Chapter 20 Rye
rye
. . .
The stage lights burn different when you’re planning to stand in them yourself.
I adjust the microphone height for the third time, knowing it’s perfect already but needing my hands busy while my brain processes what I’m about to do.
Behind me, four stools sit arranged in their familiar semicircle, waiting for tonight’s performers.
Except tonight, one of those stools has my name on it, metaphorically speaking, and the thought makes my stomach twist into knots I haven’t felt in years.
“You’re going to wear a hole in that stage if you keep pacing,” Jovie calls from behind the bar where she’s organizing glasses for tonight’s crowd. “And before you ask, yes, everything’s ready. Yes, the sound system’s checked. Yes, I’ve got the setlist. And yes, you’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re being scared.” She sets down a glass with more force than necessary. “Which is valid, but also unnecessary. These women coming tonight? They’re here because you created something special. A safe space for female artists to be vulnerable without the usual industry bullshit.”
She’s right. When I announced the women-only songwriter empowerment night two weeks ago, the response overwhelmed me. Not just from performers wanting slots, but from women across Nashville wanting to attend, to witness, to support each other in ways this industry rarely allows.
The door chimes and I look up expecting another early arrival, but it’s Zara walking in with purpose, her designer boots clicking against the worn wood floor.
“What are you doing here?” The question comes out sharper than intended, my nerves making everything feel like a potential disaster.
“Supporting women artists,” she says simply, then grins. “And making sure my brother doesn’t do something stupid like try to sneak in dressed as a woman.”
“Darian wouldn’t—”
“He absolutely would. Which is why he’s currently at home with strict instructions to stay there until this is over.
Levi’s on babysitting duty with Poppy, probably teaching her to crawl toward guitars.
” She moves closer, studying my face with the kind of attention that makes me want to hide. “You’re performing tonight.”
It’s not a question.
“Maybe.”
“Definitely. You’ve got that look. Same one I get before stepping on stage after a long break.” She runs her fingers through her hair, a nervous habit I’ve noticed she shares with Darian. “How long since you’ve performed publicly?”
“Three years.” The admission tastes like copper in my mouth. “Not since everything fell apart.”
“And now?”
“Now I have a song that won’t leave me alone.” I think about the track Darian and I created, how it lives in my bones now, demanding to be heard. “A song that needs to be sung, not just played from a recording.”
Zara nods like this makes perfect sense. “Good. You need this. We all need to see you claim your space again.”
Before I can respond, the door opens again and women begin filtering in. Local artists I recognize from various venues, some established, some just starting out. They greet each other with hugs and excited chatter, the energy building toward something electric.
I slip into manager mode, greeting everyone, making sure performers know their slots, checking that everyone has what they need. It’s easier than thinking about what comes later, when I’ll have to stop hiding behind logistics and actually bare my soul.
“Rye!” A voice calls out and I turn to find Cassidy Brennan, one of Nashville’s most respected female producers, walking toward me with open arms. “This is brilliant. About time someone created a space like this.”
“Just trying something different.”
“You’re doing more than that.” She glances around at the filling venue. “You’re giving us permission to take up space without apology.”
More women arrive, the venue filling with an energy I’ve never felt here before.
There’s something different about a room full of women supporting women, no competitive edge, no need to be anything other than authentic.
Jovie works the bar with her usual efficiency while I make rounds, but my mind keeps drifting to the guitar case hidden in my office, to the lyrics written in my notebook, to the moment I’ll have to decide whether to step into the light or stay in the shadows.
Eight o’clock arrives too fast. I take the stage to introduce the night, my hands steady despite the chaos in my chest.
“Welcome to the Songbird’s first women-only songwriter empowerment night.
” My voice carries clear and strong, surprising me.
“Tonight isn’t about competing or impressing anyone.
It’s about sharing our stories, our struggles, our triumphs.
It’s about taking up space in an industry that often tells us to shrink. ”
Applause fills the room, warm and genuine.
“We have incredible talent lined up tonight, starting with Melissa Grant.”
Melissa takes the stage with her Taylor guitar, settling onto the stool with practiced ease.
She’s maybe twenty-five, with bleached hair and tattoos covering both arms. Her first song strips me raw within three lines, a story about choosing music over stability, about her parents’ disappointment, about believing in herself when no one else would.
The room holds its breath, everyone seeing pieces of their own journey in her words. When she finishes, the applause thunders, and I watch her face transform with the realization that she’s been truly heard.
The second performer, Diane Washington, must be pushing sixty.
She talks about writing songs for forty years, about the men who told her she was too old, too Black, too woman to make it in country music.
Then she plays a song that makes those excuses sound like the garbage they are, her voice carrying the weight of every rejection, every dismissal, every moment she chose to keep going anyway.
Tears stream down faces throughout the room. Zara wipes her own eyes, her hand pressed to her chest like she’s physically holding the emotion in.
The third slot belongs to a duo, teenage sisters from Kentucky who harmonize like angels and write lyrics sharp enough to cut. They sing about growing up in a small town where dreams are considered dangerous, where girls are taught to want less, expect less, be less.
My chest tightens with each performance. These women aren’t just sharing songs; they’re sharing scars, turning wounds into weapons, pain into power. The collaborative finale we usually do feels too small for what’s happening here.
“Before our last performer,” I find myself saying, back on stage between sets, “I want to say something.”
