Текст книги "Missing Dixie"

Автор книги: Caisey Quinn

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

10 | Gavin

“GARRISON! HOW MANY times do I have to tell you? No personal calls at work.”

My boss looks sunburned 365 days a year. He’s turning a deep shade of crimson nearing on blood violet while he goes off on me.

“I mean, you’re the bartender. Get it? The name says it all. Bar and tender. As in tender of the bar, as in the asshole that holds up the line because he’s on the phone instead of pouring drinks. When you don’t pour the drinks, I don’t make the money. I don’t make the money, I can’t write you a paycheck. Got that?”

“Cal? Not to be a smartass, but my phone call probably won’t last half as long as that speech just did.”

“Two minutes,” he says, shoving the phone at me. “I mean it.”

“I’ll keep it to one,” I say, just to aggravate him because he makes it so easy. Once he shakes his head and moves out of earshot¸ I lift the phone to my ear.

“I told you not to call me at work. We had an agreement. I can’t keep doing this with you—”

“Garrison?

Fuck me.

“Dallas Lark. Holy shit. How goes the honeymoon? Y’all make a sex tape yet? ’Cause I can probably find a buyer.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t know it was me,” he practically growls through the phone.

“Yeah, no. My bad. Thought you were someone else calling.”

“I gathered that. Something going on?”

“Nah.” Not anymore, anyway. “What’s up? Other than you being married and all?”

“The sky. Sorry about calling you at work but I tried your cell and it was off.”

Yeah. There’s a reason for that. One I have no desire to discuss with him. “It’s fine. Just make it quick and I’ll call you when I get off.”

Dallas chuckles. “All right. Well, here goes.”

I shove my palm against my free ear to close it off from the commotion in the bar.

“I checked in with Dixie about the competition. Funny, she said you hadn’t mentioned it, you freaking pansy.”

The bottom drops right the fuck out of my gut. Between him and McKinley, everyone is going to ruin my chances with Dixie Lark before I’ve even begun to have one. “Sorry. The opportunity to discuss it just didn’t quite present itself.”

“Well, I just talked to her and I have to tell you that she sounded kind of stoked about it. She doesn’t know I got released from my label and I don’t want to dump that on her while she’s trying to decide. Nothing’s for sure, but she was definitely interested.”

“Shit. They dropped you? As in do not call us we won’t call you?”

“Yeah,” Dallas says slowly. “I’m not all that surprised but I don’t want it to influence her decision. I want her to do this because she wants to, for her, you know? So could you and her maybe rehearse one day this week? Get a feel for if you can handle your romantic drama and get a handle on it so after I get home and get the nursery set up we can get to rehearsing?”

My eyes close involuntarily and my throat constricts. If McKinley tells Dixie what he knows about me, she will have no interest in ever seeing me again. Which I will fully deserve. “Definitely. I’ll see what we can work out.”

“Awesome. And, Garrison?”

“Yeah?”

“You know I love you like a brother from another mother, but seriously, I will end your young life if you hurt her again. I won’t tell you to stay away because Robyn has convinced me that it would be unrealistic and futile for me to try and enforce that. But I will tell you that life has a way of catching up with you when you least expect it and if you don’t tell Dixie everything soon, it might get out of hand before you get a chance, and if that happens in the midst of this competition, I will be ridiculously pissed for multiple reasons.”

Says the dude not telling her he got dropped from Capitol. But he’s right. “Roger that. I know, man. Believe me, I know. I gotta get back to work but send me a list of songs you’re thinking about.”

“On it. Talk later. I have to go make sweet love to my wife.”

“Poor Robyn. It’s bad enough you knocked her up—now she has to see you naked for the rest of her life.”

Dallas chuckles, or he’s choking to death. I can hardly tell over the noise in the bar.

Before we hang up I need to ask him one more thing. “Hey, quick question.”

“What’s that?”

“How’d you know Robyn wouldn’t shut you down? I mean—you left the tour. Walked away from everything. Got dropped from your label. That’s fucking huge. What if she’d told you to go straight to Hell?”

Dallas is quiet for so long I think we got disconnected, until I hear him clear his throat.

“For years I told myself she was better off without me. I couldn’t give her the perfect life, the picket fence and all that. But it was the damnedest thing. Robyn didn’t want the perfect life or the picket fence. She just wanted me. Once I figured that out, it was either risk it all and tell her how I felt or live the rest of my life wallowing in regret. Thank God she said yes.”

