Chapter 26 Rye
rye
. . .
The Songbird sits quiet this afternoon, the lull between lunch rush and evening crowd giving me too much space to think.
I wipe down the bar for the third time, reorganizing bottles that don’t need reorganizing, trying not to think about how Darian hasn’t called since our conversation about the Rex Lawson opportunity three days ago.
The door chimes and I look up, ready to tell whoever it is that we’re closed for another hour. But it’s not a customer. It’s Zara Austin, Darian’s sister, standing in my doorway looking like she stepped out of a magazine despite the Tennessee humidity.
“We’re closed,” I say automatically, even though we both know she’s not here for a drink.
“I know.” She steps inside anyway, designer boots clicking against the worn wood floor. “I’m not here as a customer.”
“Then why are you here?”
She crosses to the bar, sliding onto a stool with the kind of confidence that comes from years of commanding stages. “My brother called me last night. Drunk. Which he hasn’t done since Van destroyed our band.”
My hands still on the glass I’m polishing. “I don’t know what that has to do with me.”
“Don’t you?” She studies me with eyes that are eerily similar to Darian’s, that same ability to see through bullshit. “He told me about the job offer. About how you told him to take it.”
“It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“It’s a test and you know it.”
I set the glass down harder than necessary. “I don’t play games.”
“No, but you push people away before they can leave on their own.” She leans forward. “Trust me, I recognize the move. I did it to Levi for months before I figured out that good men don’t always leave.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you run this venue like it’s the only thing keeping you standing.
I know you have a daughter you’re protecting.
I know you used to write music but stopped when someone betrayed that trust.” She ticks off each point on her fingers.
“And I know my brother is in love with you even though he’s too scared to say it. ”
The words hit like physical blows. “He’s not—”
“He is. The man who called me last night? He wasn’t torn about a career opportunity. He was torn about choosing between what he thinks he should want and what he actually wants.”
“Which is?”
“You. Your daughter. Sunday morning guitar lessons and quiet dinners and all the small things that make a life.” She shrugs. “But you told him to go, so now he thinks that’s what you want.”
“It’s what’s best for his career.”
“Fuck his career.” The profanity sounds wrong in her polished voice. “Sorry. But seriously, fuck it. Do you know what careers in music actually cost? I gave up my marriage, my home, my sense of self for Reverend Sister. And in the end, my husband was screwing around and the band imploded anyway.”
I turn away, busying myself with the register. “That’s not going to happen to Darian.”
“No, because he already learned that lesson. He walked away from everything in LA to figure out who he is without the noise. And then he met you and suddenly he’s writing again, playing again, remembering why he loved music before it became business.”
“He doesn’t need me for that.”
“Maybe not.” She stands, moving around the bar to face me directly. “But he wants you for it. There’s a difference.”
“Why are you here?” I ask again, feeling cornered.
“Because my brother won’t fight for himself.
He’s been trained to believe that wanting something personal means being selfish.
That choosing love over career makes him weak.
” Her expression softens. “But I’ve watched him these past months.
He mentions you in every conversation. Not directly, but you’re there.
‘Rye would find this funny.’ ‘Rye’s daughter is learning guitar.
’ ‘The Songbird had this amazing act.’ You’re all through his stories even when he’s trying not to talk about you. ”
“So?”
“So he’s about to take a job he doesn’t want because you made him think you don’t want him here.”
“I never said that.”
“You told him to go. For someone like Darian, someone who’s been rejected and betrayed by people who were supposed to love him, that’s the same thing.”
I sink onto the stool behind the bar, suddenly exhausted. “I can’t be the reason he stays. That’s too much pressure.”
“No one’s asking you to be the reason. But maybe you could stop being the reason he leaves.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the venue’s quiet amplifying the weight of her words.
“I don’t even know you,” I say finally. “We’ve met what, twice? You don’t get to come in here and tell me how to handle my life.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” She pulls out her phone, checking something.
“But I know what it looks like when two people are about to let fear make their choices for them. Levi and I almost did the same thing. He was convinced I’d leave, go back to LA and my old life.
I was convinced he’d realize I didn’t fit in his world.
We wasted months pushing each other away instead of just admitting we were terrified of how much we wanted it to work. ”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“Then it doesn’t. But at least you’ll know you tried. Right now, you’re both so busy protecting yourselves that you’re guaranteeing failure.”
The door chimes again. Jovie walks in, takes one look at us, and immediately turns around. “I’ll come back.”
“No, stay,” Zara says. “I was just leaving.” She looks back at me. “The job offer has a deadline. End of the week. He’ll probably take it unless someone gives him a reason not to.”
“I can’t—”
“I’m not asking you to promise him forever.
I’m just saying maybe stop pushing him toward the door.
” She heads for the exit, then pauses. “Oh, and that song you two wrote together? He played it for me. It’s the best thing he’s written in years.
Both of you brought something to it the other couldn’t create alone. Think about that.”
She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with the echo of her words.
Jovie approaches cautiously. “Was that Zara Austin? Like, the actual Zara from Reverend Sister?”
“Yeah.”
“What did she want?”
I laugh, but it comes out bitter. “To tell me I’m an idiot, basically.”
“Are you?”
I look at my friend, my assistant manager who’s watched me build walls for three years. “Maybe.”
“The Rex Lawson thing?”
“You know about that?”
“Darian told me when he came by yesterday. Looked like someone killed his dog.” She starts setting up for evening service. “You really told him to take it?”
“It’s an amazing opportunity.”
