Missing Dixie(48)

“Listen, I hate to be a dick,” Dallas breaks in, “but we only have a few days until the Phi Kap gig, then the battle, and your hand looks like hell, Garrison.”

Both Dixie and I snap to attention at his interruption of our moment. He’s facing us, leaning forward on his steering wheel and looking like he’s barely resisting the urge to throttle us both.

“More importantly, you two obviously have some major shit to work out and I can tell you both from personal experience, if you can’t find some sort of common ground before the show, there’s no point in even bothering. Either one or both of you will be distracted and we’ll ruin any shot the band has at winning.” He glares for a minute but then his gaze softens. “I love you both and I won’t try and tell you how to live your lives or what I think is the best solution for everyone. But I will tell you that while I understand that nothing can be resolved in one night, I do think it would be a good idea to tell each other some hard truths.” He hits me hard with a pointed stare. Then his tone softens slightly. “Better now than the night before the battle.”

“Good night, Dallas,” Dixie says evenly. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Text and let me know you get home safe, please.”

“Good night, you two,” Dallas answers reluctantly. “Try not to kill each other.”

Dixie rolls her eyes and slams his truck door. Hard.

This is the second time in a matter of minutes that I’ve seen Dixie let Dallas know how it’s going to be. I don’t think I’ve seen that happen ever in my eleven, almost twelve years of knowing them.

I’m still in shock as we head into the house.

Dixie switches the lights on and I stand in the entryway still holding my bag of food and unsure of what to do with myself.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” she says, adding “sit” and nodding toward the couch before she disappears into the kitchen.

I follow her orders like a zombie on autopilot.

Sitting down, I open my sandwich, unsurprised when I realize that she did, in fact, order it exactly as I do.

“Tea or Coke or water?” she calls from the other room.

“Coke is fine,” I answer, knowing I need the caffeine, as this is probably going to end up being a longer night than either of us is prepared for.

Dallas is right. It’s time to tell her the truth.

I just wish it didn’t have to come on the heels of my beating a man in front of her and her picking me up at jail. So much for being the kind of man she deserves.

When she returns with a can of soda, I offer her half my sandwich. Or the whole thing. Or my heart and soul and whatever else she wants.

“You sure you’re not hungry?”

She nods. “I ate earlier.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods again. “Positive. Promise.”

It only takes a few bites until I’ve pretty much demolished the sandwich and another bag of chips. I drain the can of Coke while Dixie sips the one she carried in for herself.

“I left a message for Sheila Montgomery,” she informs me. “But she hasn’t called me back yet.”

“Good. She will. When she does, give her Carl’s name and address and any information you have on Liam.”

Dixie watches me closely. “Okay. I will. And I called the hospital and Carl was moved out of intensive care into a regular room. He’ll be out this time tomorrow or the next day.”

“Where’s the kid?”

Dixie blanches like I’ve hurt her somehow. “Liam. His name is Liam. He’s staying right next door actually, with my neighbor, Mrs. Lawson. She’s nice. A little eccentric and maybe kind of crazy about her cats, but she’s a sweet lady. He’s safe there. And her cookies are probably better than mine.”

She smiles and the tension weighing on my chest lightens somewhat.

“Good. That’s good.”

“So . . . how long do you think Carl has been abusing him?”

I chew my food slowly in an attempt to put off answering.

Right here is the crux of everything that separates my world from hers. She looks at everyone and sees the light in them, the good, the potential. Whereas I see only darkness. The bad. The danger.

“Probably since he was born, Dix. Carl Andrews basically runs the local crack house.”

Dixie pales. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Yeah, babe. Seriously. And by runs, I mean he lives there. It actually is his house.”

Her brow wrinkles as I continue, explaining as gently as I know how to.

“Crack den is a more appropriate term because it isn’t much like a house or a home at all. On the outside maybe. On the inside, these places are gutted. Sparse furniture, usually filthy, and crack pipes and strung-out junkies typically litter the floors and fill the corners.” I stare at my hands while I finish because I can’t bear to see how much pain this is causing her to hear. I’m tainting her worldview, casting my dark shadows on her light. “People come and go. Some looking for a fix, some looking for revenge if they feel they got sold something less than acceptable quality, some so high they don’t even know what they’re doing there, it’s just become a beacon they end up at because they’ve been so many times.”

When I finally look up, she’s shaking her head. “No. No. His house can’t be like that. He has a kid. Surely someone would . . .”