Leaving Amarillo(29)
The sound of meaty fists slamming into bone interrupts our moment just as it begins to rain. Two sweat-slick guys beside us trade punches, startling me and sending several people careening into us.
“Let’s get you back to the hotel and safely tucked into bed,” he says, draping an arm indulgently around me. “Alone,” Gavin clarifies, ruining my hopeful mood as he steers me away from the circle forming around the brawl. “Before your brother sees us and does something that makes that look like a friendly handshake.”
When we get to my room, Gavin takes a step backward and shoves his hands into his pockets, making it clear that he won’t be coming inside. He doesn’t give me another earth-shattering, spine-jolting, tingle-inducing kiss, either, but he does rest his chin on my head and say, “Sweet dreams, Bluebird,” in a way that I suspect will ensure I actually have them.
Beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.
After he leaves and I’m all alone in my room, I notice it’s not quite as late as I thought, so I pick up my phone.
Four rings later, still no answer.
“Hi, Papa. It’s me,” I tell his voice mail once the automated message finishes informing me that the person I’m trying to reach is not available at this time. “We’ve had a few late nights and I haven’t been able to reach you.” Sighing, I kick my shoes off and let them drop heavily onto the floor as I settle onto my bed. “I hope you’re doing well. Both shows have gone great and the audience here is the most enthusiastic I think I’ve ever seen.”
Searching for the words to wrap up the call, I realize that I’m getting anxious. I always call Papa after every show and tell him how it went. It’s a mutually beneficial situation because I need to hear that he’s all right and he lives vicariously through the band. If he would’ve answered I’d have told him about the van ride right up to the stage yesterday and the fistfight I witnessed tonight. Then he’d regale me with similar stories from his brief time in a band when he was my age.
He’s told me one version or another of every memory he has about his days in his band. “I was in a band once,” his stories always began, as if we didn’t know from being told dozens of times over the years. “We thought we were really something,” he’d say, his kind eyes crinkling in the corners. “We broke up after a few years, though.”
“How come?” I’d always ask, just to keep the stories going.
“We didn’t make more than change. Played for free mostly,” he’d grumble, turning frustrated about the topic. “That was no kind of life for a man looking for a wife.”
The day he gave me Oz was the first time he told me the story of how Nana’s parents didn’t want her to marry him, a broke musician without a cent to his name. He’d joined the navy to get their approval and to save up to buy her a ring and a house, but even after he came home from his deployment, Nana’s parents still said no. They had their heart set on a banker who was a son of friends of theirs. No matter how many times I heard the story of their courtship and how they finally eloped, I felt the tingles of longing and pride each time. Such rebels, my grandparents were.
Years later, when Dallas and Gavin and I became more than just three kids messing around with used instruments from Papa’s old shed and from pawnshops, Papa became our biggest fan. He’d sit outside on a lawn chair and listen to us rehearse in that same shed where we’d stumbled across his bass guitar and drum kit. It was then that I’d catch a glimpse of that version of him I’d only seen in a yellowing photograph from before my time. Even now, if I don’t call him and tell him about nearly every show, he gets grouchy with me about it.
We’re the same that way, Papa and I. Both of us gravitate toward music the way a plant turns toward the sun.
While much to my brother’s constant dismay, I don’t dream of selling out stadiums or touring Europe, I do live and breathe music. The purity and the sanctity of it. I need it like I need air to breathe. I can’t even imagine what my life would be like without it.
Tracing the pattern on the hotel bedspread absently, I say my goodbye. “I miss you. I’ll try and reach you again tomorrow.” I know I’m running out of time on my one-sided conversation so I hastily add, “Love you.”
I disconnect the call, feeling slightly mollified by the fact that there is at least one man who will always be happy to hear that I love him.
Chapter 11
Austin MusicFest—Day 3
ON DAY THREE OF THE MUSIC FESTIVAL, THE AIR IS SO THICK WITH lung-sucking humidity I don’t even bother with makeup. It’d just melt off anyway.
I wake up to a text from Dallas informing me that he’s having breakfast with a manager he met the night before, Mandy Lantram, one of our first choices, who has a client list full of some of the hottest country artists currently topping the charts.
As much as I complain about Dallas being kind of a drill sergeant when it comes to the band, he has a knack for knowing how to make things happen. If anyone can land us a manager, it’s him and for that I am grateful.
Since I’m pretty sure Gavin isn’t going to change ten years’ worth of strictly enforced distance and come watch a movie in my room, I decide to call and check in on Papa again since I haven’t gotten in touch with him yet this week. When he hasn’t answered on my third try, I begin to worry.