Loving Dallas(3)

“I need to be right where I am, Dallas.” She pauses a moment and I can picture her expression as she chooses her words carefully. “After this, I’m going to New Mexico. Then I’m going home for a while, so you can rest easy. I love you, and I’m happy for you. I miss you and I miss . . .” For a second I’m sure she’s going to say Gavin and that’s going to turn this into an entirely different conversation. But she doesn’t. “The band,” she says instead.

“Me, too.”

“But the label wanted you, Dallas. And I needed this trip even more than I realized. I needed to make peace with all that we’ve lost before I could appreciate what I have. So you do what you need to and stop worrying about me so much. I can take care of myself. Promise.”

I know that she can. Despite our dad’s last words, Dixie always made it fairly easy on me. She rarely asked for anything. When I tried to give her the money I’d saved over the years so that she could go to college, she informed me that she’d applied for a scholarship and that she’d only go if she got it. Which she did, because she’s one of the most talented musicians I’ve ever known.

Dixie has the same passion for music that our mother did and the talent that flowed from our father’s fingertips. Our dad wasn’t as interested in music professionally, maybe because he grew up with a musician father who’d never managed to make a successful career from it—but like our mom used to say, Dad had music in his soul whether he wanted it there or not. He was one of those people who could find a beat anywhere. And according to my granddad, he never met an instrument he couldn’t tame.

My sister plays with this superhuman ease, almost as if playing is effortless for her, something that just occurs when she touches an instrument. But I’m more like my mom. I had to practice my ass off. Playing the guitar began as something I did for fun, just fooling around. But when people started paying me fifty bucks to play at their parties, I realized I could earn money doing something I thought was fun instead of schlepping a push mower all around town.

Fifty bucks bought my sister new blue jeans of her very own. And all the ice cream she could eat.

I’d saved and sacrificed and given everything I had to give. I’d even tried to give up my shot at making it when a label executive didn’t want my sister as part of the deal. But Dixie had shoved me out the door, telling me that I’d given up enough and it was my turn to live my dream now.

Part of me is here for selfish reasons. Because I love the thrill of performing, and because it feels like I’m proving something to my late father. I like to think he’d be proud of me. But mostly, my hope is that I can make the kind of living with music that will ensure my sister doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to. Like spend her life in an orchestra pit. Or work as a waitress in Amarillo for the rest of her life.

“It’s your turn now,” she’s told me several times. “This is your dream. Stop worrying about me and go get it already.”

“Dallas,” my sister says slightly louder, breaking into my thoughts. “This is still what you want, right? The tour? The music?”

It takes me too long to answer. So I make sure to add plenty of gusto to my voice when I do.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course it is.”

“You sure everything’s okay? Is Gavin okay? He told me about the whole probation thing, but maybe now you can get the label to talk to someone and explain—”

“Everything’s fine. I should go, Dixie. Afton Tate says hello, by the way. I’m grabbing a few drinks with him now. Call and check in when you get to New Mexico, okay?”

“Okay,” she says, so low I have to strain to hear over the sounds of cars passing by. “I’ll call you soon. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I say before disconnecting the call.

For a second I thought she was about to say something else, but I wait a beat and she doesn’t text or dial me back.

My skin prickles at my lie of omission as I make my way back inside the bar. Gavin Garrison isn’t with me and he hasn’t been since he left after the audition in Nashville. I thought he would’ve gotten in touch with her by now and as much as I want to tell her, it doesn’t feel like my truth to tell.

Then there’s the fact that I feel like I’m faking it until I make it out on the road alone. I haven’t written a full song in over a year. Not one that was any good, anyway. If it weren’t for my sister’s lyrics, I probably wouldn’t even be here. But I have to push aside my writer’s block or inspiration block or whatever the hell it is that’s blocking me. Because I’m here now, right where I always dreamed of being.





2 | Robyn

IT IS DAYS LIKE THIS THAT MAKE ME THANKFUL PEOPLE ASSUME I am a bitch. Something about my red hair, I guess. Usually I’m pretty chill, actually. But incompetence irritates the ever-loving shit out of me. And I’ve been dealing with it all morning. There isn’t enough coffee in the world to make this day run smoothly.

Ignoring the pinch of pain my Louboutins cause and the dull ache in my calves, I stomp over to where two muscle-covered men are setting up the Midnight Bay blue line display.

“What part of ‘forward facing’ is unclear?” Reaching toward the LED-lit shelf, I turn the bottles so that the labels can be seen. Both men give me their what-do-you-want-from-us-lady face. Once I have the bottles positioned correctly, I force a smile at them. “There. See? Now it actually makes sense to spend several thousand dollars on this display.”