“You got lucky,” I say, not in a sarcastic way but in an honest-to-God happy for him way. “Still . . . that’s a huge-ass risk, man. I’m glad it worked out how you wanted it to. Good thing Breeland kept her standards low all these years.”

I’m screwing with him. I am also jealous as hell.

“No shit,” he says on a laugh. “You know, it’s funny. I thought music was my first love. All I’d ever dreamed of was making it big. Then I did and I realized that without her, it didn’t even matter. None of it. You know?”

Yeah, I knew. Or I could imagine a pretty close scenario at least.

“I need to get back to work.”

“Hey,” Dallas begins, sounding like he has one more urgent detail to share. “My sister is going to be pissed at first, but you know her. She loves you and when she loves someone, that’s that. She’ll come around eventually.”

I huff my disbelief into the phone because he has no idea. Dallas knows mostly everything but not every single detail, not the details that will crush my sweet Bluebird if I don’t explain them first. I wish I had some actual dirt on McKinley, but for now all I can do is hope and pray he continues keeping what he knows to himself.

After we disconnect our call I take my place behind the bar. Cal heads my way as soon as he sees me and I brace myself for the ass-chewing.

Instead he slams a stack of bright yellow flyers with black block print on them in front of me.

“Hang these up on your break. Matter of fact, plan to work right through all your breaks for the rest of the week.”

“Got it.”

I fill a few orders before I even look at what’s on the flyers. But when I do, I almost drop the shot glass I’m towel-drying.

Dixie Lark is playing the Tavern this weekend. Like, playing playing. As in solo, as in all by herself. The flyer has a black-and-white photo of her with her head down and Oz on her shoulder. She looks beautiful—angelic. My inner demons roar to life.

They want to dirty her up, fuck her deep and hard without giving a single thought to telling her the truth or protecting her from the darkness within me.

Among the hissed whispers and dark desires, a sliver of hope, like a light slicing into a dark room through a door left ajar, carves a path inside my chest.

Maybe she is ready. Maybe she misses performing and the band really will get a second chance.

Maybe I will, too.

11 | Dixie

“NO YOU DID not do this.” I gape at the yellow flyer in my hands. “Are you outside of your mind? This is insane. I can’t do this!”

Leandra shakes off my massive freak-out. “You already did, babe. Remember? I was there. I saw how amazing you were. The entire place was captivated.”

I shake my head, wishing I could crumple the paper into a ball and make it disappear. “Lee, I know you mean well. But I can’t . . . seriously. I just . . . I don’t perform solo ever and—”

“You do, Dixie. And you told me yourself you miss it. Anyone who looks at you can see how badly you need to play.” I didn’t realize she was paying such close attention. “You do so much for us. Let us do something for you. Everyone is coming. We’re going to be your cheering section.”

“You doing something nice for me somehow turns into me having to perform alone in front of a live audience. You could’ve just bought me a box of chocolates or a cookie bouquet.”

She laughs as if I’m kidding. “Girl, you are the most talented thing in Amarillo. You have a true gift—the kind most people would give their eyeteeth for. And here you are, holed up and giving free lessons to kids because you love to play. You need to play.”

“I love these kids.”

“You love everyone, Dixie, and I love you for that. But sweetheart, you’re young, you’re free, and you should be out there. Go on a date. Play a show. Have some drinks. Dance with a stranger. Kiss someone full on the mouth just because you can.”

I give her a pouty frown. “You’re not that much older than me.”

“Yes, but I’m a mom. It adds like five years to my actual age. Trust me.”

I laugh and nudge her hard enough to nearly knock her skinny butt off the piano bench. “You’re gorgeous. You could have any guy you wanted.”

I regret my words immediately.

She’s told me her story over the past few months. When she showed up at my door asking about Over the Rainbow, I was obtuse enough to ask what happened to Maisey’s dad. I had no idea it would be such a painful story to hear and tell.

She’s a beautiful blond girl with a swimsuit model figure and magazine cover face. When she was sixteen, she was madly in love with the varsity quarterback at my rival high school. Then she had too many drinks at a party, got assaulted by some disgusting pig who never should’ve been there, and got pregnant. Golden boy couldn’t deal and ran away to college, leaving her in the dust. I don’t think she’s ever recovered from the heartbreak.

Her smile is there but it’s small and doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not looking for a man. I just want to focus on Maisey and being the best mom that I can be. But I’m happy with that. I don’t think you’re happy, Dixie. I think you’re settling for safety’s sake.”

