Chapter 21 Darian #2
She watches us for a moment, sees Lily’s enthusiasm, sees my casual position across from her daughter. Nothing inappropriate, nothing concerning. Just a guitar lesson. Whatever she’s looking for, she must find it.
“Ten more minutes,” she says, moving to lean against the counter where she can watch.
“Fifteen?”
“Ten.”
“Fine.”
“Okay,” I tell Lily. “Let’s put it all together. Play your G-C-D progression, but use everything we worked on. Dynamics, bass runs, harmonics, hammer-ons. Make it yours.”
She starts tentatively, just the chords with some dynamic variation. Then she adds a bass run between G and C. On the repeat, she throws in a harmonic on the 12th fret. By the third time through, she’s incorporating hammer-ons and pull-offs, creating melodic lines within the chord structure.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s it. You’re not playing someone else’s song now. You’re playing music.”
She grins and keeps playing, adding new variations each time through. I glance at Rye. She’s watching her daughter with an expression I can’t quite read. Pride, definitely. But also something like worry. Or recognition.
“Okay,” Rye says when Lily finishes another run through. “Time’s up.”
Lily starts to protest, then sees her mother’s face and stops. “Okay.”
She starts packing her guitar, moving carefully. The way she wraps the cord, wipes down the strings, positions it in the case—all of it speaks to someone who’s been taught to respect the instrument.
“Thanks for teaching me,” she says, closing the case latches.
“You’re welcome.”
“Will you be here next week if Benny’s still gone?”
I look at Rye. She’s watching me, weighing something behind her eyes.
“We’ll see,” I say.
Lily nods and heads for the door. “Coming, Mom?”
“One second. Wait in the car.”
Lily glances between us, and for a moment I think she’s going to ask questions. But she just shrugs and leaves.
Once she’s outside, Rye approaches me. “I didn’t know you were teaching.”
“I’m not. Benny asked me to cover. His sister’s in the hospital. I had no idea the lesson was for your daughter.”
“And I had no idea you’d be here.” She pauses, choosing words carefully. “You were good with her.”
“She makes it easy. She’s talented.”
“I know.” Rye glances toward the car where Lily waits. “She doesn’t know about us.”
“I figured that out.”
“I need to keep it that way.”
“Understood.”
She looks surprised by my easy acceptance. “Just like that?”
“She’s your daughter. Your rules.”
“Thank you.” She moves toward the door, then stops. “She wasn’t wrong, you know. You are better than Benny, but if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny it.”
“Benny’s a fine teacher. I just approach things differently.”
“No, it’s more than that. You taught her things Benny probably wouldn’t have gotten to for months. Harmonics, hammer-ons, all of it. You compressed weeks of lessons into one hour.”
“She was ready for it. Sometimes students just need someone to show them they’re capable of more than they think.”
“Maybe.” She studies my face. “She’s all I’ve got, Darian.”
“I understand.”
“I need to think about this. About what it means.”
“Take all the time you need.”
She turns to go, then looks back. “What Benny said, about his sister. Is she okay?”
“I think so. He didn’t seem panicked, just needed to be there.”
“Good. He’s a good man.”
“He is.”
She leaves, and I watch through the window as she gets in her car. Lily’s animated in the passenger seat, hands moving as she demonstrates the techniques I taught her. Rye listens, nods, even smiles at something Lily says.
My phone buzzes. Text from Benny: Sister’s fine. Just a scare. I’ll be back tomorrow. How’d the lesson go?
Good, I type back. Smart kid.
The smartest. Hope it wasn’t too much trouble.
No trouble at all.
Thanks for covering. I owe you one.
No problem.
Another text comes through, this one from Rye: She won’t stop talking about harmonics.
She learns fast, I type back.
She wants to know if you’ll teach her again.
What do you want?
A long pause. Three dots appearing and disappearing. I don’t want her to love music, but she does. Today, she’s different. You did something to change the way she feels about playing.
So?
So maybe we figure this out. Carefully.
Your rules. Your timeline.
Can we talk? Later? After she’s asleep?
I’ll be here.
10 o’clock?
Works for me.
I set the phone down and pick up my guitar.
The simple progression Lily was working on flows under my fingers, but I find myself adding the variations she discovered.
The harmonic at the end. The hammer-on run she figured out.
She’s right that the basic chords sound boring.
But with the right touch, the right intention, they become something more.
Kind of like teaching. I wasn’t planning on it, didn’t even know I’d be good at it. But showing her those techniques, seeing her face light up when she nailed the harmonics—that felt right. Natural. Like something I could be good at.
Maybe that’s what Rye saw. Not just me teaching her daughter, but caring about it. Wanting Lily to understand music, not just play it.
The shop stays empty as afternoon fades into evening. The sun drops lower, painting long shadows across the floor. A few people walk by, peering in the windows, but the closed sign keeps them moving.
I practice for another hour, working through progressions that sound hopeful.
My fingers find melodies I haven’t played in years, stuff from before Reverend Sister, before everything got complicated.
Simple songs that exist just because they want to, not because they need to chart or sell or mean something profound.
At seven, I flip the lights off and lock up, making sure everything’s secure for Benny’s return tomorrow. The stairs to my apartment creak under my feet, each one singing its familiar note.
Inside, I make a sandwich and eat standing at the counter, looking out at Nashville coming alive for the night. Music drifts up from the bars below, mixing into that wall of sound that never quite stops in this city.
I think about Lily’s determination, her focus. The way she intuited techniques before I could teach them. That’s not normal for a ten-year-old. Hell, it’s not normal for most adults. She’s got something special.
Which is probably why Rye’s so protective. She knows what this industry does to people with talent. Chew it up, package it, sell it until there’s nothing left but the echo of what it used to be.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Rye: She’s been playing harmonics for an hour. She says to tell you she found two more positions that work.
