Текст книги "Missing Dixie"

Автор книги: Caisey Quinn

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“Hey, what grade are you in?”

“First,” he says quietly. “But I don’t really go to school much. They don’t like me there.”

I remember that. Being the addict’s kid, being dirty, being made fun of. You learn how to use your fists instead of your words pretty quickly. “Well, I like you. And I know Miss Dixie likes you. Maybe we can just have school right here. I bet she could teach us some stuff.”

He actually almost smiles. He wants to smile.

I know why.

It’s her. If anyone could reach this kid, it’s her.

She reached me, after all.

“Have you seen her out here recently?”

He nods. “She went for a walk. She asked me to go but Mrs. Lawson told me not to go past this point and I didn’t want to get . . .”

“Punished?” I finish for him because I know exactly what he’s afraid of. Thankfully I put what he’s afraid of in the hospital.

He just nods and looks away again. My instinct is to nudge him lightly but I don’t because I know better. It took me years before I was okay with unexpected physical contact.

I glance over my shoulder and see Mrs. Lawson standing at her back patio door talking on the phone. I wave and she lifts a hand in response.

“For the record, Mrs. Lawson’s brand of punishment isn’t so bad,” I say instead. “She’d just make you let her cat tell you your future.”

One corner of his mouth perks up. “She already did. He’s over there.”

The darker of the two cats belonging to Dixie’s neighbor is hiding under a patio chair.

“I think my future was bad,” the kid next to me says. “Mrs. Lawson wouldn’t tell me what it said but she’s been on the phone crying for a long time.”

“Liam,” I hear Dixie say in my head. “His name is Liam.”

“Nah,” I say with a shrug. “Mrs. Lawson gets emotional sometimes. I wouldn’t worry about it, Liam.”

He angles his neck to face me and his eyebrows are raised. “How did you know my name?” His eyes are guarded, like this must be some sort of trick. I can already see him retreating.

“Miss Dixie told me,” I answer, hoping that calms him.

“She’s nice to me,” he says quietly.

“She’s a nice lady.”

“Is she yours?”

Huh. His question throws me and I’m left gaping stupidly for a few seconds.

Is Dixie Lark mine?

I scratch my chin, remembering I need to shave, and cross my ankles out in front of me.

“Miss Dixie is her own woman. She doesn’t belong to anyone but herself. But I hope, one day, that she will be with me because she chooses to. People can’t really belong to other people exactly.”

“Kids belong to parents,” he argues.

“Kind of,” I agree. “But not like possessions. Not like your baseball cards belong to you or your dog belongs to you. More like . . . you get . . .” I don’t know what word I’m looking for but I’m struggling to find it.

“Stuck with them?”

Christ this kid is beating what little unbattered fraction of a soul I have left to hell and back.

“No, Liam. Not stuck.” I watch his face to make sure I’m not upsetting him. “If the universe or the powers that be see fit to give a person a kid, they should consider themselves lucky. They should be the best parent that they can. They shouldn’t . . .”

Get high. Disappear. Let the kid starve half to death before bringing home three-day-old pizza and calling it dinner.

I close my eyes because now I’m upsetting my fucking self.

“ . . . mistreat them,” I finally bring myself to say.

“But sometimes they do,” he says quietly, somehow reading my mind. Do kids read minds? God, I hope not.

“Liam,” Mrs. Lawson calls from her porch. “Come back inside and eat something, please.”

“I gotta go.” He stands and his shirt rides up enough that I can see old scars down his spine. My rage flares and I regret for a moment that I didn’t go ahead and kill Carl Andrews and do this kid and the world a favor.

“Okay. Nice talking to you.”

He nods and then walks quickly and stiffly over to Mrs. Lawson.

I watch the blue finches come and go for a while, and wonder the entire time where my Bluebird went.

21 | Dixie

AFTER A WALK around the block, my head is slightly clearer. But so is my frustration.

Gavin is sitting out back on the bench when I return.

“So everything is my fault then? I went to college and all hell broke lose and it’s entirely my fault?” I demand in place of a greeting. I cross my arms over my chest as I approach and wait for him to say something that makes any of this better.

Gavin stands and paces back and forth for a minute before turning to face me.

“No. It was my fault. Because I fucking loved you, I fucking missed you, and I didn’t feel like it would do anyone any good for you to know that.” He runs both hands through his hair, leaving it sticking up wildly all over the place.

