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)
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
She pours, studies us both with the assessment of someone who’s seen every kind of human interaction, then disappears again.
“The wall looks good,” I say, because someone needs to say something.
“Jovie did the painting.”
“I know.” I take a sip of coffee that’s still too hot. “Thank you. You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to help.”
“Why?”
The question hangs between us. He turns his mug in slow circles on the table, watching the coffee swirl. “Because I understand what it’s like when something you’ve built starts falling apart.”
“Your band.”
He nods. “Among other things.”
“It must be nice to be able to walk away when it gets too hard.”
The words come out sharper than intended. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t defend himself. “Sometimes walking away is the only way to survive it.”
“And sometimes staying and fighting is.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Fighting?”
“Every day.” The admission surprises me. “This venue, this life—I fought for all of it. Still am.”
“I wasn’t trying to make things harder for you.”
“I know.” I stare into my coffee. “That almost makes it worse.”
“Why?”
Because kindness without agenda terrifies me more than cruelty with purpose. Because the melody you played last night knew things about me I’ve kept locked away. Because you make me remember who I was before I decided safety mattered more than music.
“It’s complicated,” I say instead.
“Most real things are.”
Denise appears with the coffee pot, refilling both mugs without being asked. The interruption gives me time to study him. He looks tired, but not the exhaustion of sleepless nights. This goes deeper—the kind of tired that comes from fighting battles with yourself.
“I heard you playing,” I admit. “Last night. At the piano bar.”
His head snaps up. “Murphy’s? I didn’t see you.”
“I didn’t go in. I was walking around after I closed and heard . . .” I trail off, unable to name what I heard. “It was beautiful.”
“It was just something I was working through.”
“About her? Your ex?”
“No.” His eyes meet mine. “Not about her.”
The weight of what he’s not saying presses against my ribs. I should leave. Should maintain the boundaries I set for good reasons. But something about sitting across from him in this worn booth, both of us raw from our respective battles, makes pretense feel pointless.
“I used to write,” I hear myself say. “Songs. Real ones, not just venue schedules and inventory lists.”
“What happened?”
“Someone I trusted took my words and made them his. Told me I was his muse, then left with three notebooks full of my life turned into his album.”
“Your daughter’s father.”
“How did you know I have a daughter?”
“The other night at the venue, you mentioned needing to get home to her.”
“Right.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “But no, it wasn’t him. Someone else I foolishly trusted.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It taught me valuable lessons about trusting musicians with anything that matters.”
“Including me.”
“Especially you.”
“Why especially me?”
Because you understand music the way I used to. Because you looked at that room full of people and sang to the ghosts instead. Because when you play, I remember what it felt like to believe songs could save us.
“Because you’re actually talented,” I say. “The mediocre ones are easier to dismiss.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing this. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s supposed to be the truth.”
“The truth.” He leans back in the booth. “Okay. Truth is, I can’t stop thinking about that harmony we played. The one you didn’t write down.”
My chest tightens. “That was just—”
“Real. It was real, Rye. Whatever else you want to call it, it was two people making something that mattered.”
“Music isn’t enough.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s something.”
“Something that complicates everything.”
“Or maybe something that makes the complications worth it.”
I want to argue, to maintain the walls that keep me safe. But sitting here with morning light streaming through windows that need cleaning, watching him turn his coffee mug in endless circles, I’m tired of pretending music doesn’t matter.
“I threw away my lyrics last night,” I admit. “Tore them up and tossed them in the venue trash.”
Something flickers across his face. Guilt? “Why?”
“Because they were about things I can’t want. About someone I can’t let in.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it matter?”
“I think it does.”
Denise appears again, this time with a plate of toast neither of us ordered. She sets it between us. “You both look like you need to eat something. Don’t argue.”
She walks away before we can tell her we aren’t hungry. Darian picks up a piece of toast, tears it in half, offers me one piece. The gesture is so simple, so devoid of expectation, that I take it.
We eat in silence, two people who’ve said too much and not enough. The toast tastes like comfort and possibility, like maybe sharing something small doesn’t have to lead to losing everything.
“I have an unfinished song,” I say suddenly. “Something I started years ago but could never complete.”