I smile and type back: Tell her to try the third fret. But lightly. It’s subtle.
You’re encouraging her.
Is that bad?
No. It’s just . . . different. Good different.
Good different. I’ll take it.
The conversation ends there, but I know we’ll talk at ten. Really talk. About what this means, what it could become. Whether I can be trusted with something as precious as her daughter’s musical education.
I pick up my guitar again and play until the streetlights come on. Simple progressions that build into something more. Like a lesson that becomes a connection. Like a favor for Benny that becomes something unexpected.
Nine o’clock comes and goes. Then nine-thirty. I’m not nervous exactly, but I’m aware of the time in a way I usually aren’t. At nine forty-five, I make coffee, figuring I should be alert for whatever conversation we’re about to have.
At exactly ten, my phone rings.
“Hi,” Rye says when I answer.
“Hi.”
“Is this weird?”
“Which part?”
“All of it. You teaching Lily. Us talking about you teaching Lily. The fact that my daughter hasn’t stopped playing guitar since we got home.”
“Good weird or bad weird?”
“I don’t know yet.” She pauses. I hear what sounds like a door closing, maybe her going outside for privacy. “She’s never been like this about lessons before. Eager yes, but this is something completely different.”
“Like what?”
“Excited. Inspired. She usually practices because she’s supposed to. Tonight she’s practicing because she wants to.”
“That’s good, right?”
“It’s terrifying.”
“Why?”
“Because what happens when she wants more than I can give her? What happens when she’s good enough that people notice? What happens when the music industry starts circling?”
“She’s ten, Rye. That’s a long way off.”
“No, it’s not. Not with the internet. Not with social media. Kids go viral playing guitar in their bedrooms now. And Lily . . . she’s got that thing. You saw it.”
“I did.”
“So you understand why I’m scared.”
“I understand why you’re careful. There’s a difference.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Her father was a musician.”
I don’t say anything, sensing there’s more.
“Session player. Talented. Charming. Full of promises about the life we’d build together. Then I got pregnant and suddenly all those promises turned into excuses. He was gone before she was born.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Not anymore. But it shaped how I see things. Musicians. The industry. The promises that turn into disappointment.”
“I get that.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re another talented musician making my daughter’s eyes light up. And I’ve seen how that story ends.”
“Not all stories end the same way.”
“No. But enough of them do.”
We sit with that truth for a moment. She’s not wrong. I’ve seen plenty of musicians leave destruction in their wake, intentional or not.
“What if we set clear boundaries?” I suggest. “I teach her once a week, when Benny can’t. Just technical stuff. No promises about anything beyond the next lesson.”
“You’d be okay with that?”
“It’s not about what I’m okay with. It’s about what you need to feel safe.”
“Lily won’t understand limitations like that.”
“Then we explain them. She’s smart. She’ll get it.”
“Maybe.” Another pause. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why do you care? About teaching her?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Because she’s yours. Because when I was teaching her, I kept seeing pieces of you in how she approaches things. Her focus. Her determination. The way she won’t settle for just getting by.” I pause. “And because I miss you.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “Darian . . .”
“I know we said we were keeping things casual. I know this complicates everything. But watching you walk into that shop today, seeing your face when you realized what was happening—”
“I was terrified.”
“You were beautiful.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make me want things I can’t have.”
“What if you can have them?”
“My daughter comes first. Always.”
“I’m not asking you to choose. I’m asking you to consider that maybe you can have both. Maybe we can figure this out without anyone getting hurt.”
“In my experience, someone always gets hurt.”
“Then let’s change your experience.”
She laughs, but it’s soft, almost sad. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not simple. Nothing about this is simple. But Rye . . . these past weeks with you. The music we’ve made, the nights we’ve spent—”
“Stop.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to think clearly and when you talk like that, I can’t.”
“Maybe thinking clearly is overrated.”
“Not when my daughter’s involved.”
“Fair enough.” I take a breath. “But can I say one more thing?”
“What?”
“I care about her because she’s remarkable. And I care about you because you’re . . . you’re everything I didn’t know I was looking for.”
Silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s full of everything we’re not saying.
We talk for another twenty minutes, working through logistics and boundaries. Lessons only when Benny can’t do them. No discussion of the music industry or professional possibilities. No promises beyond the current lesson. Clear communication if anything changes.
“And us?” she asks near the end. “How do we handle that?”
“Separately. Completely separate from Lily.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“Yes.”
“Even if it means we can’t . . . be together the way we have been?”
“If that’s what you need.”
“I don’t know what I need. I just know I can’t risk her getting hurt.”
“Then we don’t risk it.”
“Simple as that?”
“Simple as that.”
She sighs. “Nothing’s ever simple.”
“No. But we can try.”
“Yeah. We can try.”
After we hang up, I sit in the dark apartment thinking about unexpected connections. About a little girl with natural talent and fierce determination. About her mother trying to protect her from an industry that doesn’t always care who it hurts.
About the possibility of being trusted with something precious.
I pick up my guitar one more time and play the progression Lily learned today. But I play it her way, with the harmonics and hammer-ons she discovered. It sounds different from when I usually play it. More hopeful. More alive.
Maybe that’s what teaching does. Shows you your own music through fresh eyes. Reminds you that every chord progression was once new to someone. That every technique was once impossible until it wasn’t.
I play until midnight, working through variations and possibilities. Tomorrow Benny will be back. Lily will have her regular teacher next week. Things will return to normal.
But something shifted today. Something small but significant. A door opened that wasn’t open before.
And maybe, if we’re careful, if we respect the boundaries, if we keep our promises—maybe something good can grow from that.