“You should’ve told me, Gav. But I should’ve told you, too. We’ve kept so much from each other and now it’s just—”

“Please do not say hopeless.” His pleading eyes meet mine and he shakes his head. “I don’t know what it is right now but I know it’s not hopeless.”

There is just so much. The drugs, the girls, the accident. And all of it concealed from me, hidden away as if it were possible for me to keep living in my safe little bubble.

I shake my head because it feels like a jumbled mess inside it. I can’t think straight, can’t organize my thoughts into a coherent stream that I’m capable of making sense of.

“I was sure you’d meet someone there, someone worthy of you. I looked at my life and saw how pathetic it was. I didn’t think I’d ever be capable of giving you what you deserved so I just . . . gave up. Not just on you or us but on myself, too. I let the temptations pull me under and it took nearly killing my best friend to make me realize how bad off I actually was.”

I can hear his words and I know that if I could let them in past the lies and the pain of being in the dark for so long, they would probably help somehow. But right now it’s just too much, it’s all too much.

Gavin isn’t much of a talker and for the first time ever, I want him to return to the broody, silent version of himself so I can try to figure out how to make what has happened okay. How to make peace with the past so that I can figure out whether we have a future.

I’m one second from covering my ears like a child to keep his words out when he delivers the crushing blow to my soul.

“Ashley helped me, she represented me when no one else would. She accepted what I could give and it sort of turned into a . . . thing, I guess. But after Austin, I ended it. I swear to God, I have not touched her since. But she’s still my attorney, she’s a pretty damn good one, and she knows my case and is doing her best to get my probation ended early so that I can be a part of Leaving Amarillo—and not the anchor that weighs the band down and keeps us from playing out-of-state gigs.” He swallows hard and stares at me with that look, that please-don’t-hate-me-I’m-only-a-clueless-guy look. I frown, trying to sort my feelings in my head before I open my mouth and say something I can’t take back. “Tell me what I can do, Bluebird. What I can say or do to make it better, to keep from hurting you. Please. Whatever you want or need, I will do. Name it.”

A desperate Gavin. This is a switch. Typically it was me doing the begging and pleading and trying to push him into recognizing what we had. But now the tables have turned and I don’t know what side either of us is really on.

“I don’t know,” I say softly. “I’m just . . . there’s so much I didn’t know and this other girl in your life that I can’t compete with and honestly, I don’t think I want to even—”

He cuts my sentence short by rushing forward and taking my hands in his. The contact assaults my exposed nerves. “I ended it with no room for doubt. I told her I would get the money I owed as soon as I could and I’ve been paying her weekly from my check. She still comes around every now and then, either because she’s lonely or bored, or hell if I know, but I told her in no uncertain terms that I don’t want that in my life anymore. I’m done with that kind of life—with temporary highs and empty relationships. With using sex as currency or as just a means to an end. I want this, what you and I have, what you and I could have if I stopped getting in my own way.”

“Just . . .” I look down at our connected hands, then helplessly up at him, hating that I’m hurting him, hating that I can’t just say it’s okay. My instinct is to soothe him, to make it all better, to shine the light on the darkness within him. But this time I am lost in darkness, too, and I can’t figure out how to get either of us out. “Maybe just give me some space, okay? I need to think and I can’t think right now with everything so . . .”

The initial hurt of being asked to leave by the one person who has always wanted him to stay flickers fast across his features but he schools them quickly and nods, allowing his hands to slip from mine. The shutters he usually keeps between us slam shut in his eyes and I am on the outside once again—no longer privy to the inner workings of Gavin Garrison.

“Okay. I have to be at work tonight so I should go, anyway. But please know I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you or Dallas.” A beat later, just before walking out of my yard and maybe out of my life, he adds, “You’re all I’ve got.”

If I ever wrote a book, I think I’d call it “A View from Rock Bottom,” because that’s where I am right now.

When a knock comes at my door I’m literally lying facedown on my living room floor.

I should probably sweep soon. It’s apparently filthy at rock bottom. There’s dust under the coffee table and what I think might be an old sock under the couch.

He opened up, told the truth, all of it, even the ugly parts I asked for, and I shut him out. I let him go.

As painful as our conversation was, I’d rather have it a hundred times over day after day than see that cold, empty look he gave me when he left.

Gavin is the one person I’d do anything not to hurt; he’s also the one person I know would never cause me pain on purpose.

So why do we keep destroying each other?