She’s always been honest with me, even when the truths haven’t been easy to tell, so I’m honest with her. “I do miss it. Performing. Being onstage. The band.” I sigh loudly. “But it’s a big dream. Sometimes a terrifying one. One that takes a lot to chase and has no guarantee of coming true. I’m okay with my life as it is.”

Not to mention the fact that Gavin is so tightly entwined into my dream that I can’t figure out how I feel about it from one moment to the next.

“Okay? You’re okay with your life? Lame. We’re talking about your dream,” she practically moans. “They’re supposed to be scary. If they aren’t, you aren’t doing it right. And it’s within reach. Do you know how rare that is for most people?”

I nod, because I do.

“Friday night. We’re all going to be there. Cheering you on.”

I close my eyes. “Even if I’m terrible?”

“Even if you shatter glass and make the local dogs howl like banshees.”

“Garrison, one of your girls is asking for you,” a red-faced heavyset man calls out.

Of course that would be the first thing I hear when I step into the Tavern Friday night. I came early in an attempt to shake off the pre-performance jitters.

So much for that.

After entirely too much deliberation, I pulled out a black leather top and a short, black lace skirt. The McQueen ankle boots I got at an estate sale years ago had been collecting dust in my closet pretty much since the showcase in Nashville. Slipping them on, I began to feel like me again. Who knew shoes had so much power. I didn’t. Until now.

I put on some eyeliner and mascara and a quick coat of my one splurge in life, Marc Jacobs lip gloss in a bold shade of red, tossed my hair up and down a few times, and called it good.

It wasn’t until I was just about walk out the door that I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the living room.

Eyes wide and shining, lips full and glistening, and my skin creamy and just flushed enough to make me look alive. I was holding Oz’s case and for a moment I was transported back in time. Austin. Music. Performing live and setting my soul free.

Somehow I’d lost sight of what that meant to me, of what it did for me, for my heart and soul and general well-being. Now I remember. I need music like I need oxygen. But I’d been depriving myself for so long because . . . because it seemed indulgent. Selfish, even, after Papa died. Joy in the midst of grief felt so wrong . . . and yet, now I could see that it was so very necessary. I read somewhere that when you’re happy you enjoy the music but when you’re sad you understand it. Music was my salvation, it always had been. But when Dallas was leaving to follow the dream we’d shared for so long, I felt like I was abandoning the memory of my grandfather.

Give yourself permission to dream, little one, my Nana used to say. Dream big and wide and run full speed with arms stretched out wide to catch those elusive dreams.

Did I forget that? Did I forget her?

No. I forgot me.

It’s as if I’ve awakened from the dead. I place my hand over my mouth to keep the sound of surprise from escaping.

There I am.

More important, Where have I been?

Hiding behind messy topknots and sweatpants mostly.

Maybe Leandra was right. She smiles and waves at me from across the room as she plops down at a table near the piano where Cassidy and Jaggerd are already sitting. I wave and they wave back but Jag looks strangely unsettled.

I sang at Dallas’s wedding but it’s not something I typically do unless it’s backup vocals. That night I saw Gavin for the first time in months, I was just messing around because the girls talked me into it. This was not what I pictured for my life, but I can finally see how Dallas did find some joy in performing solo. It’s like doing a trapeze act with no net.

Somehow my life has taken an abrupt left turn as of late.

I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Excited.

Scared.

Anxious as hell, really.

My eyes scan the room without my permission. I pretend I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I know exactly who I’m hoping to see.

He’s probably busy working, Dixie, I tell myself. He may be getting off soon but he might not be leaving alone. His complicated blonde could be here.

I feel sick.

Nothing I try to console myself with is really helping matters much. I feel like all of my nerves have been stretched to their absolute breaking point and I’m on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

A few minutes after I’ve stepped into the small backstage area, which apparently also doubles as storage for stacked cardboard boxes, someone closes in behind me.

“Hey there, Bluebird. Or should I call you Songbird now?” His breath tickles the back of my neck and the delicious heat shimmies down my spine.

“Gavin,” I say, turning to face him. “Heard there was a girl looking for you.”

His gaze doesn’t even waver. “Oh yeah? Too bad for her. I already found the girl I’m looking for.”

My nose scrunches, my unfailing tell that I am confused. “What’s with you these days, Mr. Smooth Pants? You sure are laying on the charm lately.”

“And here I thought I was just being nice.”

