Chapter 30 Rye
rye
. . .
The smell of charcoal and mesquite hits me before we even reach the front porch.
Lily bounces between Darian and me, her yellow sundress catching the afternoon light.
She’s been talking about this cookout all week, ever since Zara called to invite us.
Not just me, not just Darian, but us. The three of us.
What Darian didn’t mention until we were already in the car was that his parents were visiting from California. That they’d been staying at the ranch for three days. That this whole cookout was really about me meeting them.
“You could have warned me,” I say under my breath as we walk up the driveway.
“You would have found an excuse not to come,” he says, which is probably true.
“Do you think Willow and Stormy will let me help with the horses again?” Lily asks for the tenth time since we left Nashville.
“I’m sure they will, sweet pea,” I tell her, smoothing down a piece of her hair that’s escaped from her braid, trying not to let my nerves show.
Meeting parents. I haven’t done this in over a decade. Not since Lily’s father, and we all know how that turned out. My hands are sweating. Darian notices because of course he does, and takes one of them in his.
“They’re going to love you,” he says quietly.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” He squeezes my hand. “Trust me.”
The ranch sprawls out before us, all golden fields and white fencing. I can hear music already, something acoustic drifting from the backyard. Darian’s hand finds the small of my back as we walk up the steps. Three months ago, I would have stepped away. Now I lean into it, needing the support.
Zara’s already on the porch, waving us in with a dish towel. She’s wearing cutoff shorts and one of Levi’s old tour shirts, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looks nothing like the woman I first met at The Songbird, all sharp edges and protective sister energy. This Zara is softer, settled.
“About time,” she calls out. “Levi’s been guarding the grill from me for an hour.”
“Someone has to,” Levi’s voice carries from around the side of the house. “Last time you tried to help, you set a burger on fire.”
“That was intentional,” Zara shoots back, then grins at us. “Stormy and Willow are out back setting up corn hole. They’ve been asking when Lily would get here every five minutes.”
Lily takes off running before anyone can say another word, her sandals slapping against the stone pathway. I start to call after her about being careful, but Darian’s hand finds mine.
“She’s fine,” he says quietly. “This is what kids do at family things.”
Family things. The words sit strange and comfortable at the same time.
“You need help with anything?” I ask Zara, because standing still makes me nervous.
“Just relax,” she says, handing me a beer from the cooler by the door. “That’s your only job today.”
I don’t know how to just relax at someone else’s house. I’m used to being the one making sure everyone has drinks, that the food is ready, that the playlist isn’t stuck on repeat. But Zara’s already heading inside for something, and Darian’s pulling me toward the backyard, and I let myself be led.
The backyard is already full of life. Levi stands at the grill wearing an apron that says “Grill Sergeant,” flipping steaks with precision.
He nods at us, spatula in hand, looking every bit the country star playing domestic.
It’s still weird seeing him here, knowing that the same hands that played to sold-out stadiums are now carefully arranging burger buns on a platter.
Baby Poppy toddles around in the grass, chasing bubbles that float from a machine set up near the picnic table. She’s wearing tiny cowboy boots and a diaper, nothing else, her chubby legs working overtime to keep up with the iridescent spheres. When one pops on her nose, she shrieks with laughter.
Willow and Stormy have already absorbed Lily into their game, teaching her the proper way to arc a beanbag.
Stormy, always the serious one, demonstrates the underhand toss with scientific precision.
Willow just chucks hers overhand and somehow still makes it in.
Lily watches them both, then creates her own hybrid technique that sends the bag sailing over the board entirely.
“Close enough!” Willow yells, and all three girls dissolve into giggles.
“Beer?” Zara offers, returning with a tray of something that smells like heaven.
“Already got one,” I say, holding up the bottle she gave me earlier.
“Good. These are Levi’s famous jalapeno poppers. He won’t tell me the recipe, which is annoying since we’re married and supposed to share everything.”
“Some secrets keep the magic alive,” Levi calls over.
“Some secrets get you relegated to the couch,” Zara fires back, but she’s smiling as she sets the tray down.
Darian’s guitar case leans against the porch steps where he left it.
He never goes anywhere without it these days, not since we started writing together again.
Real writing, not just the stolen moments at The Songbird between customers.
We have a notebook that lives on my kitchen table now, filled with crossed-out lines and circled words and little notes in the margins.
