Chapter 22 Rye #2
She thinks about it. Really considers the question. “Would he be around more?”
“Maybe.”
“Would he teach me guitar?”
“Probably.”
“Would you be happy?”
The question hits somewhere deep. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Then okay.” Simple as that. “As long as he’s nice to you. And me. But mostly you.”
I cross the room and pull her into a hug. She tolerates it for about three seconds before squirming away.
“Mom, I need to finish cleaning.”
“Right. Sorry. Carry on.”
I leave her to her preparations and head to my own room. If we’re doing this, if I’m really letting him into our space, our life, I should probably change out of my pajamas.
My closet offers too many options. This isn’t a date. It’s guitar lessons for my daughter. But it’s also Darian coming to our house, seeing where we live, how we live. It matters, even if I pretend it doesn’t.
I settle on jeans and a comfortable sweater. Casual but put together. Not trying too hard but not looking like I just rolled out of bed.
The next two hours pass slowly. Lily practices sitting with good posture, holding an imaginary guitar. She watches YouTube videos about finger positions. She writes down questions in a notebook she’s designated her “Guitar Journal.”
I clean the kitchen, straighten the living room, try not to watch the clock. This is normal. Just a friend coming over to teach my daughter guitar. Nothing more.
Except it is more, and I know it. This is me choosing to let him in. Choosing to see where this goes. Choosing to trust not just my instincts but Lily’s too.
At ten-fifty, Lily takes her position by the front window.
“He’s not going to be early,” I tell her.
“He might be.”
“Don’t press your face against the glass.”
“I’m not.” She is.
At ten fifty-eight, a car pulls up outside. Lily squeals.
“It’s him! He’s here!”
She’s at the door before I can tell her to wait. But she does wait, bouncing on her toes, for me to actually open it.
Darian stands on our porch holding a guitar case, looking exactly like himself. Jeans, t-shirt, that easy smile.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say back.
“Hi!” Lily practically shouts. “Is that your guitar? Can I see it? Is it acoustic or electric? What color is it?”
“Lily, let him come inside first.”
“Right. Sorry. Come in!” She backs up, giving him space.
He steps inside and I close the door behind him. Our house isn’t fancy, but it’s ours. Comfortable. Lived in. Real.
“Nice place,” he says, looking around.
“Thanks.” I watch him take it in. The photos on the walls, Lily’s artwork on the refrigerator, the lived-in comfort of our space.
“Can we start now?” Lily asks. “Please?”
Darian looks at me, questioning. I nod.
“Where would you like to do this?” he asks.
“Living room?” I suggest. “More space.”
We move to the living room and he sets the guitar case down carefully. Lily hovers, vibrating with anticipation.
“Okay,” he says, kneeling to open the case. “First rule of guitar: respect the instrument.”
“Respect it how?” Lily asks, dropping to her knees beside him.
“Take care of it. Keep it clean. Don’t bang it around. Treat it like it matters.”
“Because it has feelings?”
“Exactly.” He picks up his own guitar. “Let’s work on transitioning between chords. Watch me first.”
He demonstrates moving smoothly from G to C to D, his fingers flowing across the fretboard. Lily watches intently, her fingers twitching as she mentally follows along.
“Now you try. Slow at first.”
She attempts the progression on her guitar, stumbling on the transition from C to D. He shows her a trick for repositioning her fingers, and she tries again. Better this time.
I sit on the couch and watch. Watch my daughter concentrate with an intensity I usually only see when she’s reading. Watch Darian teach with natural ease, breaking everything down into manageable pieces. Watch them interact like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Your mom said you remembered everything from last night,” he says to Lily. “Want to show me?”
She proceeds to demonstrate her recall, naming parts of the guitar, explaining what frets are for, remembering the string names he taught her. He listens, impressed.
“You’ve got a good memory,” he tells her. “That’s going to help a lot.”
She beams at the praise.
For the next hour, I watch them work together. He teaches her how to hold a pick, how to press the strings, how to make her first chord. She struggles with finger placement and he adjusts her hand gently, explaining why each position matters.
“It hurts,” she says at one point, looking at her fingertips.
“It will at first. Your fingers need to build up strength. But if you practice a little each day, it gets easier.”
“How long did it take your fingers to stop hurting?”
“About two weeks. But I practiced a lot. Maybe too much.”
“Can you play something?” she asks. “So I can see what it sounds like when you’re good?”
He glances at me and I nod. He takes the guitar and plays something simple but beautiful. Lily watches his fingers, mesmerized.
“Will I be able to do that?”
“If you practice, absolutely.”
“How long?”
“Depends on how much you practice. But I bet you could play a song in a month.”
“A whole song?”
“A simple one, yeah.”
She looks at me. “Can he come back? To teach me more?”