I’m still contemplating this when I peel myself up off the floor and make my way toward the knocking.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” I call out, assuming it’s Robyn on the other side of the door. I texted her and Dallas both that I needed to talk ASAP right after Gavin left and upon checking my phone, I realize it’s been nearly enough time for the drive from Dallas to Amarillo. Jesus. That was a good chunk of the afternoon I spent on the floor.

I’m a bit surprised when I pull the door open to find Liam and Mrs. Lawson on my porch.

“Well, hey there, y’all,” I say, forcing myself to sound less dead than I feel. “Come on in.”

I step aside, pulling the door completely open. They do come inside but only just barely.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Mrs. Lawson says, giving me a hug and enveloping me in her potent rose-scented perfume. I love the woman, but she’s like a walking potpourri dish.

“Hi, Mrs. Lawson. Everything okay?” I glance down at Liam, who looks somber and maybe a little sleepy.

“Oh everything’s fine,” she tells me in her singsong voice. “It’s just that I’m having my monthly bridge club dinner and Liam here has had just about enough of old ladies gossiping, I’m afraid.” She smiles down at him before whisper conspiratorially to me. “You know that Mrs. Emerson from Atlanta, she moved into the old Johnson house on Lane Avenue? She’s got the best stories,” my neighbor continues without waiting for my answer. “She can’t make a decent thumbprint jelly cookie to save her life but it’s worth inviting her for the stories.”

Her gray eyes twinkle with excitement and the promise of more gossip so I do Liam and me both a favor.

“Actually I was getting pretty hungry and thought I’d grab a late supper in town.” I decide it’s best to give Liam a choice instead of making him feel like he got dumped off on me. “I’d love some company, Liam, if you’re interested.”

His eyebrows lift and his eyes perk up a little. “Um, okay. That’d be okay, I guess.”

“I can pick him up once the ladies clear out,” Mrs. Lawson tells me, but I wave her off.

“He can spend the night here if he’d like. Dallas’s room is empty and I have sleeping bags if he’d like to camp out here tonight.”

It’s like I said a magic word. Liam lights up like I just told him I had the Golden Ticket or a secret entrance to Hogwarts in my attic.

“What do you think, Liam?” Mrs. Lawson looks at him expectantly. “Want to camp out with Miss Dixie for the night?”

As if he realizes he’s been too obvious with his excitement, he shoves his hands into his pockets the same way Gavin does when he’s trying to pull himself inward. “Whatever.” He stares at the floor and I check for an outline of my body in the dust.

Not seeing one, I escort Mrs. Lawson to the door and tell her I’ll call her tomorrow. She thanks me and leaves, making her way much more agilely down my front porch than I would’ve suspected she could.

“So,” I begin awkwardly, once she’s gone. “Do you like waffles?”

Liam shrugs. “I don’t know. Never had ’em.”

I’m careful not to react to this even though it outrages me. I remember learning that Gavin had never had ice cream before when we were kids and feeling the same type of disgusted disappointment that any adult would allow such a travesty as denying the delicious joy that is ice cream.

“Well, they’re kind of like pancakes but with little squares you can put syrup in. How about hash browns? Ever had those?”

He looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. I try a different approach.

“What do you usually eat for breakfast, Liam?”

“Pop-Tart thingies. Or cereal.” He glances around slowly, his gaze lingering on the front window. “It’s nighttime,” he informs me gently as if concerned for my mental well-being.

I laugh softly and nod. “I know. I don’t like early morning meals much, but I love breakfast for dinner. ‘Brinner’ is what me and my brother called it as kids when our Nana made it.”

He stares blankly and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever get through to him.

“Come on,” I say, grabbing my keys and then opening the front door. “There’s a magical place that serves breakfast twenty-four hours a day for people like me. I’ll take you. My treat.”

He regards me warily for several minutes before finally walking out the door. I breathe a small sigh of relief. It’s progress at least. I’ll take my victories where I can get them.

22 | Gavin

“RENT’S USUALLY FIVE hundred but if you keep sitting in with the house band a few times a week, I guess I can knock it down to four.”

I nod at Cal. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

“It’s not a favor, kid. You don’t pay the rent on time, I’ll take it from your paycheck. Plain and simple.”

I shake his hand. “Got it. And hey, this way I’ll never be late for work.”

My red-faced boss scowls at me. “Somehow I think you’ll still manage.”

Grinning, I nod. “Someone’s gotta keep your heart rate up, Cal. Might as well be me.”

He grumbles something rude under his breath on his way out, handing me the key to the studio apartment above the bar before slamming the door.