There’s something about the way he says the word that lulls me into a false sense of security. I feel like I’m being hypnotized by the seductive lilt to his voice, the liquid warmth in his eyes. It’s disorienting and mesmerizing.

“Nice isn’t really the word I’d use to describe you, Garrison.”

“And what word would you use?”

Being put on the spot so suddenly flusters me. I’m unprepared for this pop quiz. “I, um, I’m not—”

“I don’t want to distract you tonight. I’m looking forward to seeing you play, but if my being in the crowd will throw you off or something, I can—”

“Arrogant, Gav. That’s the word I’d use.” I smirk at him. “And don’t worry, I can perform just fine with you front and center.”

He appears to take my defiance as a challenge. He leans forward to whisper in my ear and it’s everything I can do not to melt into a puddle. “You sure? Be honest, Bluebird.”

Heat creeps up my neck and spread across my face. His voice lowers as he leans in closer.

“Tell me you don’t want me here and I’ll walk out the door right now. No questions asked.”

“I want you. Here,” I say, hearing the waver in my voice.

“Good. Because I want you, too.” He rests his forehead on mine. “Here,” he says, gently kissing me on the temple. “Here,” he breathes while brushing his lips down my jawline. “And a few other places not appropriate to place my mouth on in public. Unless you’re into that.”

My blood has turned to gasoline and Gavin Garrison has tossed a match on me.

“Gav,” I whisper, turning away shyly because we’re visible to the folks sitting at the front tables. “People can see us.”

One person specifically appears particularly disconcerted about our exchange. Jag’s normally handsome face is twisted into a mask of unadulterated disgust.

I shoot him a questioning “what the hell is your problem” glance and he looks away as if he can no longer stand the sight of me.

Surely he’s not jealous. He’s here on a date and anyone with eyes can see he’s enamored with Cassidy.

Men confound me and I’ve realized it’s because deep down, they’re mostly little boys in oversize bodies.

“Five minutes,” a guy calls out as he walks by. “Then you’re on.”

“That’s Cal, my boss,” Gavin says, nodding at the man’s retreating figure. “He’s kind of a dick but running a bar this size can be stressful. His bedside manner isn’t the greatest.”

“I bet. Maybe that’s what he’s got you for.”

“The only person seeing my bedside manner is you, baby.”

I roll my eyes to cover the effect his words have on me and I glance at the piano sitting in the corner. Taunting me. Daring me. Beckoning me. Musical instruments call to me in some strange way—as if they beg me to tame them. Gavin’s soul calls to me in a similar fashion—only his is a siren song promising unimaginable ecstasy at the price of utter and complete obliteration. “Guess I should get out there.”

I take a step forward and Gavin pulls me into the shadows. “Knock ’em dead, Bluebird. I’d say good luck but you don’t need it. You have so much more than luck when it comes to music.”

I lift my eyes to his penetrating gaze. “I want to believe that.”

“You will. One day. Promise.”

“Hope so.”

He nods like he was expecting this answer even though I can see the pain that flashes behind his eyes. “I’ll spend every day reminding you if you’ll let me.”

“That would mean spending every day with me, Gav. Which clearly you have no intention of doing anytime soon.”

“I’m trying, babe,” he says with sincerity. He winks at me and I try not to melt into a puddle in the floor. “A few weeks and I’ll be off probation and if the battle goes well, maybe we’ll be back on the road together soon. If you want that, that is.”

“Of course I want that. It’s just—”

A booming voice announces me onstage and there is a surprising amount of cheering from the audience. I start to turn my head in that direction but Gavin catches my jaw with a firm but gentle grip. “Have a great show, Bluebird.”

Without asking for permission, he lowers his mouth to mine and gives me a tender kiss full of unspoken promises.

“Don’t tease me, Garrison.”

“Never.” He kisses me gently again, then once on my nose and once on my forehead before squeezing me into a hug. “Not a tease, sweetness. A promise.”

I give myself a few seconds to enjoy the warmth of him, to indulge in the clean, male scent of him.

Reluctantly, I pull out of his arms and make my way to the stage.

Never in my life have I been so grateful for glaring, blinding stage lights. I can’t actually make out any faces in the crowd, which is probably for the best.

I introduce myself and am greeted with a surprising second round of cheers. Sitting down at the piano, I shake my head, because truthfully, I am not a solo act and I’ve never wanted to be one. Yet, here I am.

“Here goes nothing,” I mumble under my breath to myself.

My fingertips familiarize themselves with the keys, caressing them once before I launch into my first song.

And then . . .

Then I am lost.

