Missing Dixie(56)

I’m one second from covering my ears like a child to keep his words out when he delivers the crushing blow to my soul.

“Ashley helped me, she represented me when no one else would. She accepted what I could give and it sort of turned into a . . . thing, I guess. But after Austin, I ended it. I swear to God, I have not touched her since. But she’s still my attorney, she’s a pretty damn good one, and she knows my case and is doing her best to get my probation ended early so that I can be a part of Leaving Amarillo—and not the anchor that weighs the band down and keeps us from playing out-of-state gigs.” He swallows hard and stares at me with that look, that please-don’t-hate-me-I’m-only-a-clueless-guy look. I frown, trying to sort my feelings in my head before I open my mouth and say something I can’t take back. “Tell me what I can do, Bluebird. What I can say or do to make it better, to keep from hurting you. Please. Whatever you want or need, I will do. Name it.”

A desperate Gavin. This is a switch. Typically it was me doing the begging and pleading and trying to push him into recognizing what we had. But now the tables have turned and I don’t know what side either of us is really on.

“I don’t know,” I say softly. “I’m just . . . there’s so much I didn’t know and this other girl in your life that I can’t compete with and honestly, I don’t think I want to even—”

He cuts my sentence short by rushing forward and taking my hands in his. The contact assaults my exposed nerves. “I ended it with no room for doubt. I told her I would get the money I owed as soon as I could and I’ve been paying her weekly from my check. She still comes around every now and then, either because she’s lonely or bored, or hell if I know, but I told her in no uncertain terms that I don’t want that in my life anymore. I’m done with that kind of life—with temporary highs and empty relationships. With using sex as currency or as just a means to an end. I want this, what you and I have, what you and I could have if I stopped getting in my own way.”

“Just . . .” I look down at our connected hands, then helplessly up at him, hating that I’m hurting him, hating that I can’t just say it’s okay. My instinct is to soothe him, to make it all better, to shine the light on the darkness within him. But this time I am lost in darkness, too, and I can’t figure out how to get either of us out. “Maybe just give me some space, okay? I need to think and I can’t think right now with everything so . . .”

The initial hurt of being asked to leave by the one person who has always wanted him to stay flickers fast across his features but he schools them quickly and nods, allowing his hands to slip from mine. The shutters he usually keeps between us slam shut in his eyes and I am on the outside once again—no longer privy to the inner workings of Gavin Garrison.

“Okay. I have to be at work tonight so I should go, anyway. But please know I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you or Dallas.” A beat later, just before walking out of my yard and maybe out of my life, he adds, “You’re all I’ve got.”

If I ever wrote a book, I think I’d call it “A View from Rock Bottom,” because that’s where I am right now.

When a knock comes at my door I’m literally lying facedown on my living room floor.

I should probably sweep soon. It’s apparently filthy at rock bottom. There’s dust under the coffee table and what I think might be an old sock under the couch.

He opened up, told the truth, all of it, even the ugly parts I asked for, and I shut him out. I let him go.

As painful as our conversation was, I’d rather have it a hundred times over day after day than see that cold, empty look he gave me when he left.

Gavin is the one person I’d do anything not to hurt; he’s also the one person I know would never cause me pain on purpose.

So why do we keep destroying each other?

I’m still contemplating this when I peel myself up off the floor and make my way toward the knocking.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” I call out, assuming it’s Robyn on the other side of the door. I texted her and Dallas both that I needed to talk ASAP right after Gavin left and upon checking my phone, I realize it’s been nearly enough time for the drive from Dallas to Amarillo. Jesus. That was a good chunk of the afternoon I spent on the floor.

I’m a bit surprised when I pull the door open to find Liam and Mrs. Lawson on my porch.

“Well, hey there, y’all,” I say, forcing myself to sound less dead than I feel. “Come on in.”

I step aside, pulling the door completely open. They do come inside but only just barely.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Mrs. Lawson says, giving me a hug and enveloping me in her potent rose-scented perfume. I love the woman, but she’s like a walking potpourri dish.

“Hi, Mrs. Lawson. Everything okay?” I glance down at Liam, who looks somber and maybe a little sleepy.

“Oh everything’s fine,” she tells me in her singsong voice. “It’s just that I’m having my monthly bridge club dinner and Liam here has had just about enough of old ladies gossiping, I’m afraid.” She smiles down at him before whisper conspiratorially to me. “You know that Mrs. Emerson from Atlanta, she moved into the old Johnson house on Lane Avenue? She’s got the best stories,” my neighbor continues without waiting for my answer. “She can’t make a decent thumbprint jelly cookie to save her life but it’s worth inviting her for the stories.”