Chapter 17 Darian #2
She sets down the glass and finally meets my eyes. “Something I can’t give you.”
“What if I’m not asking for anything you can’t give?”
“Everyone asks for more than they say they want.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“No,” she agrees quietly. “You’re not.”
We stare at each other across the bar, two people who’ve said too much and not enough. I can see her calculating risks, weighing the safety of solitude against the possibility of connection.
“One dinner,” I say again. “If it’s awful, you never have to see them again. If it’s not . . .” I shrug. “We’ll figure out what comes next.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“And Lily?”
“What about her?”
“If I meet your family, and she starts asking questions about where I went and who I was with . . .”
“Tell her the truth. That you had dinner with friends.”
“Are we friends?”
The question carries weight, implication. I consider it seriously, thinking about the easy intimacy of our recording sessions, the way she trusts me with her music even when she won’t trust me with anything else.
“I hope we’re more than that,” I say honestly. “But if friends is where you’re comfortable starting, then we’re friends.”
She nods slowly, like she’s making a decision that scares her. “Sunday.”
“Sunday.”
“What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at five. It’s a forty-minute drive to the ranch.”
“I can drive myself.”
“You could. But then I’d spend the whole night wondering if you’d bolt halfway through dinner.”
“I might bolt anyway.”
“At least if we drive together, I can try to talk you out of it. And if you decide to bolt during dinner, Levi has a couple horses. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you saddled one up and took it to the city.”
A real smile breaks across her face, the first genuine one I’ve seen in days. She paused for a long time, and I swear I could see the wheels turning in her head.
“If I go, what should I expect?”
“Chaos. Laughter. Levi grilling steaks that are too big for human consumption. Stormy asking inappropriate questions about our relationship status. Willow playing guitar until someone makes her stop. Zara watching everything like she’s taking notes for later interrogation.”
“Sounds overwhelming.”
“It is. But it’s also . . .” I search for the right word. “Home. Family. They’re why I’m here and not sitting in some bar, nursing my wounds in Los Angeles or . . .” I shrug.
“Sunday,” she says again, like she’s testing the word.
“Sunday.”
“Five o’clock.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Five o’clock.”
Sunday arrives gray and humid, the kind of Tennessee afternoon that promises storms later. I pull up outside The Songbird at exactly five o’clock, palms sweating against the steering wheel like I’m seventeen again and picking up my first date.
The venue sits dark and quiet. I’m reaching for my phone to text Rye when she appears from the side entrance, locking the door behind her.
She’s wearing a sundress the color of faded denim, hair loose around her shoulders instead of the practical ponytail she wears at work. She looks nervous and beautiful and like she’s already regretting this decision.
“You’re early,” she says, walking toward the car.
“Actually, I’m exactly on time. You’re ready early.”
“Second thoughts?”
“Third and fourth thoughts. But I’m here.”
“That’s what matters.”
The drive to the ranch passes in comfortable silence broken by occasional directions and observations about the changing landscape. Rye watches the countryside roll past her window, and I catch myself stealing glances at her profile when traffic allows.
“Tell me about them,” she says when we turn onto the gravel road leading to Levi’s property. “Your family. What should I know?”
“Zara’s going to study you like you’re a song she’s trying to learn. She’s protective, especially since everything that happened with Van.”
“Van?”
“You Googled me, but didn’t read about Van?”
Rye lifts her shoulder.
“Do you remember when we were working on the song and I told you about my best friend, and former bandmate? The one I considered my brother?” I don’t wait for her to answer before continuing. “That’s Van, Zara’s ex. She caught him cheating.”
“Like hired a PI?”
I shake my head and navigate around a pothole. “No, caught in the act, in our publicist’s office with the publicist’s assistant. It was messy. Van wasn’t loyal. He betrayed my sister. Me. Just an overall shitty human. The point is, Zara’s careful about who gets close to people she loves.”
“And she loves you.”
“Despite all evidence to the contrary, yes.”
Rye stares at the house rising in front of us. Modern farmhouse style with wraparound porches and skylights, surrounded by white fencing that stretches toward rolling hills dotted with horses.
“This is beautiful,” she says quietly.
“Wait until you see the inside.”
