Chapter 18 Rye
rye
. . .
I wake up at six thirty without an alarm, sunlight barely touching the edges of my blackout curtains. My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark, and I reach for it out of habit before stopping myself.
Not today.
Today I’m going to be Lily’s mom. Just that. No emails, no venue emergencies, no thoughts about musicians with calloused fingers and voices that make my chest tighten. No Darian. No work. Just me and my girl.
I’ve been a terrible mother for weeks. Every time I catch Lily watching me with careful eyes, I know she’s learned to predict when I’ll be distracted or unavailable. She shouldn’t have to work around my moods.
I slip out of bed and pad to the kitchen in bare feet, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator with purpose.
Real breakfast. Not drive-through bags or toaster pastries grabbed on the way out the door, but actual eggs and bacon and pancakes from scratch.
The kind of breakfast that requires presence and attention and the luxury of time.
The coffee maker gurgles to life as I crack eggs into a mixing bowl. Lily’s favorite pancakes require buttermilk and vanilla, a recipe my mom taught me during one of her extended stays after Lily was born. I haven’t made them in months.
The bacon sizzles in the cast-iron skillet when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Lily appears in the doorway wearing pajamas covered in musical notes, hair sticking up everywhere.
“You’re cooking,” she observes, voice thick with sleep and surprise.
“I am.”
“Real cooking. With the stove and everything.”
“Yep.” I flip the bacon, letting the grease pop and hiss. “And we’re having a day. Just us.”
Lily approaches slowly. She’s learned not to trust my big plans because I start excited and quit fast.
“What about The Songbird?”
“Jovie can handle it.”
“What about your meetings?”
“Rescheduled them.”
She climbs onto the bar stool at the kitchen island, tucking her feet under herself. “What about . . .?”
“What about nothing. Today is about you and me. No phones, no work, no distractions.” I pour pancake batter onto the griddle, watching bubbles form on the surface. “We’re going to get our nails done, maybe do some shopping, see where the day takes us.”
“Really?”
The hope in her voice hurts. When did my complete attention become something special instead of normal?
“Really.”
Lily watches me cook with complete focus. She’s memorizing this moment because she knows it might not happen again.
We eat breakfast at the kitchen table instead of the bar counter, talking about camp and her upcoming recital and the book she’s reading about a girl who finds a magical guitar. Normal conversation that doesn’t require careful navigation around my moods or scheduling around my availability.
“Where do you want to go first?” I ask, collecting our empty plates.
“Can we get our nails done at that place with the music names?”
“The Painted Note?”
“Yeah. The one with all the cool designs.”
“Absolutely.”
An hour later, we’re settled into pedicure chairs at the boutique salon downtown, Lily’s feet soaking in warm, bubbly water while she flips through a design book.
The Painted Note specializes in music-themed nail art, everything from tiny instruments to musical notation painted with precision across nails.
“I want these,” Lily announces, pointing to a set of silver nails decorated with miniature treble clefs. “Can I really get them?”
“Of course.”
She grins with the kind of happiness I haven’t seen from her in weeks. The nail technician, a woman with purple streaks in her hair and rings on every finger, settles at Lily’s feet and gets to work.
I chose a matte navy base with a single starburst on my ring finger, something subtle but different from my usual clear polish. The manicurist works with quiet efficiency while Lily chatters about camp and friends and whether she thinks the treble clefs will show up well in photos.
“Mom, look.” Lily holds up her hands, silver polish shining under the lights. The tiny treble clefs look like real silver.
“They’re beautiful.”
“Now you.”
I extend my hands, looking at the navy polish with its single point of light. “What do you think?”
“I think they look like you. Pretty but not trying too hard.”
Her comment stings. When did my daughter learn to analyze how much effort it takes me to function?
After the salon, we walk to the smoothie place two blocks away, Lily admiring her nails every few steps. She orders a strawberry banana concoction while I get mango passion fruit. We sit at a small table by the window, watching Nashville go about its Saturday afternoon business.
“This is nice,” Lily says, stirring her smoothie with a biodegradable straw.
“Which part?”
“All of it. But mostly that you’re not checking your phone.”
Another punch to the gut. I reach across the table and squeeze her hand.
“I’m sorry I do that so much.”
“It’s okay. You have important work.”
“Nothing’s more important than you.”
She meets my eyes, checking if I’m lying. “Sometimes it feels like everything is more important than me.”
