Chapter 23 Darian
darian
. . .
The text comes through while I’m changing guitar strings at the shop, and I have to read it three times.
No question mark. Not an invitation. Just Rye stating what’s happening, making it about Lily when we both know this is bigger.
I type back: Should I bring anything?
Just yourself.
You sure about this?
Three dots appear and disappear four times before: No. Come anyway.
At least she’s honest. I finish restringing the Gibson and clean the space Benny graciously gave me so I could work on my guitars.
I head upstairs to shower and figure out what to wear to dinner with a woman who I’m falling for but doesn’t trust anyone and her daughter who doesn’t know we’ve been together.
Fun times.
I go with jeans and a henley, my Doc Martens, and go back and forth on whether I should put a hat on or not.
Stormy told me girls dig guys who wear their hats backward.
I don’t really want to take advice from my teenaged niece, but she definitely knows way more than I do.
After adjusting my ball cap one too many times, I leave it on the bed, run my fingers through my hair and call it good.
On my way to Rye’s, I stop and buy flowers. Two bouquets because I don’t want Lily to feel like she doesn’t matter. As far as I’m concerned, if it wasn’t for her, Rye wouldn’t invite me over. So, maybe I should just get them for Lily.
Nope, I buy two. I’m not in the business of upsetting women.
This is my third time coming over. The last two were planned. Everything about Rye’s text tells me this is a spur-of-the-moment decision.
Rye’s house sits on a quiet street, small but maintained, with a porch and a basketball hoop that leans left.
Lily doesn’t strike me as the sporty type, although playing music can cause someone to break out in a sweat.
I stand there for a moment, wondering if the hoop is left over from the previous owner or if Rye put it up in hopes her daughter would choose a different path.
Everyone in this business knows the path chooses us.
The door opens before I knock. Lily stands there in pajama pants and an oversized Nirvana shirt. I want to give her a fist bump for her excellent taste in music. I refrain because I hear the sound of pots and pans clanking together.
“Mom’s freaking out in the kitchen.”
“I am not freaking out,” Rye calls from inside.
“She changed her shirt three times,” Lily says.
“Lily Grace Hayes.”
Ooh, she got three-named. That’s never good.
“What? It’s true.” She steps back. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour while she pretends everything’s under control.”
“These are for you,” I hand her one of the bouquets, keeping the other until I can hand them to Rye.
Lily brings them to her nose and in-hales. “Thank you.”
The house is lived in without being messy. Photos line the hallway—Lily at different ages, some of Rye with an older woman, no father anywhere. The living room has a couch, coffee table covered in sheet music, and a guitar stand in the corner.
“That’s where I practice,” Lily says. “Mom says I’m getting better at the hammer-ons you showed me. Want to hear?”
“After dinner,” Rye appears in the doorway. There’s something off about how she’s standing, like she can’t decide if this was stupid. “Food’s ready.”
We make eye contact, and pause, studying each other. She looks from me to the flowers in my hand. I slowly push them toward her and a smile slowly forms, reaching her eyes. It’s like they sparkle.
“Thank you,” she says, repeating the same thing her daughter did and inhaled. Only Rye closes her eyes. I continue to watch her, taking her all in.
Yep, I’m definitely falling hard.
“I got some too, Mom.” Lily waves her flowers so her mom can see.
If I wasn’t watching Rye, I wouldn’t have seen her grin extend from ear-to-ear or see the whispered ‘thank you’ she gives me.
“Come on, let’s put these in water and eat. I’m starving. Are you hungry?” Rye asks me.
“Famished.” But not for food, for her.
I follow behind her and Lily. Every few steps, Rye looks over her shoulder, giving me a look . . . a look of longing or desire, at least that’s what I’m hoping.
The kitchen smells like roasted chicken and garlic. The table’s set for three with actual plates and a pitcher of water with lemon slices.
“I helped cook,” Lily announces, pulling out a chair. “I made the salad and didn’t even complain about touching lettuce.”
“Major accomplishment,” I say, taking the seat across from her.
“Mom usually burns everything,” Lily continues. “But tonight she used a timer and everything.”
“I cook fine,” Rye protests, sitting down.
“Remember the pasta incident?”