And found.

Then I am free.

12 | Gavin

“WHERE IS HE? Where’s my baby?”

The first word that comes immediately to mind is No.

“Baby? Are you here?” A loud rapping sound comes from the bar and it’s almost loud enough to be heard over Dixie playing onstage. “Gavin Michael! Gavy-poo! Where are yooouu?”

I nearly knock over Jake the barback in an attempt to get around the bar and silence the woman calling for me in the singsong voice.

Cal steps in front of me before I get to her. “I don’t care who she is, just get her the hell out of here. Now.”

“On it. Um, I might have to leave to get her to—”

“Do whatever you need to. I can dock your pay for the rest of the night if needed. Cara and Jake can handle this crowd.”

Cara is an extremely capable bartender and her girlfriend Missy works security here so I know she’s got this. Jake has also proven himself lately and has even learned to make a few drinks and use the taps. Which is good, because I have a feeling I am not coming back to the Tavern this evening.

“There he is. Isn’t he handsome?” She practically knocks over the drink of the lady sitting next to her. “Hey, baby. I saw the flyer about your little friend playing tonight and thought maybe me and my date here could get a few drinks. You know, on the house, since I’m related to the bartender. They have a family discount, right?”

She giggles at her own joke. She’s slurring her words, barely standing upright, and her eyes are so glazed over it’s a wonder she can see me. The man with her gives me a once-over, then leers at a young girl on the other side of him. I recognize him. He’s been over a few times—one of the local dealers and I’m pretty sure a bruise my mom was sporting on her neck a few days ago came courtesy of him. He practically runs out the door every time I walk in, which has been the one intelligent decision he’s made in his life.

I have a strong suspicion I might be going to jail this evening.

So much for light at the end of the probation tunnel.

I glance longingly at the stage, wishing I could stay to watch my Bluebird finish her set.

She’s amazing. She’s captivating and strong and her voice is this haunting mix of sweet and sultry I never knew she was capable of. She is capable of so many things, so much more than being held back by a bartender with a record and a junkie for a mom.

I sigh and walk around the bar, apologizing to the woman whose drink my mom just knocked all over the place. I signal to Jake to replace it on the house and he’s Johnny on the spot, handling it quickly and apologizing profusely as he cleans up.

He shouldn’t have to apologize. This is my fuckup. My mess. My problem.

“Let’s go home, Mom,” I say, taking her elbow sharply.

“Easy, kid,” her “date” warns. “She’ll leave when she’s good and ready.” He knocks over the drink of the man behind him and I can see the impending bar brawl behind my eyes. If I don’t stop this it will ruin Dixie’s show. If I do stop it, I’ll miss her show.

The verdict is in. I’d rather give her the moment even if I can’t be a part of it.

My mom’s friend is a few inches taller than me but older and clearly out of shape. He’s broad, with a beer belly and yellowing teeth and already bruised knuckles that tell me this isn’t even his first fight this week.

“Care to discuss this outside?” I tilt my head toward the door and he smiles, a predatory scowl with a hint of anticipation. This is what he really came for.

Violence.

I don’t know why, but it has always seemed to surround me. To find me. Like it seeks me out for some unidentifiable reason.

As I practically drag my mom outside, leaving Dixie’s angelic voice inside, the heavy weight of dread settles on my chest.

This is my life. There’s no escaping it. No cutting ties or starting over or a future. It’s bleak and it’s bullshit but it’s true.

Dixie deserves so much better than this.

She will have better than this.

Even if it kills me to let her go.

Several bruised ribs and a possible concussion later, I tuck my mom into her bed. She’s out cold and snoring and her “friend” is probably still unconscious in his beat-up blue Ford pickup where I left him. His face will likely take a while to heal and his pride might, too. When it does, I know he’ll be back for round two.

I’ll be waiting.

For a few long minutes, I watch her sleep. She looks so tiny and fragile.

Part of me wants to be angry with her, for doing this to herself, to me. For all of it. But I know why. I get it.

My mom was abused in the worst way from the time she was old enough to form memories. When I was younger, she’d get sober for a while and come clean about why she did what she did.

She’d been molested, beaten, tortured, and eventually put into foster homes, where she’d been locked in closets for days, urinated on, and starved nearly to death.

She’s still completely terrified of enclosed spaces and her pain is still my pain.

I know why she does what she does. She gets high to forget, to get numb, to get some type of relief from the trauma and the pain and the horrific nightmares that have plagued her ever since. Only they aren’t just nightmares. They’re memories.

