Leaving Amarillo(17)

That’s the funny thing about music. Part of the magic, I guess. Sometimes it replenishes me, like I’m feeding off its energy and it fills me. And other times, it pulls at my pain, weaves its way through the strands of my soul and wrecks it.

Between the man in “Whiskey Redemption” ending up homeless and dying alone, and Gavin refusing to so much as look at me, my emotional climate is dangerously unstable and the music is taking more from me than I have to give right now. Dallas is pleased, though, and says if we can just do that well tonight, he’ll be a happy camper.

God. Tonight. The first night of Austin MusicFest.

I can’t even stomach the thought of the redhead flinging herself all over Gavin. Or trying to play and listen for my intro cues while watching her executing her attack.

“Let’s grab some food at Mae’s and relax a little before sound check,” Dallas suggests, giving me a nervous side-eye. His false assumption that I’m on my period, albeit one I led him to, keeps him from asking if I’m okay. But I see the worry even before he reaches out to put an arm around me. “Dix, you all right? Need a nap before the show?”

I nod. I’m too distracted by Gavin’s steady avoidance to bother making up another excuse. “Yeah. Y’all go ahead and get some food or whatever. I’m going to head back to the hotel and rest for a bit.”

Gavin just packs up his kit, keeping his head down and continuing his strategic efforts to ignore me.

Coward.

It is what it is, I guess. I lost the battle with myself and now I have to pay the price. Maybe it’s for the best. If he’s this avoidant because I was honest about what I wanted, I can only imagine how bad it would be if anything had actually happened.

“Seven o’clock sharp, Dixie Leigh. I’m serious. Do not be late. We’ll have thirty minutes to warm up and that’s it,” my brother reminds me in his I-mean-business voice.

“Got it, sir. I’ll report for duty at nineteen hundred hours, sir.” I mock salute and turn to leave.

“I’m serious, Dixie,” he hollers as I make my hasty retreat.

“I’ll set an alarm on my phone,” I promise him.

“Set two.”

I shake my head as I make my way back to the hotel. It’s only a few blocks from the warehouse we rehearse in but my feet are dragging. By the time I get back to my room, I’m beyond ready to crash out face-first on the bed—questionable body fluids on the comforter and all. But because I can’t sleep with the possibility of disappointing Dallas prying my mind awake, I do as he requested and set two alarms on my phone. Both of them only five minutes apart so I’ll actually get up when they go off.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t think of Gavin as I drift into unconsciousness. I’ve lost him, pushed him away with the truth.

Let the Drummer Kick” is playing loudly wherever I am. The crash of instruments pulls me from sleep.

Blinking myself awake, I see the bland décor of a hotel room. I sit up and glance over at my blaring phone.

Gavin’s calling me. Why is Gavin calling me?

“Hello?” I say, pulling the phone to my ear with one hand and rubbing the remnants of sleep away with the other.

“Wake up, Bluebird. Your brother is flipping the f*ck out.”

His words soothe and panic me simultaneously. He called me Bluebird. Maybe I didn’t ruin everything with my stupid confession. But holy shit, what time is it?

“What time is it, Gav?” I ask softly, becoming increasingly afraid of the answer.

“Sound check is in five minutes.”

“Okay. See you in five.” Even as I say the words, I know it’s impossible. Even if I were completely ready to go, it’d still take ten minutes to get a cab and get to our stage. There’s nothing in my stomach, so I have no idea why it feels like boulders are slamming around inside of it. Checking the alarms on my phone I see that I set them for a.m. instead of p.m.

Dropping my phone, I leap from the bed and strip out of my jeans and Lynyrd Skynyrd tee. I fling the top of my suitcase open and find the cleanest thing I can. Short black shorts and a white button-down dress shirt that might not even belong to me. There are some black sequined suspenders still attached to the shorts from the last time I wore them so I keep them to add a little shimmer to my outfit. My hair is a hopeless mess, so I throw a black hat over it. Slipping on black stilettos that I pray elongate my legs enough to help me get a cab quicker, I head to the door.

Glancing in the mirror on my way out, I realize I look a little like a slutty rockette, but there isn’t time to do anything about it. My shirt might be buttoned wrong and of f*cking course I’d be wearing a black bra under a white shirt on a night when it might rain.

My purse spills when I reached to grab it so I pick up a random tube of lip gloss and swipe some across my mouth. Mascara would be good, but I can’t imagine Dallas would accept separating my lashes as a viable excuse for completely missing sound check.

Oz is still in his case so I lift it and my room key and literally run out the door. There’s no time to wait on the elevator so I jog to the stairs and pray I don’t break my neck in these damn shoes. The heels click like gunshots as I sprint across the lobby, where I collide with an elderly gentleman pushing a wobbly luggage cart filled with suitcases.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry, sir,” I say, continuing toward the exit.