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)
My phone buzzes with a text from Zara: How’s Nashville treating you?
I consider how to answer her. Hours ago, I would have said Nashville felt like every other music city—full of people trying to get discovered and venues trying to stay profitable. But watching Rye work changed something in my understanding of what music can be when it exists for its own sake rather than for what it might become.
Still figuring it out, I type back. But I think I found something interesting.
A song?
Maybe. A place where songs matter.
That’s the most hopeful text you’ve sent in months.
She’s right. For the first time since leaving LA, I feel something other than relief or regret. I feel curious about what Nashville might teach me if I stop hiding in my apartment and start paying attention.
Back at Rattlesnake Guitars, I climb the stairs to my apartment and immediately reach for the Martin. The progression I’ve been working on sounds different now—less like therapy and more like possibility.
But instead of the chords I’ve been playing for days, my fingers find something new. A rhythm that matches the way Rye moved through The Songbird, efficient and graceful and completely present.
I play for an hour, maybe longer, letting the melody develop without forcing it toward any particular destination. Outside, Nashville settles into its late-night rhythm—cars honking on the street below, distant music from venues that stay open past midnight, the joyous laughter of people walking home from the bars and shows.
When I finally set the guitar aside, I realize I’m looking forward to tomorrow in a way I haven’t since leaving California. Not because I have plans or appointments or places to be, but because Nashville might have something to offer me if I allow it.
And because something about the way Rye nodded at me—polite but interested. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself because I know our paths will cross again.
Soon, I hope. I want to understand how someone learns to protect music the way she protected it tonight. I want to know what kind of songs someone like that writes when no one’s listening because there isn’t a doubt in my mind she’s a writer.
Most of all, I want to discover whether the curiosity I saw in her eyes—gone so quickly I might have imagined it—means she’s wondering the same things about me.
The night air drifts through my open windows, carrying the sound of someone practicing guitar in a nearby apartment. The notes are hesitant, like someone working through an idea that hasn’t fully formed yet.
I know exactly how that feels.
I move toward the window and open it wider so I can hear whoever it is playing. Part of me wants to yell out into the open words of encouragement—like Zara had done for me when I was learning—but putting myself out there right now seems like such a massive step toward acceptance. That this is my life now, and I’m not there yet.
But for the first time in months, instead of feeling frustrated by the incomplete melody, I feel patient with it.
I settle into bed with that thought, grateful to Benny for pushing me out of my comfort zone and to The Songbird for reminding me why music matters more than the industry that packages it.
Tomorrow, I’ll write, and then maybe, just maybe I’ll find the courage to get on stage again.
Maybe.
rye
. . .
The last customer leaves at midnight. Gus, my bouncer, turns the key in the lock and then pockets it. He lets out an audible sigh as he makes his way to the back where I know he’ll check the bathrooms for any stragglers, as well as the windows, walk-in cooler, and the backdoor. The best part, he’ll linger until I tell him it’s okay to leave. He’s a gentleman and always wants to walk Jovie and I to our cars.
I blow out the mason jar candles one by one, watching smoke curl toward the exposed beams while Jovie counts the register behind the bar. Soft music—the filler music—plays over the sound system. I don’t pay attention to the songs because if I did, I’d spend the rest of the night wondering if they were songs that got their start here.
“Hell of a round.” Jovie’s voice carries across the empty room. “That kid from Georgia’s getting better. And Constance’s song about her ex? Brutal.”
I stack chairs onto tables. Four per table, legs twisted together, clear paths for morning cleaning. My hands know this routine, but my brain keeps drifting to table twelve.
The man who sat alone all night, nursing one beer and watching everything like he understood what it cost to get up there. Not hunting for the next big thing like the industry vultures. Not killing time like the tourists. Something else.
Something that he knew . . .
I’ve watched thousands of people listen to music in this room. Most treat it like background noise for their conversations. This guy listened differently. Like the songs mattered. Like the voices said more than the lyrics.