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 complicated.”
“Complicated how? Because this melody . . .” He gestures at the speakers like the music is still hanging in the air. “This isn’t your usual style. There’s something vulnerable here. Female perspective, if I had to guess.”
I think about Rye at The Songbird’s piano, humming fragments that night when the venue was closed. The way she pulled melodies from nowhere like she was remembering something that already existed.
“Her name’s Rye. She’s not signed anywhere.”
Bishop’s eyebrows shoot up. “Is she looking for representation? Because with melodies like this—”
“That’s not how she works.”
The words come out sharper than intended. Bishop holds up his hands in mock surrender, but he’s smiling.
“Protective. I get it.” He swivels back to the board, pulling up the track’s waveform on his computer. “Look, I’ll be straight with you. This could be something. Real something, not Nashville something. But it needs her voice on it, not just her melody.”
“I know.”
“You talk to her about recording it properly? My studio time, my engineers, standard co-write split?”
I shake my head. “She doesn’t even know I finished the production.”
Bishop whistles low. “You’re playing with fire, brother. Taking someone’s melody without—”
“I’m not taking anything. I’m trying to give her something.” The defense comes quick, maybe too quick. “She writes these pieces, these fragments, but never finishes them. Never lets them become what they could be.”
“And you think you know what they could be?”
“I think I hear it, yeah.”
Bishop studies me for a long moment. The guy’s got a reputation for spotting talent early, for being the producer artists seek out when they’re ready to level up.
“You’re not talking about just the song, are you?”
I don’t answer. Don’t need to.
He sighs and saves the file to his system. “Alright. Here’s what I can do. I’ll hold studio time next week, Thursday and Friday. Prime slots. If you can get her here, we’ll cut this properly. Full production, session musicians if needed, the works.”
“And if I can’t?”
“Then you’ve got a beautiful demo that’ll never see daylight because you’re too decent to release someone else’s heart without permission.”
The truth of it sits heavy in the room. Bishop’s already pulling up his calendar, blocking out the time. He believes in this song, maybe more than I do. But he doesn’t understand that Rye isn’t someone you convince or pressure or dazzle with studio time. She’s someone who has to choose it herself, every time.
“Send me her info,” Bishop says. “I’ll have legal draw up—”
“No.”
He pauses, fingers hovering over his keyboard.
“No contracts, no lawyers, no official anything until she decides she wants that. If she wants that.”
“That’s not how this business works.”
“I know how this business works. That’s why I’m doing it differently.”
Bishop leans back, crossing his arms. “You really think she’ll just show up? No guarantees, no contracts, nothing?”
“I think if I approach her the industry way, she’ll run. And she should.” I stand, suddenly needing to move. The control room feels too small, too full of possibilities I might be building alone. “This has to be her choice. Real choice, not the kind where we pretend there are options but really we’re just steering toward the outcome we want.”
“You’ve got it bad.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Sure it’s not.” Bishop’s voice carries thirty years of watching musicians fall for each other, usually badly. “But whatever it is, that song deserves to exist. Full version, proper recording, her voice on it.”
I head for the door, then turn back. “Thursday and Friday?”
“I’ll hold them. But Darian?” He waits until I meet his eyes. “Don’t be so noble you let something good slip away. Sometimes protecting people from opportunities is just another kind of control.”
The drive back to my place takes forty minutes in good traffic, fifty in bad. Today it takes forever because I’m thinking about what Bishop said, about protection being control wearing a nicer suit.
My apartment’s quiet when I get back, just me and the guitars leaning against the wall. Good. I need to do this alone.
I need to find a way to reach her. My notebook sits on the kitchen counter where I left it after she brought it back. She has her own lyric book—I’ve seen her writing in it at The Songbird. That’s where I need to leave the message. Somewhere she’ll find it but can choose to ignore it if she wants.
I tear a page from my own notebook, the one filled with half-finished songs and whiskey-stained margins. My handwriting looks rough against the clean paper, but maybe that’s appropriate.
It’s a good song. Let’s finish it.
Simple. Direct. No pressure about studio time or Bishop’s enthusiasm or the way I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her melody since she hummed it into existence. Just an acknowledgement and an offer.
I fold the note once and pocket it. Tomorrow I’ll find a way to get it to her - maybe leave it at The Songbird when she’s not around, or slip it under her office door. There are boundaries that matter, lines that mean something even when approaching someone who’s pulled back.