Leaving Amarillo

by Caisey Quinn

  After an hour on the phone with Mandy, Dallas is still angry and nothing has really been resolved.

  Barry has a daughter my age, Mandy told him, and he’s an old-fashioned guy. Said the road was no place for a young lady. I checked online and sure enough, his label leaned much heavier on the male artist side. I suspected I would not like Barry very much.

  “I’m not bailing on you, Dallas. I’m stepping aside so that I don’t get in your way. I’m letting you go instead of holding you back.”

  “You’re not in my way, Dix. You’re part of this band. And once Barry sees what you can do and how talented you are—”

  “I’m twenty years old, Dallas. I think it’s time I stopped tagging along on your adventures. Don’t you?” I don’t believe the words coming out of my mouth, and they taste like I imagine poison might—bitter and acidic—but they have to be said. It’s the only way. It’s my turn to take care of him.

  “We are the band. You, me, and Gavin. There is no band without you.”

  I wait quietly on the couch for him to accept that I’m not going. There is so much to handle here since Papa passed away and running back out on the road feels like abandoning his memory. As hard as it is to shove Dallas toward his dream, a part of me is thankful I can take care of all that Papa left behind.

  Gavin taps his hands steadily on the couch across from me.

  My brother shoots him a pleading look. “Gavin. Please tell her to get her ass in the truck and let’s go.”

  I watch as Gavin stills and then shakes his head. “This is her decision. It’s time you started letting her make her own.”

  I try to look at him with gratitude to let him know I appreciate his support, but I worry he’ll see too much truth in my eyes when I’m busy trying to sell my brother a lie.

  “He’s right,” I choke out. “And there are things you don’t know about Nana and Papa. They had plans before us, Dallas. Plans we kept them from getting to live out. We held them back. I won’t do that to you. Not anymore.”

  “What in the world are you even talking about? Nana and Papa chose to raise us. We could’ve went into foster care when Mom and Dad died or gone to live with Aunt Sheila in Oklahoma. They wanted us, Dix. So whatever parallel you’re trying to draw here is moot.”

  “Moot?” I say, smirking at him and glad for the tension to be easing out of the room.

  “Yes, moot,” he confirms, folding his arms over his chest. “Now let’s go.”

  I shake my head, then stand and open the front door for them. “I love you, big brother. I wish you the absolute best of luck—both of you. Really. But I have things I need to handle here. Go ahead and see this Barry guy and let me know how it goes. If he decides you desperately need a fiddle player in the band, I’ll see what I can do. But right now I’d just be in your way.”

  The stare-down continues for several minutes until I flick my wrists toward the door in a shooing motion.

  They both walk outside reluctantly, as if I’ve sentenced them to death. It’s ridiculous since they’ve played without me several times and done just fine. After the showcase in Nashville, I’m grateful I never had to actually see any of those times for myself, but at least I know they can manage without me. And it feels good knowing that they care—that they want me even if record execs don’t.

  I sit on the porch swing and pull my legs to my chest, giving them both my biggest, bravest smile. “Call me and let me know how it goes, okay?”

  My brother leans down to hug me goodbye and lingers before pulling away. “You don’t have to do this, Dix. I really believe once he sees how great you are he’ll be glad we have a fiddle in the band.”

  “You are going to blow him away, Dallas. You don’t need me.”

  I start to ask what songs Dallas plans to play for the label executive when a startling and life-altering truth occurs to me. I’m having one of those moments—a glazed-over-eyes, out-of-body moment when the mysteries of the universe make complete sense and everything seems brilliantly connected by a grand design for one split second. It happens so quickly I almost miss it.

  The lyrics I’ve been writing for Gavin came together the night Papa died. As much agony as I was in, something clicked for me when I realized that there is more to love than the fleeting instances of happiness—more than hugs, and violin lessons, and comfort. My parents, Nana, Papa, Dallas, and even Gavin—especially Gavin—have taught me a valuable lesson that it took losing them to realize.

  Love isn’t just about the good. It’s fortified by the bad. I know how much I loved my parents and how much they must’ve loved me by the permanent stab I feel at having lost them, of living in a world without them. The same is true for my grandmother and granddad. And even though they aren’t gone forever, when Dallas and Gavin walk out that door, it will be the biting teeth of loss that I feel. Because that’s the other side of love. The pain and the loss and the missing. It’s real and it’s powerful—as undeniable and inevitable as a natural disaster that touches down leaving a path of permanent destruction in its wake.

  It’s dangerous to love, to allow yourself to be loved. But I dared to fly too close to the flames and I’ve decided it’s better to burn—to have that all-consuming powerful kind of love that scars you for life even if it only lasts a little while, than to play it safe forever.

