Missing Dixie(29)

“Garrison, one of your girls is asking for you,” a red-faced heavyset man calls out.

Of course that would be the first thing I hear when I step into the Tavern Friday night. I came early in an attempt to shake off the pre-performance jitters.

So much for that.

After entirely too much deliberation, I pulled out a black leather top and a short, black lace skirt. The McQueen ankle boots I got at an estate sale years ago had been collecting dust in my closet pretty much since the showcase in Nashville. Slipping them on, I began to feel like me again. Who knew shoes had so much power. I didn’t. Until now.

I put on some eyeliner and mascara and a quick coat of my one splurge in life, Marc Jacobs lip gloss in a bold shade of red, tossed my hair up and down a few times, and called it good.

It wasn’t until I was just about walk out the door that I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the living room.

Eyes wide and shining, lips full and glistening, and my skin creamy and just flushed enough to make me look alive. I was holding Oz’s case and for a moment I was transported back in time. Austin. Music. Performing live and setting my soul free.

Somehow I’d lost sight of what that meant to me, of what it did for me, for my heart and soul and general well-being. Now I remember. I need music like I need oxygen. But I’d been depriving myself for so long because . . . because it seemed indulgent. Selfish, even, after Papa died. Joy in the midst of grief felt so wrong . . . and yet, now I could see that it was so very necessary. I read somewhere that when you’re happy you enjoy the music but when you’re sad you understand it. Music was my salvation, it always had been. But when Dallas was leaving to follow the dream we’d shared for so long, I felt like I was abandoning the memory of my grandfather.

Give yourself permission to dream, little one, my Nana used to say. Dream big and wide and run full speed with arms stretched out wide to catch those elusive dreams.

Did I forget that? Did I forget her?

No. I forgot me.

It’s as if I’ve awakened from the dead. I place my hand over my mouth to keep the sound of surprise from escaping.

There I am.

More important, Where have I been?

Hiding behind messy topknots and sweatpants mostly.

Maybe Leandra was right. She smiles and waves at me from across the room as she plops down at a table near the piano where Cassidy and Jaggerd are already sitting. I wave and they wave back but Jag looks strangely unsettled.

I sang at Dallas’s wedding but it’s not something I typically do unless it’s backup vocals. That night I saw Gavin for the first time in months, I was just messing around because the girls talked me into it. This was not what I pictured for my life, but I can finally see how Dallas did find some joy in performing solo. It’s like doing a trapeze act with no net.

Somehow my life has taken an abrupt left turn as of late.

I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Excited.

Scared.

Anxious as hell, really.

My eyes scan the room without my permission. I pretend I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I know exactly who I’m hoping to see.

He’s probably busy working, Dixie, I tell myself. He may be getting off soon but he might not be leaving alone. His complicated blonde could be here.

I feel sick.

Nothing I try to console myself with is really helping matters much. I feel like all of my nerves have been stretched to their absolute breaking point and I’m on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.

A few minutes after I’ve stepped into the small backstage area, which apparently also doubles as storage for stacked cardboard boxes, someone closes in behind me.

“Hey there, Bluebird. Or should I call you Songbird now?” His breath tickles the back of my neck and the delicious heat shimmies down my spine.

“Gavin,” I say, turning to face him. “Heard there was a girl looking for you.”

His gaze doesn’t even waver. “Oh yeah? Too bad for her. I already found the girl I’m looking for.”

My nose scrunches, my unfailing tell that I am confused. “What’s with you these days, Mr. Smooth Pants? You sure are laying on the charm lately.”

“And here I thought I was just being nice.”

There’s something about the way he says the word that lulls me into a false sense of security. I feel like I’m being hypnotized by the seductive lilt to his voice, the liquid warmth in his eyes. It’s disorienting and mesmerizing.

“Nice isn’t really the word I’d use to describe you, Garrison.”

“And what word would you use?”

Being put on the spot so suddenly flusters me. I’m unprepared for this pop quiz. “I, um, I’m not—”

“I don’t want to distract you tonight. I’m looking forward to seeing you play, but if my being in the crowd will throw you off or something, I can—”

“Arrogant, Gav. That’s the word I’d use.” I smirk at him. “And don’t worry, I can perform just fine with you front and center.”

He appears to take my defiance as a challenge. He leans forward to whisper in my ear and it’s everything I can do not to melt into a puddle. “You sure? Be honest, Bluebird.”

Heat creeps up my neck and spread across my face. His voice lowers as he leans in closer.

“Tell me you don’t want me here and I’ll walk out the door right now. No questions asked.”