I meet Darian’s eyes. He’s waiting, not pushing, just waiting to see what I decide.
“If he wants to,” I say.
“I want to,” he says simply.
And there it is. The decision is made. Not just about guitar lessons but about everything they represent. About letting him into our routine, our life, our space.
“When?” Lily asks.
“We’ll figure it out,” I tell her. “Right now, focus on what he’s teaching you.”
She turns back to the guitar with renewed determination. Darian shows her the chord again and this time she gets it right. The sound that comes out isn’t pretty, but it’s a real chord.
“I did it!” She looks between us, thrilled. “Did you hear? I made music!”
“You did,” Darian confirms. “That’s your first G chord.”
“G for guitar,” she says, then laughs at her own joke.
He spends another thirty minutes with her, teaching her two more chords, showing her how to transition between them. She’s frustrated when her fingers won’t cooperate but doesn’t give up.
“I think that’s enough for today,” he finally says. “Your fingers need a break.”
“But I want to keep going.”
“That’s how you hurt yourself. Better to practice a little each day than too much at once.”
She sets the guitar down carefully, the way he showed her. “Will you come back tomorrow?”
He looks at me again. I should say no, that tomorrow is too soon, that we need to pace this. But Lily’s looking at me with hopeful eyes and Darian’s just waiting, patient as always.
“If he’s free,” I hear myself say.
“I’m free,” he says immediately.
She throws her arms around him before I can stop her. He freezes for just a second, surprised, then gently hugs her back, looking at me over her head. I nod, letting him know it’s okay.
“Thank you for teaching me,” she says, pulling back. “I’m going to be the best student ever.”
“I believe it,” he tells her.
She carefully puts her guitar back in its case and carries it to her room like it’s made of glass. Leaving us alone in the living room.
“Thank you,” I say. “She’s really excited.”
“She’s a natural. Picks things up quickly.”
“When she’s interested. When she’s not . . .” I shrug.
“Most kids are like that.” He stands, shoving his hands in his pockets. “So tomorrow?”
“If you really don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” He pauses. “Actually, I was thinking. If you want, we could do something else too. All three of us. The park or lunch or something.”
It’s an invitation to more than guitar lessons. To actual time together, the three of us.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
He smiles. “That means yes. Lily told me.”
“She did?”
“While you were in the kitchen getting water. She said when you say you’ll think about it, you usually mean yes.”
“My daughter: the spy.”
“She also asked if I was your boyfriend.”
My face heats. “She mentioned that to me too.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you’re a friend.”
“And if that changes?”
The question hangs between us. This is the moment. The one where I decide whether to stay safe or step forward.
“Then it changes,” I say simply.
His smile widens. “Good to know.”
Lily appears in the doorway. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah, but I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Same time?”
He looks at me. I nod.
“Same time,” he confirms.
She disappears again and he heads for the door. I follow, not ready for him to leave but not sure how to make him stay without making it something it’s not. Not yet.
“Hey,” he says at the door. “Thanks for this. For trusting me with her.”
“She trusts you. That’s what matters.”
“And you?”
“I’m getting there.”
“Fair enough.” He opens the door, then turns back. “For what it’s worth, this feels like something. You, her, this.” He gestures vaguely at our house, our life. “It feels like something real.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone, walking to his car with that easy stride. I watch until he drives away, then close the door and lean against it.
It does feel like something. Something real. Something worth the risk.
“Mom?” Lily calls. “Can you help me practice?”
“Coming,” I call back.
I find her in her room, guitar out, trying to remember the finger positions. She looks up at me with bright eyes.
“I really like him,” she says simply.
“Yeah,” I agree. “Me too, but Darian said no more practicing today. Let’s watch a movie.”
Lily begrudgingly puts her guitar away and follows me into the living room. I search until I find the movie August Rush. I figure watching a movie about a young, talented musician will be right up her alley.
Later, after dinner and bath time, we’re snuggling in her bed, “Is it okay that I hugged him?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. Some people don’t like hugs.”
“He seemed okay with it.”
“Yeah.” She yawns. “He gives good hugs. Safe ones.”
Safe ones. From a ten-year-old’s perspective, that might be the highest compliment.
“Sleep,” I tell her. “You’ve got practice tomorrow.”
“And maybe the park?”
“Maybe.”
“That means yes.”
I kiss her forehead and turn off her light. In my own room, I check my phone. There’s a text from Darian.
Today was perfect. Thank you.
I type back: Thank you for being patient with her.
She’s easy to be patient with. Like her mom.
Smooth talker.
Just honest. See you tomorrow.
See you tomorrow.
I set the phone aside and stare at the ceiling. Tomorrow he’ll be back. And the day after that, probably. And somewhere in all these tomorrows, we’re building something. Not rushing, not forcing, just building.
This feels like something, he said.
Yeah, it really does.