“We agreed never to speak of the pasta incident.”
“What was the pasta incident?” I ask.
Lily launches into a story about smoke alarms, three firetrucks, and spaghetti that bonded to a pot. Rye corrects parts while serving food, and suddenly we’re just three people eating dinner. Nothing forced about it.
Lily talks about camp, about a science project with crystals. Rye relaxes as Lily chatters. I ask questions but mostly watch them. How Rye fixes Lily’s napkin without thinking. How Lily checks if her mom’s laughing too.
This is their world. Complete and protected. I’m sitting at their table.
“Tell him about the talent show,” Rye says when Lily stops to eat.
“Oh! I’m playing my original song but with my guitar. I wrote the song myself and mom is helping me put music to it.”
“That’s great. My sister and I used to do that. How long have you been writing?”
“Forever,” she says as if she isn’t ten.
Rye and I laugh.
Lily rolls her eyes. “You know, she pretends she doesn’t know music stuff, but she’s actually good.”
Rye’s cheeks go pink. “Lily.”
“What? It’s true. You should hear her sing in the shower. She thinks the water covers it, but it doesn’t.”
I lean forward and whisper. “I know she can sing. I’m trying to get her to do it more.” And then glance at Rye, who blushes.
She clears her throat. “All right, you two. Subject change,” Rye says. “Who wants dessert?”
“Is it store-bought?” Lily asks.
“Yes, because I know my limitations.”
We clear the table together. Lily rinses, I dry, Rye puts away. Every time Rye’s hand brushes mine while taking a plate, I notice.
“Can I show Darian my song now?” Lily asks when we’re done.
Rye checks the clock. “Thirty minutes, then it’s reading time.”
“Mom,” Lily groans.
“Thirty minutes. It’s a camp night.”
Lily runs to the living room. Rye touches my arm. “You don’t have to stay.”
“You kicking me out already?”
“I’m giving you an out.”
“I don’t want one.”
She looks at me for a long moment. “Okay.”
With Lily in the other room, I put my hand on her hip. “Thank you for inviting me over.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I really want to kiss you,” I say as quietly as possible.
Rye bits her lower lip and nods. “Lily . . .”
“I know.” And I do know but it sucks because I don’t know where we stand. I’m fine being Rye’s friend and Lily’s teacher, if that is all Rye can handle right now. If all we’ll ever be is writing partners, so be it.
I follow Rye to the living room. Lily’s ready with her guitar when we get there. The song she plays is simple but real, lyrics about feeling different and finding your voice. She messes up once, keeps going, finishes strong.
“That was beautiful,” I tell her.
“Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“Really. You’ve got something.”
She grins, then yawns. “I’m not tired.”
“Go read,” Rye says.
“Fine.” Lily puts her guitar away, then surprises me with a quick hug. “Thanks for coming to dinner.”
“Thanks for having me.”
She goes to her room, leaving us alone. The air changes.
“Want to sit outside?” Rye asks. “I need air.”
The porch has two old chairs and a small table. It’s warm. Crickets singing. Someone’s grilling down the street.
“That went well,” I say.
“She likes you.”
“Good.”
“It’s terrifying.” She pulls her knees up. “She doesn’t attach easily. When she does, it matters.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Everyone says that.”
“I’m not everyone.”
She looks at me. “What do you want from this, Darian? Really?”
I could lie, make it smaller. But she let me into her home.
“I want Sunday dinners and Tuesday recording sessions. I want to teach Lily new chords and watch you remember you’re an artist. I want complicated and messy and real. I want you to stop being afraid of wanting things.”
“That’s a lot.”
“What do you want?”
Long pause and then, “I want to stop running from things that might matter.”
“So stop.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is. You just stay instead of go.”
“And if it falls apart? If you decide we’re too much trouble?”
“Then we deal with it. But what if it doesn’t fall apart? What if it works?”
She uncurls, feet finding the floor. “I don’t know how to believe that.”
“You don’t have to believe. Just don’t close the door.”
A sound from inside. Lily’s at the window, supposedly getting water but obviously checking on us. She waves and disappears.
“Subtle,” Rye says.
“She gets that from you?”
“Shut up.” But she almost smiles.
