by Caisey Quinn
“So I’ll be your wingman?” I can’t help but laugh.
“More like a wingwoman,” he says, nudging me gently. “But I’m betting it will be you I lose to someone else—not the other way around.”
There is disappointment etched into a forced smile on his face. “Jag,” I whine softly. “Please don’t—”
“I’m not,” he says, holding both hands up. “Just be careful, please. Garrison is trouble and he’ll never be good enough for you as far as I’m concerned. But I’ll mind my own business.” He nods toward my hip. “Except about that. Go clean that up, please.”
“Going,” I say, tossing the bloody rag in the dirty pile before I head into the bathroom.
While I’m cleaning out my wound and trying not to pass out, I think about what he said. Why is it people are always telling you you’re too good for the one you can’t have? I’ve never thought of Gavin as someone I was better than—for that matter, I’ve never considered myself better than anyone. We’re all made of the same stuff—just some of us were dealt different cards. Gavin got a shitty set of cards and my deck wasn’t all that great, but somehow, when we’re together, none of that matters. Dallas, Gavin, and I have always been a family. Now that Dallas has Robyn and a baby on the way, he has his own family and I feel like I’m just . . . existing. Being with Gavin was the last time I felt truly alive—like I finally belonged where I was meant to be. In his arms. But like all happiness, it was fleeting.
He was here. Right down the street and he didn’t even bother to call me. Maybe I’m being overly sensitive, but maybe not. It hurts. A lot. And it makes me angry as hell. After everything we’ve been through over the years he still didn’t deem me worthy of a call? A text?
Hey, Bluebird. About that whole waiting-for-me thing? Never mind. I’m home but I have zero interest in seeing you. Take care!
Ugh. None of it makes sense. Only after I busted him in a bar with some blonde did he start calling and texting asking for a chance to explain.
Too little, too late, drummer boy.
I probably would’ve given in eventually, though. Maybe he knew that, because after a few days, his calls and texts stopped.
I’ve analyzed and overanalyzed every moment we spent together in Austin, everything he said before he left me in Amarillo, and each message sent since then. I’ve yet to reach a conclusion about the motivations and intentions of Gavin Garrison.
Papa used to say living your life was like driving a car. While it’s necessary to glance back every now and then, it’s much more important to watch where you are going than dwell on where you’ve been. I won’t be that girl anymore, the one that determines her self-worth or lack thereof based on one guy’s ability to notice her.
I glance up into the hazy mirror and look at my own faded reflection.
Gavin Garrison is so much more than just a guy I like—more than an infatuation or an addiction. In my heart, he’s my past, present, and future. I just don’t know if he wants to be. Or if I’m willing to put myself out there again and ask him to be.
I lost a lot of time focusing on the pain and the past. But when I stopped letting it consume me, I found myself in the same place where I always find myself. In music.
When I stopped moping and feeling sorry for myself, I made some changes in my life. I’ve found happiness and joy in giving piano and violin lessons to underprivileged local kids and it’s been such a successful program that I had to get a business license and name it. Over the Rainbow is my passion project and I’ve formed friendships with many of the parents of the kiddos I teach. Maybe it’s not performing onstage or coming to life beneath the lights, but I love it just the same.
If there is anything I’ve learned about gifts, like the gift of being able to play an instrument, it’s that they should be shared with the world one way or another. I also learned a valuable lesson from my grandparents that it took traveling around the country living their dream to fully comprehend. They didn’t get to live their dream but it didn’t mean they weren’t happy. Together they lived a full, satisfied life and they had plenty of love leftover to give to the two orphans they ended up raising. Life doesn’t always turn out how you expect and sometimes parts of you get broken along the way, but there is always hope and even broken pieces can be rebuilt into something beautiful. My heart is a piece of mosaic art at this point.
Standing there, staring at myself in the glass, I vow to focus on the music, on grabbing hold of what joy I have in my life and not letting go.
Most important? I vow never again to hand my heart over to Gavin Garrison.