Sporadically over the years she would get on these healthy living kicks, swearing over and over that she was done for good with the meth or the crack or whatever she’d binged on that time. She’d clean the trailer from top to bottom, replacing all the empty boxes of off-brand Pop-Tarts and week-old pizza lying around with actual groceries when the state put money on our food assistance card.

“We’re going to be okay, baby,” she’d say. “You’ll see.”

I saw all right.

Each and every time, I would be stupid enough to hope. That this time would be different. That this time her sobriety would stick.

It never did.

It never will.

Deep down I know this. There was always a boyfriend who’d hit her and trigger the memories, or a packet she’d find in a pair of dirty jeans. There was always something. A few times it would be me. I’d snap at her, say something hurtful, and send her spiraling. I will carry the guilt for this forever. Maybe that’s why I can’t leave her, why I can’t just walk away and stop trying to protect her from the evils she brings on herself.

She and I are the definition of hopeless.

Just like when I was a kid, I make the same, stupid wish I always do. That she’ll stop this and get better, be better. But I’m not a naïve kid anymore and I know this is unlikely.

The sun is coming up and I need sleep, but I decide it’s not just time for me to get my shit together, but way past time for her too. I pull out my phone with the intentions of searching local state-funded rehab centers and see several messages that nearly cause me to drop it.

Dixie: Where did you go? I looked for you after . . .

Dixie: Your boss said you left with a woman. So . . .

Dixie: I hope you had a good night, Gav. I’m worried about you but maybe don’t call me or stop by for a while, okay? I need some time.

Fuck. Me.

And just because the shit cake of life always has additional hidden layers, there are more.

Dallas: Robyn and I came home early to see Dixie’s show. Where were you? Did you know she could sing like that?

Dallas: Call me, man. 911.

And one more.

Unknown Number: You’re an asshole, Garrison. Plain and simple. Tonight was the final straw. I’m done watching you pull this shit on her.

I know that the last text is from Jaggerd McKinley, just like I know the sky after a night of rain is the same shade of stormy blue as Dixie’s eyes.

I will deal with him later. In person.

Right now I need to call Dallas, so I do.

It rings and rings until his voice mail answers.

When the beep comes, my mind blanks and I’m at a complete loss for words.

“Hey, man. It’s me. I . . . it just, shit got crazy last night so I had to leave early. Hate that I missed you. Call me later.”

My voice sounds like I had gravel for breakfast but I’m too tired to care. Dallas might think the worst, which sucks. Thanks to McKinley, Dixie will probably think the worst now, too, which sucks far more than Dallas possibly being pissed at me.

I lower my battered and exhausted body into a kitchen chair and place my elbows on the sticky table. Propping my head in my hands I decide the only thing I can do is just wait for Dallas to call me back. Maybe he can figure out a way to get Dixie to talk to me. Maybe he can tell me what I should say, help me figure out how to tell her that I love her more than anything in this world but that I love her enough to know that I am not what’s best for her.

She was beyond amazing, the epitome of an incredible performer last night, and she needs to follow her dream, not stay here in this nothing town waiting on some local piece of shit who will never get his act together. But I know her. I know exactly how deep she is capable of loving and forgiving. She would wait. For me. Forever if needed.

When we were kids, my stuff tended to break on a regular basis. My bike, my shoelaces, my book bag. You name it, mine was crap. It wasn’t secondhand, it was fourth or fifth or sixth hand, usually donated from the local Junior Leaguers, Goodwill, or a counselor digging through our school’s lost-and-found box.

Dallas is one of those people who are constantly in motion and typically he slows down for no one—though I suspect that is changing these days. But Dixie always waited for me without fail. She never once left me behind.

I’d tell them to go on without me while I dealt with my mess and time and time again, I’d look up to see her bending down to help me.

Acidic pain stings my eyes at the montage of memories playing in my sleep-deprived head. Dixie at nine years old handing me food from her parents’ funeral reception. Thinking of me, a stranger, in literally her darkest hour. Dixie at eleven, giving me half her sandwich at lunch when she found me smoking to cure the edge of hunger behind a rotting oak tree. Dixie at thirteen helping me fix the chain on my bike when it broke and Dallas sped off without me. Dixie at fourteen, leaving a party with her friends to come hang out with me while I cried and raged on like a lunatic when my mom nearly OD’d for the second time. Her face, her beautiful heartbroken face a few months ago when she realized I was home and hadn’t called her.