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)
“It’s nice to finally meet you. Levi has told me a lot about you.”
All good, I hope.
“Same.”
He waves away my comment and nods toward the front window, where the first hint of sunrise paints the horizon pink. “Nashville’s got a way of messing with my sleep. Too much music in the air—keeps your brain spinning.” He sips his coffee, studying me with the kind of casual attention that misses nothing. “You settling in okay up there?”
“I will be.” I run my thumb along the neck of a nearby acoustic, feeling for the subtle bow that tells you how often an instrument gets played. This one’s been loved. “Thanks again for the space. I know renting to musicians isn’t exactly a safe bet.”
Benny chuckles lightly. “If it weren’t Levi vouching for you, it would’ve been your sister. She’s a firecracker, that one. She could sell me oceanfront property in Arizona.” Benny moves to the front door, flipping locks and adjusting the Open sign even though it looks like customers won’t show up for hours. “Besides, this building’s been housing musicians since the 1940s. Some famous, some not, all of them trying to figure out what comes next. The walls are used to it by now.”
“Who lived here before me?”
“Kid named Knox Harper. Songwriter. Had some cuts on country radio before he moved out.” Benny gestures toward the corner where two stools and a small PA system wait under a hand-painted sign reading Acoustic Corner. “He used to play down here sometimes. Good for business, good for the soul.”
The offer hangs unspoken between us. I could see myself sitting there, playing my guitar for no one, yet everyone. I’m at a crossroads in my life. I don’t know if I’m coming or going, or where I need to be. Part of me wants to jump back into band life, especially with Zara. Another part of me wants to write songs and let others sing them.
“You know, I might take you up on that sometime.”
“No pressure. Music finds its own schedule.” Benny moves toward an early bird customer who’s just walked in—an older woman examining a mandolin with the careful attention of someone who knows what she’s looking for. “Let me know if you need anything,” he calls over his shoulder, already shifting into shop-owner mode.
I take the hint and head back upstairs, feeling oddly comforted by his easy acceptance. No questions about my past, no expectations about my future. Just space to figure things out.
Upstairs, I survey the mess. I either unpack now or go to sleep, although going to bed requires me to unpack my bedding and actually make the bed. I sigh heavily and attack the boxes with methodical efficiency. Kitchen supplies find homes in cabinets that smell like Murphy’s Oil Soap. Books are stacked on built-in shelves that look like someone painted white decades ago. Clothes fill a dresser and closet barely large enough for my LA wardrobe.
The last box weighs twice as much as the others. I slice through the tape and lift out my amp—a vintage Fender Twin Reverb that’s been with me since my first paying gig. Beneath it, my electric guitar rests in its case: a custom Stratocaster built by a luthier in Fullerton who charged me three months’ rent but delivered an instrument that sounds like molten gold through the right speakers.
I set up both guitars by the windows, where the morning light streams in golden and warm. The Martin leans against the wall like she belongs here. The Strat waits on its stand, patient and ready.
My phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call. Zara’s name fills the screen.
“Please tell me you didn’t drive all night,” she says before I can get a word out. Behind her, I catch glimpses of her home studio—gold records on the walls, family photos scattered across her desk, the organized chaos of someone who makes music for a living.
“I got some sleep . . .” Another lie, but a harmless one.
“Darian.” Her voice carries a particular mix of exasperation and love that only older sisters master. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks. Really needed to hear that this morning.”
“I’m serious. When’s the last time you ate something that didn’t come from a gas station?”
I consider the beef jerky and energy drinks that sustained me from California to Tennessee. “Define ‘real food.’”
“Oh my God.” She disappears from frame for a second, then returns with a coffee mug that reads World’s Okayest Mom—a gift from her stepdaughters. “There’s a place called Mas Tacos two blocks from you. Rosa makes the best breakfast burritos in all of Nashville. Promise me you’ll go there today.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Now show me the apartment.”
I flip the phone around, giving her a tour of my new life: the small kitchen with its vintage appliances, the living area with my guitars of course, the view from the window that overlooks a neighborhood coming to life. A woman walks past carrying a violin case. A man in paint-splattered clothes sets up an easel on the sidewalk across the street.