Last night, I found where he’d written “Rye’s melody” next to a series of chord progressions, and something in my chest went tight.
“You bring the new one?” Zara asks him, nodding toward the guitar.
“Which new one?” he says, but he’s already moving toward the case.
“The one you won’t shut up about. The one about second chances and finding home.”
“I don’t write sappy stuff,” Darian protests, but he’s pulling out his Martin anyway.
“Sure you don’t,” Zara says, then looks at me. “He played me a voice memo of it last week. Made me cry in the middle of Whole Foods.”
“That’s because you’re hormonal,” Levi calls from the grill.
“I’m not pregnant, you ass.”
“Yet,” he says, and the look that passes between them is so intimate I have to turn away.
I watch Lily instead, the way she’s already been folded into the group of kids. Stormy’s showing her how to hold Poppy’s hand to help her walk, and Willow’s braiding dandelions into her hair. They’ve known her for three months, but they treat her like she’s always been here. Like she belongs.
Darian settles into one of the old rocking chairs on the porch, his fingers finding the strings.
The first notes drift across the yard, nothing formal, just noodling around while the day happens around us.
He doesn’t perform at family things. He just plays, lets the music be part of the conversation.
“Play ‘Whiskey River,’“ someone shouts. I turn to see an older man walking up from the barn, wiping his hands on his jeans. He’s got Zara’s eyes and Darian’s stubborn jaw.
My stomach drops. This is it. This is the moment.
“Mom, Dad,” Darian says, standing up from his chair, his guitar still in hand. “This is Rye.”
The words hang in the air for a moment. His girlfriend. He doesn’t say it but it’s there, in the way he reaches for my hand, in the way his parents look at me with sudden interest.
“And this is Lily,” Darian continues, his hand on my daughter’s shoulder now. “Rye’s daughter.”
Paul steps forward first, extending his hand to me. “Nice to finally meet you. We’ve been hearing about you for months.”
“All good things,” Helen adds quickly, appearing from behind her husband. I hadn’t even noticed her there. “Darian talks about you constantly.”
“Mom,” Darian warns.
“What? It’s true. Every phone call. ‘Rye thinks this’ and ‘Rye said that’ and ‘Rye wrote this incredible bridge for—’“
“Okay, that’s enough,” Darian says, but his ears are red.
Paul shakes my hand, his grip firm but gentle. “Nice to meet you, Rye.”
Helen doesn’t shake hands. She pulls me into a hug that smells like vanilla and something floral. “We’ve been dying to meet you,” she says into my ear. “Both of you.”
She releases me and turns to Lily, who’s been watching with wide eyes. “You must be the famous Lily. I hear you’re learning to ride horses.”
“Stormy’s teaching me,” Lily says, suddenly shy.
“Well, Stormy’s an excellent teacher. That girl knows her way around horses.”
“She’s been riding since she was six,” Levi calls from the grill. “Natural talent.”
“Unlike someone else I know,” Zara teases Darian. “Remember when you visited last year and wouldn’t even get in the paddock?”
“The horse looked at me funny,” Darian defends.
The tension in my chest eases slightly. They’re treating him the same, not putting on some formal show because I’m here. Maybe this will be okay.
Paul settles into the chair next to his son, and I watch them, the easy way they exist in the same space.
No performance, no pretense. Just a father and son sitting on a porch.
Helen sits on Darian’s other side, her hand occasionally reaching over to smooth his hair or pat his knee, little maternal gestures that he pretends to be annoyed by but doesn’t pull away from.
“How long are you visiting?” I ask, trying to make normal conversation while my heart still races from the formal introduction.
“Two weeks,” Helen says. “We try to come out twice a year since Zara and Levi got married.”
“Three times a year,” Paul corrects. “You came for that emergency when Poppy had croup.”
“That doesn’t count as a visit. That was crisis management.”
They bicker gently about visit frequencies while Darian catches my eye and mouths “sorry.” I shake my head. They’re not what I expected. I’d built them up in my head as these formal, judgmental people who would find me lacking. Instead, they’re just parents who clearly adore their kids.
Zara pulls out her own guitar, a beat-up Takamine that looks older than she is. They don’t plan what they’re playing, just fall into some old progression that they must have played a thousand times growing up. Their voices blend on the harmony, not perfect but real.