The room quiets, expectant.
“Three years ago, I stopped performing. Stopped writing. Stopped believing my voice mattered.” The words tumble out unplanned. “I told myself I was better behind the scenes, supporting other artists. Safer there, definitely. But also . . . smaller.”
Jovie watches from the bar, her expression soft with understanding.
“Recently, someone reminded me that hiding isn’t the same as healing.
That supporting others doesn’t mean silencing yourself.
” I think of Darian, probably pacing his apartment right now, respecting my need for this space while somehow still being present in his absence.
“So tonight, if you’ll let me, I’d like to share something.
Not as your venue manager, but as another woman who’s been afraid to take up space. ”
The applause starts before I finish speaking, building to something that makes my throat tight. I retrieve my guitar from the office, my hands shaking as I settle onto the stool. The lights feel both foreign and familiar, like meeting an old friend who’s changed but is still recognizable.
“This is a song I wrote with someone who wouldn’t let me hide,” I say, tuning quickly. “It’s about breaking patterns, about choosing different even when safe feels easier.”
The first chord rings out clear and true. My voice, when it comes, surprises me with its strength. Three years of silence haven’t weakened it; if anything, it carries more weight now, more truth.
“I built these walls with careful hands,
Each brick a lesson learned,
But you walk through them like smoke,
Like you know which bridges burned . . .”
The room disappears. There’s just me and the guitar and words I’ve been afraid to say. The second verse flows into the bridge, my voice building, finding its power.
“You say I’m worth the broken glass,
The sharp edges, the blood,
But I’ve been cutting myself on safety
Thinking it was love . . .”
The chorus hits and I hear gasps, actual gasps, from the audience. Not because I’m perfect, but because I’m real. Raw. Refusing to apologize for the space I’m taking up.
When I reach the final verse, the one Darian and I wrote together in that late-night session, I feel something shift. Not just in the room, but in me.
“So here’s to different, here’s to trust,
To letting someone see,
The woman underneath the armor,
The one I used to be . . .”
The last note hangs in the air. For a moment, complete silence. Then the room erupts. Not polite applause, but something primal, celebratory. Women on their feet, tears streaming, hands raised in triumph.
I see myself reflected in their faces. Not Rye the venue manager, not Rye the ex-wife of a famous musician, not Rye the single mother trying to hold it all together. Just Rye, the artist. The woman who writes songs that matter, whose voice deserves to be heard.
“Holy shit,” Cassidy Brennan says loud enough for everyone to hear. “Where the hell have you been hiding that voice?”
“Behind everyone else,” I answer honestly, and the room laughs, understanding too well.
Zara approaches the stage, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “That was . . .” she pauses, searching for words. “That was what we all needed to hear.”
The other performers join me on stage for the collaborative finale, but something’s different now.
They look at me not as the venue manager who gives them a platform, but as one of them.
An artist who understands the cost of visibility, the price of silence, the value of finally, finally using your voice.
We build the improvised song together, each adding verses about reclamation, about resurrection, about refusing to be diminished.
Melissa sings about choosing her guitar over an engagement ring.
Diane adds a verse about being told she was too much and deciding that was exactly right.
The sisters from Kentucky harmonize about small towns and big dreams and giving the middle finger to anyone who says different.
When my turn comes, I sing about three years of silence and how it ends tonight. About finding my voice in helping others find theirs. About collaboration that doesn’t require diminishing yourself.
The song builds to something bigger than any of us individually, a declaration of independence, a battle cry, a love letter to every woman who’s ever been told to want less.
After the last note fades, after the audience slowly filters out with hugs and promises to do this again, after Jovie helps me stack the stools and turn off the stage lights, I stand in the empty venue and breathe.
“You okay?” Jovie asks, counting the till but watching me.
“Yeah.” And for the first time in three years, I mean it. “I’m actually okay.”
“Good. Because Darian’s been texting me every five minutes asking if you’re alright, and I’m about to block his number.”
I laugh, pulling out my phone to find twelve messages from him, all variations of: Hope it’s going well. Proud of you. Can’t wait to hear about it.
The last one, sent just a minute ago: Zara said you were incredible. But I already knew that.
“You going to see him?” Jovie asks.
“Yes,” I say, surprising myself with the certainty. “But first I want to sit with this feeling.”
“What feeling?”
I think about it, searching for the right word. “Reclamation. Like I finally remembered who I am.”
“And who’s that?”
“An artist,” I say, the words feeling like coming home. “I’m an artist who happens to manage a venue, not the other way around.”
Jovie smiles. “About fucking time.”
I lock up the Songbird, guitar case in hand, and walk home through Nashville’s late-night streets. Musicians spill from other venues, the city alive with the sound of people chasing dreams, taking chances, refusing to be silent.
For the first time in three years, I feel like I belong here. Not behind the scenes, not in the shadows, but right here in the middle of it all, adding my voice to the beautiful noise.
At home, I set the guitar in its stand and pull out my notebook. Words flow onto the page, not the song I performed tonight, but something new. Something that feels like a beginning.
My phone lights up with a text from Darian: Sweet dreams, artist.
I smile, write one more line, then close the notebook. I’ll share these new words with him when I’m ready. I’ll step back into the collaboration that scares and thrills me in equal measure.
But for now, I’m just Rye. The woman who found her voice again in a room full of other women refusing to be quiet.
And that’s enough.