At least not until he hands me his first.
2 | Gavin
BAND MEETING. TODAY. Rehearsal space. 4:30. Don’t be late.
That’s all the text from Dallas says. Kind of odd since we’re not “technically” a band anymore, but that’s Dallas for you. No more explanation than he feels is necessary. I’m too tired from working a late shift to text back a list of questions.
His text is the first thing I see when I wake up and check my phone out of habit on a random Thursday afternoon. I worked late last night, so even though it’s nearly three in the afternoon, this is basically breakfast time for me.
For months I’ve checked my phone day and night. Part of me was waiting for this, the opening, the opportunity to see her again and show her that while I’m still a work in progress, I’m trying, improving, and growing closer to becoming the type of man she deserves. The other part of me is dreading it.
After our band sort of unofficially broke up after Austin MusicFest, Dallas went solo, Dixie went home, and I went straight to my probation officer to find out how I could right my many, many wrongs.
Trouble is, I didn’t exactly tell Dixie that. I let her believe I was on tour with Dallas.
When I saw Dixie Lark three months ago, she used her last words to me to tell me right where to go. I’ve left her voice mails, sent texts, asked repeatedly for the chance to explain what she saw—what I did and why I didn’t contact her sooner. When Dallas went missing in Rio, I stopped by to check on her but she didn’t look at all happy to see me in her time of grief. So even though I wanted nothing more than to hold and comfort her, I saw McKinley there and decided it would be best if I kept my distance. Christmas and New Year’s came and went and they were the first ones I didn’t spend with her and Dallas since I met them ten years ago. Dallas invited me to his and Robyn’s place but I declined, choosing to work instead. If it had been her asking me to come, then I would’ve quit my job to be there if necessary, but all I’ve gotten from Dixie Lark is radio silence.
I don’t even blame her.
Groaning, I stretch as far as my back will allow and lumber out of my bed. After a quick shower, I throw on a T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans and step into the lace-up work boots I rarely bother to lace.
Glancing at my reflection on my way out, I note that I should have shaved my face, but I would’ve been late and I’m not really in the mood for pissy Dallas at the moment.
I glance down at the kitchen table and see a notice about the rent on the trailer being overdue. Usually I scrape up enough to keep it paid on time, but I’ve been saving my money lately. My mom is rarely even here and this isn’t where I plan to spend the rest of my life.
My plan for becoming a worthwhile human being has three major components.
The first is paying for all past mistakes in full so those fuckers don’t sneak up on me. I’m fulfilling all the requirements of my probation to a T. The second is making a regular effort to reach long-term goals involving the things that matter, like money, music, and my life. The third is finding a way to be completely honest with Dixie—about everything.
It’s the third one I’m struggling with the most.
The rehearsal space isn’t too far away but it’s beginning to mist outside so I walk to the truck stop a few blocks down the road and check for Mr. Kyung. He’s on the phone, speaking Korean with an earpiece in, when I step inside.
Without even acknowledging that he sees me, he tosses a pair of keys into the air—lobbing them in a perfect arc into my hands.
“Komawoyo,” I call out as I turn to leave. “Bring her back before closing.”
He waves me off while continuing his conversation.
He’s one of the very few people on the planet who actually trust me.
When I was nine I got caught stealing a pack of cheese from Kyung’s. He took one look at me, saw that I was filthy and most likely starving half to death, and told me he wouldn’t turn me in if I would work off what I owed and promise never to steal another thing. Most days I swept the floors, restocked drinks, and delivered groceries and food orders to nearby houses I could reach on foot. Every time I walked in the door his seventy-something-year-old mother insisted on making me enough food for two meals. Now that I’m older I’m pretty sure it was just his way of providing for a kid he felt sorry for, but I still appreciate that he did it without making me feel ashamed. He made it clear that in his family a man is nothing without his pride. I have always been thankful that he allowed me to keep what little bit I had.
