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)
Maybe that’s what Rye saw. Not just me teaching her daughter, but caring about it. Wanting Lily to understand music, not just play it.
The shop stays empty as afternoon fades into evening. The sun drops lower, painting long shadows across the floor. A few people walk by, peering in the windows, but the closed sign keeps them moving.
I practice for another hour, working through progressions that sound hopeful. My fingers find melodies I haven’t played in years, stuff from before Reverend Sister, before everything got complicated. Simple songs that exist just because they want to, not because they need to chart or sell or mean something profound.
At seven, I flip the lights off and lock up, making sure everything’s secure for Benny’s return tomorrow. The stairs to my apartment creak under my feet, each one singing its familiar note.
Inside, I make a sandwich and eat standing at the counter, looking out at Nashville coming alive for the night. Music drifts up from the bars below, mixing into that wall of sound that never quite stops in this city.
I think about Lily’s determination, her focus. The way she intuited techniques before I could teach them. That’s not normal for a ten-year-old. Hell, it’s not normal for most adults. She’s got something special.
Which is probably why Rye’s so protective. She knows what this industry does to people with talent. Chew it up, package it, sell it until there’s nothing left but the echo of what it used to be.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Rye: She’s been playing harmonics for an hour. She says to tell you she found two more positions that work.
I smile and type back: Tell her to try the third fret. But lightly. It’s subtle.
You’re encouraging her.
Is that bad?
No. It’s just . . . different. Good different.
Good different. I’ll take it.
The conversation ends there, but I know we’ll talk at ten. Really talk. About what this means, what it could become. Whether I can be trusted with something as precious as her daughter’s musical education.
I pick up my guitar again and play until the streetlights come on. Simple progressions that build into something more. Like a lesson that becomes a connection. Like a favor for Benny that becomes something unexpected.
Nine o’clock comes and goes. Then nine-thirty. I’m not nervous exactly, but I’m aware of the time in a way I usually aren’t. At nine forty-five, I make coffee, figuring I should be alert for whatever conversation we’re about to have.
At exactly ten, my phone rings.
“Hi,” Rye says when I answer.
“Hi.”
“Is this weird?”
“Which part?”
“All of it. You teaching Lily. Us talking about you teaching Lily. The fact that my daughter hasn’t stopped playing guitar since we got home.”
“Good weird or bad weird?”
“I don’t know yet.” She pauses. I hear what sounds like a door closing, maybe her going outside for privacy. “She’s never been like this about lessons before. Eager yes, but this is something completely different.”
“Like what?”
“Excited. Inspired. She usually practices because she’s supposed to. Tonight she’s practicing because she wants to.”
“That’s good, right?”
“It’s terrifying.”
“Why?”
“Because what happens when she wants more than I can give her? What happens when she’s good enough that people notice? What happens when the music industry starts circling?”
“She’s ten, Rye. That’s a long way off.”
“No, it’s not. Not with the internet. Not with social media. Kids go viral playing guitar in their bedrooms now. And Lily . . . she’s got that thing. You saw it.”
“I did.”
“So you understand why I’m scared.”
“I understand why you’re careful. There’s a difference.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Her father was a musician.”
I don’t say anything, sensing there’s more.
“Session player. Talented. Charming. Full of promises about the life we’d build together. Then I got pregnant and suddenly all those promises turned into excuses. He was gone before she was born.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. Not anymore. But it shaped how I see things. Musicians. The industry. The promises that turn into disappointment.”
“I get that.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re another talented musician making my daughter’s eyes light up. And I’ve seen how that story ends.”
“Not all stories end the same way.”
“No. But enough of them do.”
We sit with that truth for a moment. She’s not wrong. I’ve seen plenty of musicians leave destruction in their wake, intentional or not.
“What if we set clear boundaries?” I suggest. “I teach her once a week, when Benny can’t. Just technical stuff. No promises about anything beyond the next lesson.”
“You’d be okay with that?”
“It’s not about what I’m okay with. It’s about what you need to feel safe.”
“Lily won’t understand limitations like that.”
“Then we explain them. She’s smart. She’ll get it.”
“Maybe.” Another pause. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why do you care? About teaching her?”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Because she’s yours. Because when I was teaching her, I kept seeing pieces of you in how she approaches things. Her focus. Her determination. The way she won’t settle for just getting by.” I pause. “And because I miss you.”