Leaving Amarillo

by Caisey Quinn

  “Good night, Bluebird,” Gavin says softly, taking my plate from my hands and lowering it into the sink.

  There’s a flash of something, a heated flare that flickers between us only for a moment. But then he turns back to the sink and I go to bed alone.

  The last thing I remember is staring at dancing shadows on the ceiling made by wind-rustled leaves moving behind my half-open blinds. I must’ve fallen asleep, though because the next thing I know, I’m awake in my bed and it’s still dark outside. I stumble to the bathroom in a stupor and reality doesn’t seep through until after I’ve washed my hands. Why I’m home, why I’m here in this house. Once I get back into my room, I text Dallas for an update on Papa but figure he’s asleep when I don’t get a response in several minutes.

  Restless and unable to fall back asleep, I make my way to the living room in hopes of playing Nana’s old Wurlitzer for comfort. I’d thought Gavin might sleep in Dallas’s room but nope, he’s right there on the couch. His bare chest rises and falls with steady breaths and I watch him in his peaceful state for a few precious moments before taking several steps backward into the hall.

  My room feels suffocating so I don’t shut the door all the way. It’s warm since the house only has window unit air conditioners in the kitchen and in Papa’s room. After kicking off my pajama pants, I curl onto my side, hugging my pillow to my chest and trying not to think about how many times Papa tucked me in, how, at some point, I outgrew that bedtime tradition and he stopped.

  My pillow is damp and I’m lying there wondering if I was crying or drooling or both in my sleep when my bedroom door opens the rest of the way, letting in a thick slice of light from the hallway. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask if I’m okay or if I need anything; he just walks over to my bed and slides in beside me.

  “I woke you,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.”

  Gavin shh’s me and pulls me in tightly to his bare chest. “I wasn’t asleep. And even if I was, you could’ve played the piano all night if you needed to.”

  The rumble of his voice vibrates against my cheek on his chest and I become acutely aware of just how close our bodies are. Me in an old threadbare tank top and panties, and him in boxer briefs. It doesn’t make sense, going from drowning in grief to seeking warmth and comfort in Gavin’s arms in mere seconds, and yet my body has shifted gears before my heart and mind can catch up.

  “Gavin, I need . . .” I don’t know what I need, but I feel like someone has poured ice water into my veins and the only way to alleviate the bone-deep chill is to press myself closer to him.

  “Take whatever you need. Anything I have, it’s yours. Tell me how to make it better.” He speaks into my hair and I drape my leg over his waist and pull him closer.

  “I need you,” I whisper, because even though we’re alone it still feels like a forbidden secret we share.

  “You have me, Bluebird. You’ve always had me.”

  Sitting up, I lift my shirt over my head and toss it aside. Watching me with his eyes flashing sparks into the darkness, Gavin remains completely still when I climb onto him. My hair covers us both like a protective curtain as I lean down and press my lips to his. He raises up to cradle my face in his hands and kisses me back, his tongue sliding past the seam of my lips into my welcoming mouth.

  “I need you inside, Gavin.”

  Wordlessly, he strips us both of our underwear and places me above his straining erection within a matter of seconds.

  Just before I lower myself onto him, he stills as if remembering something vital.

  “Wait. Are you sure? I don’t have anything with me.”

  “I’m sure,” I say, easing down slowly until I can’t anymore and whimpering at the fullness.

  It’s completely inappropriate to have this kind of pleasure during a tragedy, kind of like experiencing mind-shattering joy at the throwing of glass bottles against a brick building the day of your parents’ funeral, but Gavin gives me this. This release, this reminder that I am alive in the midst of so much grief. He fills me, letting me work out my pain and overcome the numbness, taking me to the edge and over, again and again until I am too exhausted to move before he gives in to his own body’s need for release.

  “I didn’t come in here for this,” he says while I’m catching my breath on his sweat-dampened chest. “To take advantage of you or anything. I just—”

  “I know.” My lips press against his searing skin and I trace the hardened planes of his body. “Good night, Gavin.”