When I was sixteen and still “working” off a five-dollar seven-year-old debt, Mr. Kyung bought an old red Isuzu pickup and hired me officially as the delivery guy, but it was also officially under the table.
In some ways, the man of small stature and few words is like a father to me. I never stole another thing. Since getting the job at the Tavern I haven’t needed the extra cash but he still lets me borrow the truck and come by for a meal now and then. No questions asked. His mother passed away a few years ago and his wife started doing the cooking.
“It’s not as good as my mother’s was,” he told me quietly in his still slightly broken English over some type of dumpling soup he called manduguk, “but if you stop coming by it will hurt Lin’s feelings and I’ll have to hurt you.”
Again, I don’t know if he was just worried I wouldn’t eat otherwise, or if it really would have hurt his wife’s feelings or what, but I still come in every now and then.
I drive the barely running truck back to my place, load up my kit just in case Dallas has more than a simple meeting in mind, then head to the rehearsal space in downtown Amarillo. I listen to my favorite rock station on the way, concentrating hard on the music and wishing I had the drumming chops of Keith Moon or John Bonham, while trying to keep the anxiety over seeing Dixie at bay.
It works for a little while, right up until I pull behind the building and see EmmyLou parked beside Dallas’s truck. She’s already here then.
Dallas will be glad she wasn’t late. Whatever it is, for him to call an emergency band meeting the same night as his rehearsal dinner, it must be important.
I pocket the keys to the truck and make my way to the back door of the repurposed storage building we used to rent out to rehearse in. When I open the door she’s the first thing I see.
My adrenaline, testosterone, and heart rate all rise immediately at the sight of her.
Dixie sits cross-legged on the couch, Oz in his case beside her. Clearly she had the same inclination I did about the purpose of this meeting. Dallas is standing across from her but his guitar is nowhere in sight.
“Now that you’re both here,” he begins as soon as the door is closed behind me, “let’s get right to it. We all have to be at the restaurant in about two hours so we don’t have time to waste.”
Dallas continues before I have time to check if any sign of comprehension registers on Dixie’s face.
“There is a battle of the bands at the Tavern two weeks from now and I went ahead and signed us up before the list was full. We haven’t played together in months and I know I should’ve talked to you both first, but time wasn’t a luxury I had.”
Dixie’s mouth opens slightly and I can tell this is the first she’s heard of this. Dallas puts his hands up and continues.
“I’m proposing that we give Leaving Amarillo one more shot, rehearse as soon as I get back from my honeymoon, play a warm-up gig next weekend, and perform in the battle.” He pauses, glancing briefly at both of us before going on. “But Austin MusicFest was like herding cats with the two of you and I won’t do that again. We all three have to want this equally, have to be ready to give it all we have. Otherwise, we can say to hell with it, and I’m going to see if Afton Tate wants to work together on writing and hope I can make a living writing songs for other people. This isn’t just about living my dream anymore,” he tells us on a heavy sigh. “I have a family to support now, one who I would do anything for—same goes for you two. Don’t say yes for me, say yes if and only if you really want this. If it’s your dream, too. If it’s not, I’ll have us taken off the list. Drill Sergeant Dallas is retiring so either you’re in or you’re out.”
He huffs out a loud breath and my eyes dart to where Dixie sits, still as stone with only her side profile visible to me. When neither of us answers right away, Dallas looks ready to throw his hands up.
“Well . . .” he prompts.
“I’m in,” I choke out before clearing my throat. “I’m with you. All in.”
I’ve been hoping for this moment since I saw the flyer in the bar, not that I was hoping for Dallas’s solo career to fail by any means, but I’d be lying my ass off if I said I didn’t want to once again be a part of the only thing that has ever mattered to me. I’m done lying, to them and to myself.
The silence takes on a sort of self-awareness, as if it’s as much in the room as we are.
“Dix,” Dallas says quietly. “I know it’s been a tough year. I know you’ve dealt with a lot on your own and whatever you decide, I will be okay with. I mean it.”