It’s empty but it’s mine. Exposed brick walls, a thin film of something on the windows, and heavily scuffed wooden floors don’t exactly scream home sweet home, but it works for me.

Lord knows I’ve lived in worse.

After leaving Dixie’s this morning, I found an eviction notice on the trailer when I got home. It wasn’t the first and I knew it might not be the last, but looking around at that place, the dirty dishes, the stained furniture, and reminders of times I’d lost my temper and kicked in a door or had to remove one from its hinges to save my mom from overdosing on the bathroom floor, I realized there was no way in hell I was getting my fresh start in that shithole. Besides, my mom hadn’t been home in weeks so I was pretty sure she knew she was getting evicted and her sense of self-preservation kicked in so she’d made other arrangements.

Luckily, Cal still had space above the bar available for rent. I make a note to check out some local garage sales for secondhand furniture and write my to-do list on a notepad from the bar. Once I’ve scrawled everything down, I appraise my list.

I’ve got to clean up a bit, get a few basic groceries including cleaning supplies, check in with my drug counselor, call the nearest rehab facility and see about getting my mom admitted, and I saved the best for last.

Make Bluebird fall in love with me. Again.

I got this.

Well . . . except maybe that last one. There is always that fear clawing at the edge of my awareness.

What if my darkness is too dark? What if the accident was the last straw and she can’t forgive me? What if I really and truly just don’t deserve her?

I’ve seen my life without her and it’s bleak and empty and miserable.

I want her.

I need her.

I love her.

I know what love is because of her.

I glance out my smudged window. The glow of the Tavern’s sign is bright from below. I sigh, wishing I could see stars the way Dixie and I used to watch them from her rooftop when we were kids.

Whether she wants to be or not, Dixie Lark is my happily ever after, and even a guy like me can’t help but wish on stars—even if they are made of neon.

My phone buzzes and I retrieve it from my pocket.

Dallas wants one last rehearsal before the battle and he has sent me the time, date, and location. I text back that I’ll be there.

I get to work on unpacking the few belongings I have: a futon, a toaster, a microwave, and more important, my clothes and drum kit. Best part about living above a bar is I don’t have to worry about playing my drums too late or too loud.

Once I’m finished, I realize I’m almost late for work so I throw on a clean shirt, planning to head down to the Tavern. My phone rings in my back pocket. I slide it free, expecting it to be Dallas but seeing “Bluebird” on the screen instead.

I didn’t expect to hear from her so soon, but I’m a liar if I say I’m not fucking thrilled she’s calling me.

“Hey, everything okay?”

“Um, yeah. No. I don’t know.” The promise is clear in her voice. My adrenaline spikes and I try to remain calm.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong? Are you safe? Where are you?”

I can hear the panic in my own voice and I realize I’m gripping the phone hard to enough to dent the damn thing. So much for remaining calm.

“I’m safe. It’s not me.” She sighs loudly. “I’m mean I’m not upset about anything to do with me. I’m at Waffle House with Liam and I just . . . he . . .” Her voice catches and a sob breaks through.

“I’ll be right there.”

“You got here fast,” Dixie tells me when I walk into the Waffle House. When I glance around to see if she’s alone, she explains where her date for the evening is. “He had to go to the bathroom.”

“I was at the Tavern. I rented the loft above it. And I borrowed Cal’s truck.” Now that that’s out of the way, I slide into the booth across from her. “So tell me what’s going on. What’s wrong with Liam?”

Dixie’s eyes are still shining and I can see how hard her throat is working to keep control of the lump of emotion clogging it.

“He . . . He’s got marks, Gav. Like all over. I saw his arms and his back when he was getting into EmmyLou and . . .” She squeezes her eyes shut for a brief moment. “I don’t know if he’s been starved or what but he didn’t even recognize hash browns or scrambled eggs. How is that even possible?”

I sigh and keep my voice down since Liam is walking out of the bathroom and heading toward our booth.

“It’s possible if the person raising you just feeds you enough to keep you alive. Scraps. Boxed and prepackaged stuff. Frozen meals full of unrecognizable substances. He said he doesn’t go to school much.”

The corners of her mouth turn down and my heart cracks open wide in my chest. “Is that how it was for you?” she asks. “Did your mom, did she not . . .”

“No, she didn’t,” I answer quickly. Turning to the side I slide out to let Liam in. I figure he’d prefer his own side of the booth. “Hey, Liam,” I say in greeting. “It is cool with you if I join you for dinner?”