We sit quietly. After a while, Rye’s hand finds my chair arm. Not holding, just there.
“I should go,” I say, though I don’t want to.
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves.
“Darian?”
“Yeah?”
“This scares the shit out of me.”
“Me too.”
“But maybe being scared isn’t always a reason to stop.”
I turn my hand palm up. She looks at it, then threads her fingers through mine.
“No promises,” she says.
“Just possibility.”
Her thumb moves against mine. “Maybe I can do possibility.”
Lily calls for her mom from inside. Something about needing help finding a book.
“Go,” I tell her. “I’ll see myself out.”
She stands but doesn’t let go right away. “Saturday?”
“What about Saturday?”
“Lily has the talent show. Two o’clock. If you’re not busy.”
“I’m not busy.”
She squeezes my fingers, then lets go. “It’s probably going to be terrible. Camp talent shows always are.”
“I’ll bring earplugs.”
She goes inside, laughing. Through the window, I see her heading down the hall, hear Lily’s voice explaining something about her science report and molecular structures and why Spotify keeps suggesting songs she hates.
This is their life. Their routine. Their world they’ve opened enough to let me see.
I sit on the porch for another minute, listening to their voices drift through the open window. Rye says something I can’t make out, and Lily laughs. It’s domestic and normal and everything I didn’t know I wanted until I was sitting in the middle of it.
The drive home is quiet. I don’t turn on the radio, just drive with the windows down, letting the night air clear my head. At a red light, I check my phone. Text from Zara: How’d it go?
I’d told her about the dinner invitation this morning, couldn’t help myself. She’d immediately started planning our wedding, because that’s what Zara does.
Good, I type back.
Just good? I need details.
Her kid likes me.
And Rye?
Working on it.
Darian Mercer, don’t you dare fuck this up.
Not planning to.
Good. She sounds perfect for you. Complicated and musical and unavailable.
She’s not unavailable.
Just mostly unavailable?
Carefully available.
That might be worse.
The light turns green. I pocket my phone and drive with visions of Rye and me together, living in some sort of bliss I’ve never experienced before.
My apartment feels too quiet, too empty of voices and laughter and dinner conversation. I didn’t realize I wanted noise from people surrounding me or the warmth that comes from having someone in your space until now.
My phone buzzes. Rye: She wants to know if you’ll teach her the F chord next time.
Tell her we’ll work up to it. Hand strength matters.
She says her hands are strong enough.
I’m sure they are. Still need to build up to barre chords.
Pause, then: Thank you for tonight.
Thank you for inviting me.
I’m still scared.
I know.
But I’m trying.
That’s all anyone can do.
She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to.
I pick up my guitar and play, working through progressions.
The melody that comes out isn’t something I’ve played before.
It’s softer than my usual style, more patient.
It sounds like waiting. Like showing up even when someone’s not ready for you.
Like sitting at a dinner table with matching plates and homemade bread and a ten-year-old who asks too many questions.
Maybe Rye doesn’t need grand gestures or promises. Maybe she needs simple presence. Showing up for dinner. Listening to Lily’s songs. Sitting on the porch until life calls us back inside.
I think about what Benny said earlier, about playing like I remember why I started. He’s right. Somewhere between Reverend Sister falling apart and meeting Rye, I forgot that music could be simple. Could be just three people in a living room, one of them learning, all of them listening.
The melody shifts, becoming something more complex. I grab my notebook, start scribbling notes before I lose it. The progression is unusual—not quite major, not quite minor. Suspended between two feelings. Like Rye herself, caught between wanting and protecting, between opening up and staying safe.
I play it through again, making adjustments. Add a bass run between the C and G. Throw in a hammer-on that reminds me of what I taught Lily. The song builds, becomes something fuller.
My phone buzzes again. Zara: So? Don’t leave me hanging.
It went well.
Define well.
Her kid hugged me. Rye held my hand. I ate homemade dinner.
She HELD YOUR HAND? This is huge!
I can’t help but laugh.
It’s progress.
It’s more than progress.
Maybe.
Don’t maybe me. I know you, little brother. You’re already half in love with her.
Zara—
And from what you’ve told me, she’s worth it. Complicated and damaged and careful, but worth it.
Yeah. She is.