My heart feels like a lead weight in my chest when she stands. She lifts Oz but doesn’t remove him from his case and I can feel that she’s going to pass. On this. On me. Because of the pain I’ve caused her.
When she turns to face me I do my best to give her a “what do we have to lose” look and a hopeful shrug, but she barely registers my presence. There’s blind drive in her eyes; I just don’t know what it’s driving her to do. I don’t have to wait long as she starts to make her way to the door.
Her voice is soft but clear when she faces Dallas. “Is that all you wanted?”
He nods. “Yeah. Mostly. I had a request about the wedding but we can discuss that tonight at the rehearsal dinner.”
She frowns and I cross my arms and wait for her to pummel my already fucked-up heart with blatant rejection.
“I need some time . . . to think . . . about all of this,” she says carefully. “I’ll let you know something when you get back from your honeymoon. That okay?”
Dallas’s shoulders sag slightly and his face shows his disappointment, but he doesn’t look surprised by her answer. “Of course. I understand. I want to say take your time but I’ll need to know something soon.”
She nods. “I know. I’ll have an answer as soon as possible. If that’s all, I’m going to head on home. There’s a little boy who keeps showing up for lessons, and I haven’t ever met with his parents, so I’m going to try and catch them before they drop him off. And I still need to get ready for the rehearsal dinner.”
Dallas gives her a quick one-armed hug and the next thing I know she’s breezing right out the door. Lessons?
“Guess you don’t get a goodbye,” he says evenly. “I’ll take that as a bad sign on the current climate between you two. I think it just lowered a few degrees in here.”
I don’t answer. Instead, I just sit back down on the couch and place my head in my hands. There has to be a way to help her understand why.
“She’ll come around, man,” Dallas tells me. “Enough to at least hear you out, I hope.”
I glance up at him. “And the band? You think she can really put what happened behind her and forgive me?”
“I think she can try.”
“Hope so,” I answer dejectedly. “Hey, how long do we have the space for?”
Dallas checks his
phone. “About another half hour. You gonna stay and play?”
I nod. I need to work off all this amped-up energy before going to his fancy, formal sit-down dinner.
“Later, man,” he calls on his way out. “Don’t be late tonight. In fact, I’ll pick you up in about an hour or so.”
“Got it.”
Drill Sergeant Dallas may have retired but he’s still Dallas. Dude will probably make a damn good dad.
Once he’s gone I set up my kit and play until my arms ache. I’m sweaty and tired and I still have to return the truck and shower, but knowing I’ll get to see her again, even if only for a little while, even if from a distance, keeps me motivated.
I return Mr. Kyung’s truck and purchase the few groceries I need for the week, basic stuff that fits into one bag. I practically jog home knowing I need to shower again, but I stop short when I see the front door isn’t closed all the way.
I closed it when I left.
I know I did.
Locked it, too.
“Hello? Someone here?” I practically yell as I pull open the screen door. “Something I can help you with?” Like a busted fucking face. My arms are tired but they aren’t that tired.
When no one answers and I don’t hear even the slightest sounds of movement, I head into the kitchen figuring my mom came by and raided her stash before leaving again. I shift the bag of groceries to my other hand but they fall to the floor when I step into the kitchen.
My mom’s here, all right.
Unconscious on the kitchen floor.
3 | Dixie
“HE’S NOT COMING,” Dallas says as he hangs up the phone. I knew when he arrived at his rehearsal dinner without Gavin that something was wrong.
“Everything okay?” Robyn asks and I’m grateful she begs the question before I do. Every time I so much as mention Gavin’s name I get the pity look, and frankly, it’s getting old. I smooth the black knee-length dress I’m wearing and strain to hear Dallas’s answer. All I catch is “had to work,” so I’m guessing that explains Gavin’s absence. Or is a lame attempt at explaining it, anyway. Dallas didn’t sound too convinced and the line between his brows has made an appearance.
