Leaving Amarillo(45)
“Not Dallas,” I interrupt gently, feeling like the human equivalent of pond scum.
“Ah,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “The drummer, then.”
I start to bite my bottom lip, then stop, remembering the gloss that is bliss on my lips.
“Yeah, and he’s probably outside waiting for me as we speak. My brother is out with Mandy Lantram, as he has been pretty much every night. I guess we’re signing with her and I didn’t want to interrupt his night, either.”
Several emotions flicker across Afton’s face too quickly for me to identify before he settles on one.
Concerned.
“Mandy Lantram is a pretty big deal, I suppose.” He clears his throat and steps aside so a few women can get to the ladies’ room entrance. “She’s got quite the reputation around town, and as much of a tool as this is going to make me sound like, I have to tell you something.”
“I’ve heard, actually. A little about her, I mean. Recently.” As in five seconds ago. I’m still clearing the debris from the bombs that were inadvertently dropped on me.
Afton glances around as if she might be nearby. That would be a plot twist I just couldn’t handle at the moment.
“She approached me last year when the band starting getting some attention. Told me I could ditch my bandmates, go solo, and change the face of music, blah, blah, blah.”
That familiar sinking feeling from the ladies’ room assaults my stomach once more. “Let me guess. She loved the band, loved the sound, but loved you the most?”
He nods and now I’m not faking anymore. I actually feel sick. The room tilts and I don’t think it’s from the Long Island ice teas.
“I hope she’s not selling my brother that same song and dance.”
“Think he’d buy it if she did?”
“I hope not.” I shrug. “We’re signing with her as a band, far as I know. So I can’t be sure.”
“Just . . . be careful, Dixie. She’s got real connections so she can make or break you if she wants. If he’s really set on signing with her, then play nice. Otherwise, I’d encourage the three of you to explore your options a bit more. I’ve heard you play; you definitely have options.”
I make a note to talk to my brother about this before any legal agreements are signed. “Thanks for the heads-up. And thanks for bringing me tonight. Believe it or not, I had a good time and I hate that I didn’t get to spend more time actually just hanging out with you.”
“Well I am pretty good company. Some girls even think I’m decent to look at, if you can believe that.” He grins and keeps the pace beside me as I begin making my way toward the exit. “Though I suspect I wasn’t your first choice tonight.”
“Afton . . .”
“Please don’t. Let me keep my dignity since I’m the one who already gave the ‘it’s not you it’s me’ speech.”
A smile tugs at my lips once we’ve reached the door. “Okay then. I’ll try and pick up the pieces and move on. Somehow.”
“It won’t be easy,” he says with a wink.
“Of course not. It will be excruciating and there will be several gallons of ice cream involved.”
I give him a quick one-armed neck hug and a peck on the cheek. A tiny shimmer from my borrowed gloss remains behind as trace evidence.
“Hey, Opening Act?” he calls out as I step past the door he’s holding open for me.
“Yeah?”
“In the future, if you aren’t interested in a guy, do him a favor and don’t wear that dress, okay?”
I nod, embarrassed at how his words make me feel.
I feel . . . pretty. Maybe even sexy. My skin flashes hot everywhere and I know I’m grinning, probably maniacally enough to be scary instead of sexy.
The self-congratulatory smirk I’m wearing fades quickly, though, once I turn toward the street and see no signs of our van anywhere. Extracting my phone from my overstuffed purse, I check the time and nearly cry out. It’s 12:02.
Gavin’s words repeat in my mind.
“I’m leaving at midnight. With you or without you.”
A four-door silver Honda and a late-model white Ford pickup are parked on the curb. But that’s it. Emmylou isn’t anywhere to be seen.
Disappointment gathers in my throat and seeps into my chest. Not only does he probably think I stood him up or that I’m a flighty moron who lost track of time—which, in a way, I guess I am—but now I either have to call a cab and risk Afton seeing and being unnecessarily hurt, or go back inside and tell Afton that Gavin didn’t show and I need a ride.
Once when we were kids, the boys left me behind and went camping. I’d been upstairs packing my sleeping bag and dreaming of roasting marshmallows by the campfire. When I bounded down the stairs my grandparents sat in the living room wearing matching masks of sympathy.
“Dixie Leigh,” Papa had said softly, “sometimes boys just need time to be boys.”
Nana nodded. “You don’t want to be around when they start acting foolish and passing gas in the tent anyway. Let’s go into the kitchen and see if we can’t have some fun of our own.”
That night my grandparents and I had had an indoor campout. We’d made s’mores over the stove and had a sing-along at the piano. Despite how the boys had broken my heart, and abandoned me, that night had turned out to be one of my most favorite memories.