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)
“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.”