.”
The admission hits me square in the gut. Raw and honest and brave in a way that makes me want to reach across the bar and touch her hand.
“One dinner,” I say instead. “No implications, no expectations. Just good food and people who care about me meeting someone who . . .” I pause, choosing words carefully. “Someone who matters.”
“I matter?”
“You know you do.”
She’s quiet again, the debate playing out across her features. Fear wars with curiosity, safety battles against the possibility of connection.
“What’s your daughter’s name?” I ask suddenly.
“What?”
“Your daughter. You’ve never told me her name.”
Surprise flickers in her eyes. “Lily.”
“Lily.” I test the name, let it settle. “My nieces are Stormy, Willow and Poppy. Poppy is the baby, babbles, drools and makes a mess everywhere. Stormy is a dancer and has been in a handful of music videos. It’s how my sister met Levi. Willow is a musician. I’m teaching her how to play the guitar.”
“Lily writes songs and is learning to play the guitar. In fact, she’s taking lessons from Benny,” Rye adds with pride in her eyes.
“She takes lessons from Benny?”
Rye nods. “He’s the best and she deserves it. She wrote and sang an original piece for her summer camp. She was terrified and brilliant.”
“I bet she gets that from her mom.”
“Gets what?”
“The terrified and brilliant part. The part that creates beauty even when it’s scary.”
Something shifts in her expression, defenses lowering just slightly. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“I know you well enough to know you write lyrics in the margins of inventory sheets when you think no one’s looking.
I know you hum harmony lines while you’re cleaning, unconscious melodies that are usually better than most professional songwriters manage on purpose.
” I lean forward. “I know you touched my back when I left the other night because part of you didn’t want me to go. ”
“Observation skills.”
“Experience.”
She turns away, starts wiping down clean glasses with deliberate focus. “Your family won’t like me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m complicated. Because I come with baggage and boundaries and a child who needs stability.”
“You think that disqualifies you from dinner?”
“I think it disqualifies me from whatever you’re hoping this becomes.”
“What am I hoping this becomes?”