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)
“I bet she gets that from her mom.”
“Gets what?”
“The terrified and brilliant part. The part that creates beauty even when it’s scary.”
Something shifts in her expression, defenses lowering just slightly. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“I know you well enough to know you write lyrics in the margins of inventory sheets when you think no one’s looking. I know you hum harmony lines while you’re cleaning, unconscious melodies that are usually better than most professional songwriters manage on purpose.” I lean forward. “I know you touched my back when I left the other night because part of you didn’t want me to go.”
“Observation skills.”
“Experience.”
She turns away, starts wiping down clean glasses with deliberate focus. “Your family won’t like me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m complicated. Because I come with baggage and boundaries and a child who needs stability.”
“You think that disqualifies you from dinner?”
“I think it disqualifies me from whatever you’re hoping this becomes.”
“What am I hoping this becomes?”
She sets down the glass and finally meets my eyes. “Something I can’t give you.”
“What if I’m not asking for anything you can’t give?”
“Everyone asks for more than they say they want.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“No,” she agrees quietly. “You’re not.”
We stare at each other across the bar, two people who’ve said too much and not enough. I can see her calculating risks, weighing the safety of solitude against the possibility of connection.
“One dinner,” I say again. “If it’s awful, you never have to see them again. If it’s not . . .” I shrug. “We’ll figure out what comes next.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“And Lily?”
“What about her?”
“If I meet your family, and she starts asking questions about where I went and who I was with . . .”
“Tell her the truth. That you had dinner with friends.”
“Are we friends?”
The question carries weight, implication. I consider it seriously, thinking about the easy intimacy of our recording sessions, the way she trusts me with her music even when she won’t trust me with anything else.
“I hope we’re more than that,” I say honestly. “But if friends is where you’re comfortable starting, then we’re friends.”
She nods slowly, like she’s making a decision that scares her. “Sunday.”
“Sunday.”
“What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at five. It’s a forty-minute drive to the ranch.”
“I can drive myself.”
“You could. But then I’d spend the whole night wondering if you’d bolt halfway through dinner.”
“I might bolt anyway.”
“At least if we drive together, I can try to talk you out of it. And if you decide to bolt during dinner, Levi has a couple horses. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you saddled one up and took it to the city.”
A real smile breaks across her face, the first genuine one I’ve seen in days. She paused for a long time, and I swear I could see the wheels turning in her head.
“If I go, what should I expect?”
“Chaos. Laughter. Levi grilling steaks that are too big for human consumption. Stormy asking inappropriate questions about our relationship status. Willow playing guitar until someone makes her stop. Zara watching everything like she’s taking notes for later interrogation.”
“Sounds overwhelming.”
“It is. But it’s also . . .” I search for the right word. “Home. Family. They’re why I’m here and not sitting in some bar, nursing my wounds in Los Angeles or . . .” I shrug.
“Sunday,” she says again, like she’s testing the word.
“Sunday.”
“Five o’clock.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Five o’clock.”
Sunday arrives gray and humid, the kind of Tennessee afternoon that promises storms later. I pull up outside The Songbird at exactly five o’clock, palms sweating against the steering wheel like I’m seventeen again and picking up my first date.
The venue sits dark and quiet. I’m reaching for my phone to text Rye when she appears from the side entrance, locking the door behind her.
She’s wearing a sundress the color of faded denim, hair loose around her shoulders instead of the practical ponytail she wears at work. She looks nervous and beautiful and like she’s already regretting this decision.
“You’re early,” she says, walking toward the car.
“Actually, I’m exactly on time. You’re ready early.”
“Second thoughts?”
“Third and fourth thoughts. But I’m here.”
“That’s what matters.”
The drive to the ranch passes in comfortable silence broken by occasional directions and observations about the changing landscape. Rye watches the countryside roll past her window, and I catch myself stealing glances at her profile when traffic allows.
“Tell me about them,” she says when we turn onto the gravel road leading to Levi’s property. “Your family. What should I know?”
“Zara’s going to study you like you’re a song she’s trying to learn. She’s protective, especially since everything that happened with Van.”
“Van?”
“You Googled me, but didn’t read about Van?”
Rye lifts her shoulder.
“Do you remember when we were working on the song and I told you about my best friend, and former bandmate? The one I considered my brother?” I don’t wait for her to answer before continuing. “That’s Van, Zara’s ex. She caught him cheating.”