Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92749 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“You’re doing that thing again.” Jovie appears beside me, bar towel slung over her shoulder.
“What thing?”
“Stacking chairs in slow motion while your brain goes somewhere else.” She grins. “Usually means you’re thinking about next week’s lineup. Or whether we should book that terrible blues band again.”
I grab another chair. “Just thinking about tonight.”
“Uh-huh. Thinking about tonight, or thinking about the dark-haired stranger who sat by himself and signed up for Thursday?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right. That’s why you’ve looked at that clipboard six times since he left.” Jovie waves toward the stage where the sign-up sheet now sits. “Darian Mercer. Nice name. Looks like a songwriter’s name.”
“Every name looks like a songwriter's name,” I tell her, despite my mind recalling his rushed handwriting, as if he were second-guessing himself.
“You know, you usually don’t watch people sign up, and then rush over to check the board.”
I sigh heavily. “I wasn’t watching, and I didn’t rush.”
Maybe a little.
“I went to pick it up because it was already full.”
“Uh, huh,” she says, smirking. “Who is he?”
Shaking my head, I sigh. “Some guy who wanted to play Thursday. That’s literally all I know.”
“Some guy who made you forget to breathe for thirty seconds when he walked up to sign in.”
Fuck. She noticed that too.
“Maybe he just looked like someone who gets it,” I say finally.
“Gets what?”
“That music isn’t entertainment. That it’s . . .” I trail off because I sound like an idiot.
“That it’s what?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Jovie studies me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “When’s the last time you looked at a man like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you wanted to know what he was thinking.”
My phone buzzes against my hip before I can answer. Lily’s name fills the screen.
“Hey, baby girl.”
“Mama, I can’t sleep.” Her voice sounds small and tired. “My brain keeps making up scary stories about tomorrow.”
I settle onto one of the stools. “What kind of stories?”
“Like what if I mess up my song? What if everyone laughs? What if Mrs. O changes her mind and doesn’t let me perform?”
“Whoa. Remember what we do when your brain gets loud?”
“Take three deep breaths and find something that’s definitely true.”
“Exactly. So what’s definitely true right now?”
Lily pauses. Bedding rustles. “You love me no matter what happens tomorrow.”
“That’s definitely true. What else?”
“Mrs. O picked my song because she likes it, not because she wants me to fail in front of everyone.”
“Also true. One more.”
“Winny smells like the lavender spray, which means I’m safe in my room with my things.”
The knot in my chest loosens. “You’re getting good at this.”
“Will you sing the sleepy song?”
I glance around the empty venue. Jovie’s stopped cleaning and is listening with a soft expression I rarely see on her face.
“Right now?”
“Please? Grandma tried, but she does it wrong.”
Of course she does. Mom changes everything to make it her own, even lullabies.
“Okay. But quietly.”
I hum the opening, then sing the words I wrote when Lily was six and afraid of thunderstorms. Simple melody about brave girls and moonlight standing guard. Lily joins in on the chorus, her voice floating through the phone like a reminder of what actually matters.
“Thanks, Mama. My brain’s quieter now.”
“Good. Call me if it gets loud again, okay?”
“Okay. Love you bunches.”
“Love you bunches back.”
After we hang up, I sit in the silence.
“That was beautiful,” Jovie says quietly. “The song, but also how you talk to her.”
“She gets nervous before performances. You know how she gets before the showcase.”
“Tomorrow’s the big day, right? Her original song debut?” Jovie drops her cleaning rag. “You recording it?”
“If she doesn’t chicken out.” Pride sneaks into my voice. “Mrs. O says she has real potential.”
“Like her mama.”
The words hit me sideways. “I manage a venue. That’s different.”
“Bullshit.” Jovie crosses her arms. “You think I don’t see how you move during the good songs? How your fingers tap rhythms when something speaks to you? You’re not just managing this place. You’re curating it. That takes the same instincts that write songs.”
“Managing and curating aren’t the same thing.”
“Aren’t they? You create something new every time you book a lineup. You find voices that work together, build evenings that tell stories. That’s composition.”
I want to argue, but something about her words digs under my skin. The truth is, I do think about programming like songwriting. How voices interact, where to place quiet moments, where to build energy.
“It’s not the same,” I repeat, but my voice sounds hollow.
“Whatever.” Jovie grins and goes back to cleaning. “All I know is mysterious guitar players don’t usually make venue managers forget to breathe unless something about them speaks to the musical part of their brains.”
My cheeks burn. “I already told you—”
“I know what you told me. I also know protective deflection when I hear it.” Jovie hangs the towel on its hook. “The question is, what are you protecting yourself from?”