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)
“I’m not coming to LA.”
“Excuse me?”
“If Rex wants to work with me, we do it in Nashville. I’ve got access to a world-class studio here, better session musicians than you’ll find anywhere else, and the sound he’s looking for. He’s familiar with the scene here so it’s not out of the question.”
“The label expects—”
“The label expects a great album. I can deliver that from here. If Rex is serious about wanting me specifically, then location shouldn’t matter.”
“I’ll need to discuss this with Rex and the label.”
“You do that. But make it clear this isn’t negotiable. Nashville or nothing.”
I end the call and slip my phone into my pocket. Through the curtain, I see Rye check her watch. It’s almost time.
The house lights dim as I walk onto the stage. There’s maybe fifty people here tonight—regulars mostly, plus Rye and Lily, my sister- and brother-in-law, Stormy and Willow. Not the packed house we had last week, which is perfect. This isn’t about the crowd.
“Evening,” I say into the mic, adjusting the guitar strap. “Got something new tonight. Well, new to you. I’ve been working on it for a while.”
I don’t look at Rye, not yet. Instead, I focus on the opening chord progression, the one she helped me figure out two weeks ago when we were supposed to be fixing the sound board but ended up writing instead.
The song starts quiet, just fingerpicking and my voice barely above a whisper. It’s about finding home in unexpected places, about choosing to stay when everything in your history says run. About a woman who runs a venue and sees through bullshit, and a little girl who wants to learn guitar.
I wrote it for them, even if they don’t know it yet.
Halfway through the second verse, I finally look at their table. Lily’s eyes are wide, completely absorbed in the performance. But Rye—she knows. I can see it in the way her hand grips her glass, the way her shoulders tense with recognition.
The bridge is where the song opens up, where the fear gives way to certainty. My voice cracks slightly on the line about promises being replaced by presence, but I push through. This is the most honest thing I’ve written in years.
When the last note fades, the small crowd applauds politely. Lily claps enthusiastically, bouncing in her seat. Rye doesn’t move at all.
“Thanks,” I tell the audience. “I’m going to take a quick break.”
I leave the Martin on its stand and head backstage, knowing she’ll follow. The narrow hallway behind the stage smells like old wood and fresh paint from where we patched the walls last week. I lean against the wall, waiting.
She appears less than a minute later, leaving Lily with my family.
“That song,” she starts.
“Was for you. Both of you.”
She stops a few feet away, close enough that I can see the war happening behind her eyes. “You can’t just—”
“Would you ever let me stay?”
The question hangs between us like a held breath. It’s the real question, the one hiding under all our careful dancing around each other.
She looks at me for a long moment, and I think she might walk away. “Would you ever let me fall?”
The counter-question hits harder than any answer would have. She’s not asking if I’ll catch her—she’s asking if I’ll let her trust me enough to risk falling in the first place.
“Every day if you want to.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s exactly what you asked. You want to know if I’ll let you be vulnerable, if I’ll hold space for you to risk everything the way you’ve been afraid to since your ex left. The answer is yes.”
She steps closer, close enough that I have to look down to meet her eyes. “I told Laura no,” I continue. “Called Rex’s team directly. Told them if they want me, they can find me here.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yes, I did. Not for you, for me. Because I’m tired of running toward things that look good on paper but feel empty. Because teaching Lily guitar matters more than any producing credit. Because what we’re building here—the music, the venue, whatever this is between us—it’s worth more than anything they’re offering.”
Her hand finds my face, thumb tracing my jaw. “You’re sure?”
“Never more sure of anything.”
“Even though I’m complicated and have walls and might push you away when I get scared?”
“Especially then.”
She rises up on her toes, and I meet her halfway. The kiss is different from our others—no desperation, no fear, just acknowledgment. We’re choosing this, choosing each other, with all the messiness that entails.
When we break apart, she keeps her hand on my face. “You really told them Nashville or nothing?”
“I really did.”
“What if they say no?”
“Then they say no. I’ll find other work. Bishop’s got connections. There’s session work. Hell, I could teach guitar full time if I needed to.”