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)
“Yeah,” I say, and mean it. “I’m ready.”
The party can wait another minute. Right now, I just want to stand here in this moment where I remember who I am when I’m not trying to be anyone else. A singer. A mother. A woman who loves a man who makes her grilled cheese at three in the morning. An artist who found her voice by finally listening to it.
The contracts, negotiations and interviews can all wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I’m just Rye, walking into a party on the arm of a man who sees me clearly, carrying the echo of my daughter’s pride and my own voice finally, finally set free.
darian
. . .
The smell of coffee pulls me from sleep. Real coffee, not the instant shit I used to drink on tour buses between cities. I stretch across the bed. Rye’s side is cold but her pillow still smells like coconut shampoo. I press my face into it before laughter from downstairs gets me moving.
Saturday mornings at Rye’s are different now. No alarms. No schedule. No phone calls about interviews or photo shoots. Just the three of us.
I pull on yesterday’s jeans and a shirt from the drawer Rye cleared for me last month. Having a drawer here should mean something bigger than it does. Instead it just feels normal.
Downstairs, Lily sits on the kitchen counter with her acoustic guitar, picking out a melody while Rye flips pancakes at the stove. The radio plays something bluesy. Neither of them sees me yet.
“That progression needs something,” Lily says, adjusting her fingers on the fretboard. “It’s too predictable.”
“Add a minor seventh,” Rye suggests without turning around. “After the second measure.”
Lily tries it and the melody shifts. “Better. How’d you know?”
“Years of practice.” Rye glances over her shoulder and sees me. “Morning.”
“Coffee’s on the counter,” Lily says without looking up. “Made it strong.”
I pour a mug, black, and move behind Rye, arm around her waist. She leans back against me.
“How many?” she asks, holding up the spatula.
“Three. Maybe four.”
“Definitely four,” Lily says. “He ate half my fries last night.”
“You offered them.”
“I offered you some. Not half.”
Rye laughs. “There’s plenty.”
I grab plates from the cabinet. Third shelf, left side. Knowing exactly where things are still surprises me sometimes.
Lily starts playing again, something I don’t recognize. Original, probably. She’s been writing more, filling notebooks with lyrics and chord progressions.
“Play that again,” I say, setting the plates down.
She does. There’s something raw in the melody. Unpolished but real.
“You write that?”
“Yesterday.” She stays focused on her fingers. “Still working out the bridge.”
“Mind if I . . .” I gesture to the guitar.
She hands it over. I play through what she showed me, then add a variation on the bridge, borrowing from an old blues progression but twisting it. Lily watches my fingers.
“That works,” she says. “Can you show me?”
I walk her through it slowly, positioning her fingers on the frets. Rye keeps cooking but watches us in the microwave door reflection.
“Try it from the top,” I say, handing the guitar back.
Lily plays through the whole piece with the new bridge. It’s rough in places, her fingers still learning the transitions, but the structure is solid.
“What do you think?” she asks Rye.
“I think you’re gonna need a bigger notebook.”
The pancakes are perfect. Fluffy, edges crispy, with real maple syrup. We eat standing around the island, passing the syrup between us.
“Can we play more music later?” Lily asks. “Like we did last week?”
She means the three of us in the home studio Rye set up in the spare room. We’ve been messing around in there. Nothing serious, just playing.
“I’m in,” Rye says, licking syrup off her thumb. “Darian?”
“Yeah.”
After breakfast, we head to the spare room studio. Basic recording equipment, a keyboard, enough space for the three of us. Lily brings her guitar, Rye takes the keyboard, I pick up the bass. We don’t discuss what to play. Lily starts with a simple progression, Rye adds harmony, and I find the bass-line underneath.
It’s messy at first. We clash on tempo changes, step on each other’s phrases. But something works in the imperfection. This isn’t about performance. It’s just us.
Lily hums a melody over the music. Wordless but expressive. Rye harmonizes and their voices blend. I keep the bass-line steady, letting them wander.
We play for an hour, maybe more. Songs blend together, originals mixing with covers, jazz becoming rock becoming blues. At some point we’re playing one of my old songs but it’s different. Lily’s guitar work makes it hungrier. Rye’s keys add complexity it never had.
“That was good,” Lily says when we stop.
She’s right. But more than good, it was honest. Three people making music because they want to.
Lily heads upstairs to shower. Rye stays at the keyboard, fingers moving over the keys without pressing them.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Just . . . this.” She gestures at the room, the instruments. “I didn’t think I’d have this again.”