Loving Dallas(2)

She goes on to detail a schedule that includes every moment I’m permitted to sleep and breathe. But this is everything I ever wanted, so I’m not complaining.

When I finally end the call, Afton claps me on the back and offers to buy the next round to celebrate. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is actually happening. It’s everything I ever wanted . . . well, mostly. I wanted my band to make it big, but some dreams don’t come made to order.

The bartender sets our new drinks in front of us and I excuse myself to make a phone call. I’m pulling her name up as I make my way out of the boisterous crowd filling the bar.

I hold the door open on my way and a group of attractive women comes in thanking me for being a gentleman.

Stepping outside, I place the phone to my ear and hear it still ringing. I feel the grin spread across my face when she finally picks up.

“Hey. Where are you?”

“Well hello to you, too.” She laughs lightly. “I’m on the Blue Ridge Parkway. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful it is. I think fall is my new favorite season.”

My sister is on some epic road trip that gives me heartburn and panic attacks on a regular basis. But she seems to be enjoying herself, so I try to tamp down my brotherly instincts. She’s twenty years old now so I can’t exactly order her to go home where she’s safe like I could when we were kids.

“No truck stops after dark, okay? And be sure you’re—”

“Locking the doors, keeping the gas tank filled, checking the air in the tires, and carrying my Mace with me at all times.” She finishes my much-repeated spiel for me. “I know, big brother. I got this. I’ve only got a few more stops, then I’ll head home and you can rest easy.”

“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” I say, meaning it. “I just worry about you is all.”

“I know, Dad,” she teases. “And I appreciate your concern.”

It’s not the first time she’s called me that and in some ways, I suppose I do treat her more like a daughter than a sister. Our actual dad was from a low-income section of Amarillo, Texas. He grew up working from the time he could ride a bike. Paper route. Lawn boy. Window, car, whatever washer. Dog walker. You name it, he did it. He ran errands for the elderly, started painting houses by the time he was sixteen, and pretty much did anything and everything he could to earn a buck. Over the years he saved his pennies and by the time he was eighteen, he was able to afford to send himself to college. He’d met my mom there. She was a cello player studying music education. My grandparents helped as much as they could, of course, but for the most part, my dad was a self-made man. He was proud of that, it was part of who he was, and his work ethic was ingrained in my DNA. As were his protective tendencies. Even though he’s been dead ten years now, the beliefs he instilled in me live on.

“Take care of each other,” he’d said to my sister and me before he and my mother were killed in a car accident involving a drunk driver. But he’d given me this look before he left and I knew what he really meant. Take care of your sister, Dallas, he’d conveyed silently.

I’ve done my best to honor his final request, which is why being away from her feels so strange. When we’d moved from our two-story house in a suburb of Austin to a tiny two-bedroom shack with our grandparents in Amarillo, I’d done everything I could to make sure my sister didn’t suffer more than necessary. I’d taken the converted closet as a bedroom so she could have the bigger one. I’d mowed the same lawns my father had as a kid to make sure she had extra spending money for ice cream or earrings or whatever her little heart desired. I’d even been careful not to be too rough on my clothes because I knew she’d likely have to wear them as hand-me-downs.

“So you’re okay then? Having a good time still?” I’m glad she’s enjoying herself, I am. But I won’t be too upset when she’s done traipsing across the countryside, either.

“I am having a great time,” my sister tells me. “Somehow it’s like . . . never mind.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s like they’re here with me.” She sighs, the heavy losses we’ve experienced over the years weighing down her breath. “That sounds dumb, right? I mean, I’m not hallucinating or anything. I just . . . feel them.”

She means our grandparents. Because she’s on the road trip they’d planned to spend their life savings on but never got the chance to. And I know exactly how she feels. Between the memories of my parents and my granddad’s voice in my head, I feel them, too.

“I know exactly what you mean, Dixie Leigh. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the guitar lessons Papa gave me. And I could sure go for some of Nana’s cooking right now. Man can only eat so much diner food.”

She laughs and I use the moment to tell her about joining Jase Wade’s tour.

“Dallas!” she practically squeals at me. “And here I thought you were calling just to check in. Congratulations! I’m so happy for you, big brother.”

“Thanks.”

Some siblings might be jealous of each other’s success or resentful, especially since this was our dream once upon a time. But Dixie has always been one of the most selfless people I know.

“I can talk to the label again. They loved your song, Dix. I can convince them that you need to—”