“Darian.” Her hand finds my arm as I reach for the door handle. “What if this goes badly?”
“Then we leave early and get ice cream on the way home.”
“And if it goes well?”
“Then we figure out what comes next.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“Best I can do.”
She takes a deep breath, gathering courage. “Okay. Let’s meet your family.”
The front door opens before we reach the porch steps. Stormy appears, all long legs and attitude, wearing cutoff shorts and a tank top that shows off her dancer’s posture.
“Hey,” Stormy says as she holds the door open for us.
“Stormy,” I say as I guide Rye up the stairs. “This is Rye Hayes. Rye, this is my niece, Stormy Austin.”
Much to my surprise, Stormy grins from ear-to-ear. “It’s nice to meet you,” she says as she shakes Rye’s hand. “My friend played a showcase at your bar and signed with a producer she met there.”
“Nice to meet you, Stormy. Thank you for sharing that story. I love hearing all the happy that comes from The Songbird.”
“Dad’s grilling enough food to feed Nashville, and Z’s . . . well she’s doing what she does best.”
“Pacing?” I ask.
Stormy nods. “Always pacing.”
“It’s a bad habit,” I tell her and Rye. “She’s always done it.”
Inside, music plays from hidden speakers, something instrumental and soothing. The scent of grilled meat drifts from the back patio.
“Family’s here!” Stormy calls out.
Footsteps approach from multiple directions. Zara appears first, wiping her hands on a dish towel, followed by Levi carrying baby Poppy on his hip. Willow trails behind, still holding her guitar.
“Rye,” Zara steps forward with a smile that looks genuine but assessing. “I’m Zara. Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for having me.” Rye accepts Zara’s quick hug with surprising grace. “Your home is beautiful.”
“Levi built most of it himself. He’s annoyingly talented that way.”
Levi grins, adjusting Poppy’s position. “Welcome to our home, Rye. I’m Levi, and this little princess is Poppy.”
Poppy stares at Rye with the serious expression babies use when deciding whether someone passes inspection. She rests her head on Levi’s shoulder and smiles.
“I’m Willow.”
“Hi, Willow. I think you’re about my daughter’s age.”
Willow leans to the side to look around Rye. “Where’s your daughter?”
“With her grandma.”
“Why didn’t you bring her?”
Rye opens her mouth to say something, but is cut off by Willow, who shrugs. “Next time,” she says. “We have horses, ATVs, and a pool. It’d be fun.”
I try not to smirk, but it’s almost like I told Rye this would be easy.
“Come in or outside,” Zara says as she wrings her hands together. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine,” Rye says.
“Wine it is,” Zara heads toward the kitchen while I direct Rye to the patio, which stretches across the full width of the house, furnished with comfortable seating and a massive grill where enough steaks sizzle to feed a small army.
String lights create golden pools in the gathering dusk, and the view extends to rolling hills where horses graze in distant pastures.
“This is incredible,” Rye says, settling into a chair. “How long have you lived here?”
“Construction started when Stormy was a baby, so probably fourteen years,” Levi answers, checking the steaks. “Bought the land after my second album went platinum. Always wanted space for the girls to grow up with room to breathe.”
“I get that,” Rye says quietly.
“Dad says you find talent?” Willow asks as she sits down with her guitar.
“Not exactly,” Rye says. “I manage a place called The Songbird. Artists come in, play their songs for a writer’s showcase. They’re trying to sell their songs to a producer or other artists. And bands play on the weekends.”
“I should probably sign up,” Willow says so matter-of-factly that we all burst out laughing. She looks at us, as if we’ve got five heads each.
“What?”
“Something tells me that between me, Zara, and Darian, you won’t need a showcase to find a producer.”
“You’re a nepo baby,” Stormy adds.
Willow sticks her tongue out at her sister. “If I’m one, so are you.”
Stormy rolls her eyes.
“Meeeeee . . .” Poppy babbles and claps her hands. She gets down from Levi’s lap and waddles over to me, standing between me and Rye, but looking at Rye.
“I think she likes you,” I say quietly to Rye.
Her eyes meet mine and I want to tell her that Poppy’s uncle likes her too, but I don’t. Family dinner is enough for right now.