“It’s a job in LA that takes him away from everything he’s building here.”
“His career—”
“Rye.” Jovie stops, looks at me directly. “When are you going to stop deciding what’s best for everyone else and let them choose for themselves?”
“I’m not—”
“You are. You do it with every musician who comes through here, protecting them from their own bad decisions. And now you’re doing it with Darian, pushing him away because you think it’s what’s best for him.”
“What if it is?”
“Then let him figure that out. But stop making the choice for him.”
My phone buzzes. A text from Lily: Is Darian still coming for my guitar lesson tomorrow?
I stare at the message, realizing I don’t know the answer. That I’ve been so focused on protecting us from future hurt that I haven’t thought about the immediate consequence. My daughter, looking forward to her lesson, not understanding why the person teaching her might disappear.
I’ll find out, I text back.
“I need to go,” I tell Jovie.
“Go where?”
“To stop being an idiot.”
She smiles. “About time.”
I grab my keys and head for the door, then stop. “If I’m not back by opening—”
“I’ve got it. Go.”
Outside, Nashville’s afternoon heat wraps around me like a warning. But I’m already moving, already heading toward Darian’s apartment, not sure what I’ll say when I get there but knowing that Zara’s right about one thing.
I’ve been so busy pushing him away that I haven’t given him a chance to choose to stay.
The drive takes fifteen minutes that feel like hours. I park outside his building, see his car in its usual spot. He’s home. Now I just have to figure out what to say.
My phone rings. It’s him.
“Rye?”
“Yeah.”
“My sister just called. Said she ambushed you at the venue. I’m sorry, I didn’t ask her to—”
“I’m outside your building.”
There’s a bit of silence, and then, “You’re what?”
“I’m sitting in my car outside your apartment. I came to . . . I don’t know what I came to do. Talk, I guess.”
“I’ll be right down.”
“No, I’ll come up.”
More silence. “Okay.”
I climb the stairs on shaky legs, each step feeling like a choice. At his door, I knock before I can lose my nerve.
He opens immediately, like he was standing right there waiting. He looks rough—unshaven, hair messy, wearing an old Reverend Sister shirt that’s seen better days.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
We stand there, neither of us knowing how to bridge the gap between what we said and what we meant.
“Lily wants to know if you’re still coming for her guitar lesson tomorrow.”
Something passes across his face—relief maybe, or hope. “Do you want me to?”
“I want . . .” I take a breath. “I want to stop making choices based on fear. I want to stop pushing people away because I think they’ll leave, anyway. I want to give this—us—whatever it is, a chance to be something.”
“What about the job?”
“What about it? You’re a grown man. You can decide what’s best for your career. But don’t take it because I told you to. Don’t leave because you think I want you gone.”
“Do you want me gone?”
“No.” The word comes out stronger than expected. “No, I don’t want you gone. I want Sunday guitar lessons and you helping at the venue and that stupid song we wrote playing on repeat in my head. I want to stop being so scared of wanting things.”
He steps aside, gesturing for me to come in. “We should talk.”
“Yeah. We should.”
I enter his apartment, noticing the packed boxes by the door, the guitar case leaning against them.
“You’re already packing?”
“I thought . . .” He runs a hand through his hair. “You seemed pretty clear about what you wanted.”
“I was clear about what I thought was safe. There’s a difference.”
We sit on his couch, not touching but close enough that I can feel his warmth.
“Zara was right about one thing,” I say. “I’ve been making your choices for you. That’s not fair.”
“I’ve been letting you.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier than admitting I want something that might not work out. If you push me away, I can blame you instead of risking it myself.”
“That’s terrible logic.”
“Yeah, well, musicians aren’t known for their good judgment.”
I laugh, surprising myself. “What do you want, Darian? Not what you think you should want, or what’s best for your career. What do you actually want?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “I want to teach Lily guitar and watch her discover music. I want to write more songs with you, even though you’ll probably fight me on every chord progression.
I want Tuesday night dinners and fixing things at the venue and all the ordinary moments that aren’t glamorous but feel right. ”
“What about Rex Lawson?”
“There will be other albums. Other opportunities.” He turns to face me fully. “But there’s only one you. One Lily. One chance to see where this goes.”
“I’m scared,” I admit. “I’m scared of trusting you. Scared of Lily getting attached and then losing you. Scared of falling for someone who might choose music over us.”
“I’m scared too. Scared of not being enough. Scared of screwing this up. Scared of wanting something I can’t control.”
“So what do we do?”
“We be scared together. We take it slow. We don’t make any promises we can’t keep.” He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. “And I call Laura tomorrow and tell her thanks but no thanks.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do. Not for you. For me. Because I’m tired of running toward things I don’t want just because they look good on paper.”
I squeeze his hand. “Lily will be thrilled about the guitar lesson.”
“Just Lily?”
“Maybe her mom too.”
We sit there, hands linked, neither of us sure what comes next but both finally willing to find out. Zara was right—we’d been so busy protecting ourselves that we were guaranteeing failure.
But maybe, just maybe, we can choose something different. Something scarier but more honest.
“Play me the song,” I say suddenly.
“What song?”
“Our song. The one we recorded. I want to hear it again. Just us, no studio, no pressure.”
He gets his guitar, and for the next hour, we play through the song again, taking turns with verses, finding the harmony we discovered that night in the studio, remembering why we work so well together musically.
When Lily texts asking if Darian’s coming tomorrow, I text back: Yes. He’ll be there.
It’s not a promise of forever. It’s just a promise of tomorrow.
But for now, that’s enough.