  “Good night, Bluebird.” His arms wrap around me and he gathers my hair in his hand. I settle the side of my face just below his shoulder and let the steady beat of his heart lull me to sleep.

  Chapter 30

  MY GRANDFATHER DIED ON MY BIRTHDAY.

  I hadn’t even realized it was my birthday and I don’t think Dallas or Gavin had, either. I only remembered because Robyn texted me Happy Birthday and asked how Papa was doing. Bad news traveled fast in a small town. I was returning from a quick coffee run when I made it to Papa’s room and saw Dallas standing outside of it. He was waiting for me with this look on his face. This deeply sorrowful and sincerely apologetic look that made him appear years older and much more world-weary than he actually was. I knew the moment our eyes met that Papa was no longer with us.

  It’s a strange thing when someone dies on the day you were born. For the rest of my life my birthday will not only mark another year that I’ve lived through, but another year that he’s been gone.

  I’m still processing this as Dallas drives me home from the hospital. He’s already on the phone with the funeral director and discussing our appointment to pick out flowers and a casket for Papa’s funeral. Just like when we were kids, Dallas steps in and saves the day, protects me from having to handle the painful details. He reaches over and squeezes my hand while he continues his call.

  The words he’s saying barely penetrate my grief-stricken haze.

  Staring out the window while the rain trickles crisscrossed paths down into my line of sight, I see the field of dandelions surrounding the pond past Baker’s Point. Most of the bluebonnets are gone by now, but the dandelions live on.

  “Dandelions are tougher than they look,” Papa told me one afternoon when I was making magical wishes on them, much to my heart’s content. “Dandelions can thrive almost anywhere, Dixie Leigh. They don’t get to choose where they grow.”

  Something had made him sad when he’d spoken to me that afternoon. I always remembered the frown lines around his eyes but I never understood why he’d looked that way until now.

  He’d heard me. The last wish I’d made before he spoke was for my parents back—for me and Dallas to get to go home. My heart aches so deeply, I have to place my hand over it to keep it from bursting apart.

  Dandelions didn’t get to choose where they grew and neither did I.

  I’d been blown from my pretty little life into a completely different world. One that was much less polished and a hell of a lot humbler.

  Had I been raised in my mother’s home I would’ve gotten piano lessons from the most expensive teacher she could find—probably some stuffy tie-wearer who didn’t know bluegrass from rhythm and blues. As it was, Nana taught Dallas and me both on Saturday afternoons and then made us practice what we’d learned all week long, an hour after dinner every night.

  My mom would’ve sent me to some artsy school when I showed interest in the violin, probably would’ve signed me up for cello lessons, too. But in Amarillo, I woke up at the crack of dawn while Papa was still having his morning coffee and perched my happy ass on a cracked concrete garden bench in the backyard and waited. He’d amble out when he was finished with his second cup. I got a few instructions and a firm pat on the head before he went back inside and I spent the rest of the day practicing and making all the dogs in the neighborhood wish they’d been born deaf.

  A sob catches in my throat and my breath hitches loudly. Tears are coming down faster than the rain and I don’t
know if it’s because I feel guilty that Papa died alone or because at some point I stopped wishing for my parents back.

  “Dix? You all right?”

  Removing the evidence of my meltdown with both hands, I turn and force a smile for my brother. I hadn’t even realized he was no longer on the phone.

  “Yeah, I’m good. It’s just . . .” I glance out the window once more, swallowing the heartache gathering in my throat before I can finish. “You ever wonder how our lives might have turned out differently if Mom and Dad hadn’t . . .” Another swallow and I can almost breathe normally. “You know.”

  Dallas is quiet for a beat before answering me. “No. I don’t. Not really. No point in that line of thinking. They died. Nana and Papa raised us. That’s just how it was.”