He moves slowly to the middle of the bench so I take the spot next to Dixie.

“It’s breakfast,” he says evenly. Then he looks at Dixie and says, “For dinner. Brinner.”

I smile, remembering when Dallas and Dixie’s grandma used to make bacon and pancakes and sausage gravy with biscuits and eggs however you wanted them for dinner. They called it brinner and I thought it was crazy but I didn’t have any complaints about free food. And no one turned down Nana Lark’s biscuits any time of day or night if they knew what was good for them.

“Awesome,” I say while lifting a sticky laminated menu off the table. “Sounds good to me. What did y’all order?”

“Waffles and bacon and hash browns,” Dixie says. “We were going to get eggs but Liam wasn’t sure if he liked them or not.”

I make a show of carefully considering my menu. “Hm . . . well, how about I get the cheese and eggs plate and you can try ’em out?”

He frowns while considering this and I study him while waiting for an answer. Was I this careful and introspective as a kid? I’m not sure, but Dixie says he reminds her of me and I do see some similarities. Mrs. Lawson has obviously been bathing him but his clothes are about a year too small and his hair is too long and falling in his eyes. His arms are small, wiry, and bruised and contain several sores and old scars.

“I guess that would be okay,” he finally answers, and I have to think for a second to recall my question.

“Great.” I set my menu behind the napkin holder and turn to the frizzy-haired, frazzled-looking middle-aged waitress bringing Liam and Dixie’s OJs to the table. “Can I get a cheese and egg plate, white toast, with bacon and hash browns scattered, covered, smothered, and chunked?”

“Sure, handsome,” the waitress tells me. “And to drink?”

I glance at my companions. “I’ll have what they’re having. Orange juice, straight up.”

Dixie rolls her eyes but Liam looks mildly amused. Kid could use a little entertainment in his life. And I’ve been where he is. Having people feel sorry for you and giving you sad-puppy eyes, while I know they mean well, doesn’t help. It just makes you more uncomfortable because now you’ve got the burden of their pity and pain and discomfort to deal with on top of everything else.

I understand something about Liam that Dixie may never grasp.

He doesn’t know his situation hurts other people because they care about him. He only knows that his life is the way it is, and as far as he knows, everyone goes hungry, or has junkies all over their house, or gets shoved or hit or kicked or sometimes completely ignored like an unwanted pet. I was nearly in middle school before I completely understood that my life wasn’t like everyone else’s—that it wasn’t that way for other kids. What I understood long before that, though, was the pity and sickening sympathy I got from teachers and social workers and ladies from the local Junior League. I didn’t like it and I’m betting Liam won’t, either, so I resolve to behave normally and to try to help Dixie ease up and mask her concerns—for now, at least. I remain cool and calm and laid-back on the surface, making jokes and small talk until our food arrives.

Under the table I am texting Sheila Montgomery like a madman telling her to call me as soon as humanly possible.

After taking a few bites of my food and scooping a few bites of eggs onto Liam’s plate so he can try them out, I realize Dixie isn’t eating. She’s watching Liam. The way he’s testing food to make sure it’s edible—a habit that develops after you’ve desperately ingested soured fruit or chugged milk that has long since gone bad because you had no other option—and then shoveling it in like it’s his last meal once he realizes it’s okay.

I nudge her knee gently with mine. “Eat, Bluebird,” I mumble under my breath.

She jerks a little as if in a trance and then picks up her fork.

Most of the time we eat in comfortable silence. Liam is out of breath when he finishes because he hardly took one while he filled his belly.

“After this,” Dixie begins, turning to me as she continues, “we’re going to have a campout at my house. Movies and a tent and sleeping bags. We’re even going to make s’mores by roasting marshmallows on the stovetop like Nana and Papa used to. Would you like to join us, Gavin?”

The way she speaks my name, enunciating both syllables, I can tell it’s an invitation of desperation. I know she’d really rather have space from me after everything I told her but she needs my help tonight, with Liam, in not letting her huge heart show.

“What do you say, man?” I dip my head to catch Liam’s eye. “That okay with you? I’m pretty good at roasting stovetop marshmallows. Not to brag or anything . . .”

He shrugs but I can see the interest in his eyes. Not sure if it’s for the camping or the marshmallows, but at least it’s something.

When I glance over at Dixie, she has a certain gleam in her eye as well. Maybe she’s not dreading spending time with me as much as I thought she was.

That’s something, too.

I’ll take what I can get. It’s what I’ve done all my life.