Her honesty stops me cold. Not angry, just factual. My ten-year-old stating facts about where she ranks in my life.
“That’s going to change,” I tell her. “Starting today.”
“Okay.”
We finish our smoothies in comfortable silence, and then Lily surprises me.
“Can we go look at guitars?”
“Guitars?”
“Now that I’m learning, I think I’d like to have my own,” Lily says with a shrug. “Benny always has one for me, but I’d like to practice at home.”
“You can always use mine.”
She eyes me for a second and then nods.
“Actually, you’re right,” I tell her. “You do need your own. I was about your age when I got my first acoustic.”
Her eyes brighten.
“Really?”
I nod, despite my stomach clenching. Although this feeling is different. It’s not dread, or panic. It’s recognition. This isn’t random curiosity. Lily is asking to connect with the part of me I’ve hidden. I need to embrace this part of her. This part of myself.
“Sure. Let’s go to Rattlesnake Guitars.”
Now my stomach tightens, but for a different reason–Darian. I’ve been so focused on shutting him out today, on being present for Lily, and now I’m voluntarily walking into his building. But Lily’s face lights up with excitement, and I can’t take it back without explaining why.
Twenty minutes later, we push through the heavy glass door of Benny’s shop.
The smell of wood polish and guitar strings hits me immediately, bringing back memories I’ve worked hard to bury.
Benny looks up from the counter where he’s restringing an acoustic, his silver hair catching the afternoon light.
“Rye Hayes,” he says, setting down his tools. “Haven’t seen you in here for years. Thank you for getting her in here.” Benny winks at Lily. I eye them both, wondering if this was some sort of trap.
Benny crouches down, making himself shorter than Lily. He looks at me, with an evil little smirk playing on his lips. “Did you know, your mama used to play around town back in the day. Beautiful voice.” He winks at me. “What brings you ladies in today?”
“Someone,” I say as I run my hand down Lily’s hair. “Would like to buy her first guitar.”
“You know I have the rental program, Rye.”
I nod, appreciative that he’s trying to save me money. “I know, but I think Lily’s ready. She’s a star in the making.”
“That she is,” Benny says as he directs Lily–not me–toward the wall of acoustics.
“Come on over here and let’s see what feels right,” Benny tells Lily.
He stops in front of a wall lined with smaller guitars.
“Now, these are all junior acoustics. See how they’re not as big as the full-size ones?
That’s so your arms don’t have to stretch too far.
This is what you’ve been learning on.” He points to different models.
Lily nods, studying each guitar seriously.
“Body size matters too,” Benny continues, tapping the curved wood. “Smaller body means it won’t feel like you’re wrestling with the thing. And the neck width - see how some are a little thicker than others? Depends on your hand size.”
“Can I touch one?” Lily asks.
“That’s the whole point,” Benny grins. “You can’t buy a guitar without getting to know it first.”
“Can I try one?” she asks finally.
“That’s what they’re here for.”
Benny lifts down a Taylor Baby acoustic, the wood warm and honey-colored under the shop lights. He shows Lily how to hold it, how to position her hands, how to support the neck without gripping too tightly.
Lily takes her choice over to the stool and sits down. I don't know what I was expecting, but what I heard wasn’t it. Her fingers aren’t clumsy or fumbling for position. They’re poised, perfect, and the sound is fairly smooth for someone who’s learning.
“Try this one,” Benny suggests, adjusting her fingering. “D major. Nice and simple. We aren’t quiet there in our lessons but we’re getting there.”
Lily strums again. The sound is clean. She grins up at me, excitement radiating from every part of her and continues to play what Benny’s taught her.
Benny catches my eye over Lily’s head and nods slightly. This one’s got it.
“What do you think?” I ask Lily after twenty minutes of exploration. “Is this the one or do you want to try more?”
“Not to cut a sale short, Rye. In my professional opinion, I think you should rent. Lily will need to upgrade in months, not years, at the rate she’s learning. Heck, I’ve thought about changing my course plan just to accommodate her. She’s a natural.”
My heart warms and also breaks. It’s times like these when I want to use whatever connections I have to go backstage at one of Jason’s concerts and beat him senseless for leaving Lily. I don’t care about me, but she’s a different story.
Benny has a point. Guitars are expensive and I would hate to buy something only for her to want something different in a few months, or even a year.
I nod. “All right, we’ll do the rental program.”