  “Right. Yeah, I know that. I was just thinking that I like our life, our memories. It makes me sad to think we might not have ever learned to play if we hadn’t stumbled across Papa’s old instruments out in that shed. Kind of makes me feel guilty, like maybe I should’ve missed mom and dad more or—”

  “You were a kid, Dix.” He glances over at me but his eyes are distant, as if seeing a different version of me than the one currently with him. “You barely spoke for an entire year after they died. Believe me, you missed them plenty. Thinking about what could have been different is a waste of time. Only thing we need to be thinking about right now is where Papa’s brown suit is, the one he wore to weddings and funerals. Mr. Phillips needs one of us to bring it to the funeral home first thing tomorrow.”

  My brother’s jaw flexes and I know he’s uncomfortable. Dallas has always been able to focus on what needs to be done instead of his emotions. Somehow he’s learned to keep them at arm’s length. Shut them off and lock them away. Sometimes I wish I knew his secret.

  “Okay. I’ll handle it,” I say quietly.

  Dandelions can thrive almost anywhere, Dixie Leigh.

  The funeral is held at Phillips Funeral Home on the edge of town and a surprising number of people show up to pay their respects. The men Papa used to sit with at the corner market café, eating breakfast and gossiping more than women, each give me a hug, holding their hats in their hands and telling Dallas and me how much they admired Papa for his service in the navy and how they enjoyed his stories. Papa never told us those stories, so I just nod and smile. After that, everyone becomes a blur. Faces in an endless stream flowing with tears and I’m so sorrys. The pastor of the Baptist church that Papa stopped attending after Nana died says a few words and invites everyone to the cemetery.

  At his grave site, I play “Amazing Grace” on Oz and everyone ambles off to their cars with heads and hearts that seem significantly heavier. Mrs. Lawson and a few older ladies from the Junior League come by the house with casseroles, cakes, and more pies than I have room for in the fridge. I make coffee because a few of them linger, looking at old photo albums and discussing the way the world used to be. Glancing around I catch sight of Jaggerd sitting on the porch swing alone and Gavin making the rounds refilling coffee cups in the living room. I’m reeling a little from that odd sight when I hear my brother speaking harshly to someone in the backyard.

  At first I think he’s on the phone, but peering out the kitchen window I see the unmistakable red locks that belong to Robyn Breeland. She was at the funeral and hugged both mine and Dallas’s necks, but he stepped away. Thanking her for coming without actually looking at her. Nana would’ve yanked his ear clean off for having such bad manners, but I know better. I don’t know his exact reasoning because he’s never told me. But I have a strong suspicion that Dallas keeps his distance from Robyn because he cares about her, not because he doesn’t.

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  “There isn’t,” he tells her, cutting her off and causing a wounded look to cross her face. “We’ve got everything under control. Thank you, though.”

  At least he said thank you.

  I sigh, knowing he doesn’t understand how hurtful he’s being. Or at least I hope he doesn’t.

  “Hey, stranger,” Jaggerd says, surprising me in the kitchen.

  “Hey, Jag.” I turn and smile, offering him a piece of pie, but he shakes his head.

  “Can we sit a minute? I have something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Sure.” I sit gingerly on a kitchen chair and fold my hands on the table. I feel like I’ve hardly taken a breath since arriving at the hospital only to learn that Papa had passed away in his sleep. And that was three days ago.

  “So it’s not a big deal or anything you have to handle right away,” Jaggerd begins, a messy lock of hair falling in his eyes. He needs a haircut, but he’s the type that won’t get one unless a girlfriend pushes the issue. “I just wanted to talk to you about the RV and let you know that I’m happy to keep it for as long as you need, but my dad will expect the space to be paid for and you know what a dick he can be about—”

  “RV?” I wish I had a cup of coffee to sip or something; as it is, I just work my cuticles down absently with my fingernails.

  Jaggerd looks at me like I’m trying to be funny and he doesn’t get the joke. “Yeah, your grandparents’ RV. The American Coach Heritage?”

  I shake my head because I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.

  “They bought it right before you and Dallas moved here. They were going to travel the world but then . . .” He shrugs uncomfortably.

  But then my parents died and they got stuck with two more kids after raising their own.

  My chest compresses tightly with emotion and I try not to wince.

  “You didn’t know about this?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Well it’s a nice rig. Probably could get close to a hundred grand or so for it. It’s been sitting in a spot your granddad rented out in the garage behind the shop for years. I take it out every now and then and flush the fluid lines and change the oil.”

  “Um, okay. Thanks . . . for that.” I don’t know what else to say. They were going to travel the world and Dallas and I kept them from being able to.

  “Their map is still in it. They planned all these possible routes, circled the places they wanted to go. You can come see it anytime you like. Just let me know, okay?”

  I nod, understanding for the first time what it means to be floored. I am floored.

  “If you decide to sell it, I can probably find you a reliable buyer through the garage.”

  “Okay,” I say for what feels like too many times. I force a smile and stand, ready for this conversation to be over so that I can be alone with this information about my grandparents.

  Jag takes the hint and stands. “I’m sorry, Dixie. About your granddad and everything.” The flecks of gold in his bourbon-colored eyes darken as he takes a step toward me. “And by everything, I mean acting like a jealous jackass when we were together. You didn’t deserve that. You deserve a hell of a lot better than that.”

  I smooth the plain black dress I’m wearing and then finger the pearls that belonged to my grandmother. “Thanks . . . and it’s really okay. The past is . . . the past.”

  “If you’re going to be in town for a while, I’d love to take you to dinner. I know I missed your birthday.”

  Am I going to be in town for a while?

  “Yeah, thanks. That sounds . . . nice.”

  Jag reaches an arm out and gives me a friendly hug. Someone clears his throat, and I straighten. Jaggerd tightens his grip for a brief instant before letting go.

  Gavin stands in the doorway holding an empty coffeepot, his jaw feathering with tension. “You’re out of coffee. Want me to make some more?”

  “I can make it,” I say, stepping away from Jaggerd and over to the coffeemaker.

  “I’ll call you,” Jag says, his eyes darting to Gavin on his way out. My brother chooses that moment to enter the kitchen and I feel like I’m watching a very strange soap opera.

  “Okay. Great.” I toss Jag one last look of gratitude, hoping he w
on’t mention the RV or my grandparents’ plans in front of Dallas before I’ve had a chance to process it myself.

  “Dallas,” Jaggerd says, shaking my brother’s hand and offering his condolences about Papa. “Hope to see you under better circumstances next time.”

  “Definitely.” My brother walks him out and then returns to the kitchen just in time to see me spill coffee grounds all over the counter. Gavin tries to help clean it up and sets the coffeepot next to me, so of course I knock it off into the floor with my elbow and it shatters at my feet.

  I didn’t cry at the funeral. I even held it together through playing “Amazing Grace” at the grave site while everyone else fell apart. But now, with the knowledge that my very existence kept my grandparents from living their dream and that I might have been keeping Dallas from his all this time too, I begin to crumble amid shards of glass.

  “I got it, Bluebird,” Gavin says quietly just to me. “Don’t move.”

  He grabs a nearby dish towel and uses it to pick up the larger pieces while my brother grabs a broom and dustpan for the smaller ones. Mrs. Lawson sticks her head in and asks if everything is okay.

  I’m trembling, trying to keep myself in one piece—literally—with my arms around myself when Gavin whispers in my ear that I should go lie down.

  “Here, dear,” Mrs. Lawson says, reaching for me. “I’ll clear these old biddies out of here so you can get some rest.” She wraps a frail arm around my shoulders and escorts me out of the kitchen.

  After thanking everyone for coming and for all of the food, I finally make it to the quiet safety of my room.

  Except it isn’t safe anymore. Because now when I lie in my bed, the sharp clean scent of Gavin wraps around me along with my quilt. And all I feel is loss.

  I’ve barely started to slip into the murky place between awake and unconscious when my door opens slowly. Watching it angle open wider, my mind attempts to calculate the odds of it being Gavin. Before I have a concrete number, a redhead sporting a stylish side-sweep pops around the aged wood.