  The last two lines I need to finish the song I’ve been working on are blazing to life behind my eyes when I grab my brother’s arm.

  “Wait,” I say, squeezing him tightly. “Wait right there. Don’t move.”

  Darting into the house, down the hallway, and into my room, I dig into my still half-packed bag until I find my notebook. Yanking a pen from my desk drawer where I used to do my homework, I pull the cap off with my teeth and write down the last two lines of the song I’ve been tinkering with, with a furious urgency before I lose them.

  As soon as it’s complete, I feel as if someone has lifted the weight of all the world’s pain and suffering from my soul. Finishing a song always has a powerful effect on me, but this is different. This one I wrote for the people I love more than life itself. The people I would sacrifice my heart and soul for a thousand times over.

  Tearing the paper carefully from the notebook, I fold it down once and carry it to where my brother is waiting on the porch.

  “For you . . . For both of you,” I say, handing it over to him. Dallas, being the King of Impatience that he is, opens it immediately and reads the lyrics my heart wrote while I stand there feeling exposed.

  When he looks up from the page and back at me, the love and gratitude brimming over in his eyes touches me somewhere deep inside.

  “I love you, Dixie Leigh. I should say it more.” His voice hitches, and he stops, probably sensing that it’s in danger of breaking as am I. “With everyone we’ve lost, I should tell you every day.” He shakes his head as if disgusted with himself. “Christ. I should—”

  “I know, Dallas. Me, too.” I fling myself at him in one last goodbye hug, knowing he has to go now or I will cry and he will never leave. By the time our affectionate embrace ends, I’m not just letting him go. I’m practically pushing him off the porch.

  Gavin stands awkwardly behind my brother and waits for him to head toward the truck before speaking to me.

  “You really staying home to deal with your granddad’s affairs? Or is it something else?”

  I don’t look him in the eyes. “Does it matter? I’m staying. The end.”

  He shakes his head. “No, not the fucking end. Tell me why.”

  “Tell me the truth about what happened while I was in Houston. Tell me and then I’ll return the favor.”

  We stand there facing off until he mumbles. “I got into a minor accident. Now I’m on probation.”

  “What? What kind of accident? And probation for what?”

  I try to recall everything I know about probation. It isn’t much.

  Tension tightens his jaw, and I can see the frustration building at my questions, but I
don’t care. “I made some poor decisions and I paid for them, okay? It doesn’t matter.”

  It matters to me. I’m about to tell him this when a news report I saw about a man getting arrested for leaving the state while on probation comes to mind. “Wait a minute. If you’re on probation, how come you’re allowed to leave the state?”

  Gavin’s deafening silence is all the answer I need. It’s so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears.

  “Tell me you have not been risking jail time every time we leave the state. And that you’re not about to risk it again.” My voice is eerily calm considering the fact that my hands are shaking.

  “I won’t get caught. It’s not like I’m hopping state lines to traffic heroin, Blue—”

  “Don’t fucking Bluebird me, Gavin. This is not a joke. We did that article for the Indie Music Review. They took our picture. We talked about playing gigs in Oklahoma, and Arkansas, and Tennessee. And now you’re going to an airport full of cops when you’re not supposed to leave the state. How do you not see what a bad idea this is?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s why you changed seats when you got pulled over.” I feel so stupid for not realizing this sooner that I want to smack my palm to my forehead. “You’ll be fine? Is that really what you believe? What if Dallas had been asleep? You would’ve been arrested on the spot.”

  “Possibly,” is all he says.

  “This have anything to do with your mom asking if you were holding? I’m assuming she meant drugs. Did she mean drugs?”

  I can tell he thought I’d forgotten about this.

  He runs a hand through his hair and looks over to where Dallas is loading his truck. “Sort of. It’s complicated.”

  “Look at me.” I wait until he does. “It’s not really. It’s actually quite simple. You’re on probation and you shouldn’t leave the state. Tell Mandy to work something out or contact the judge on your behalf. You need to talk to your probation officer first. See if you can work out a deal where you can leave the state due to your job.”

  Gavin shakes his head. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s not like I’m on some company payroll where I can prove it’s necessary. I tried. Believe me.”

  “So you’re just going to risk it? Jail time?”

  “Some risks are worth it, Bluebird. But I think you already know that. Try and imagine how it will look from your brother’s point of view. One day he’ll find out about us—when that day comes, I’d like to at least be able to say that I risked my own ass to have his back when he needed me. Now tell me why you won’t at least come with us.”

  “Don’t you dare use what we did as an excuse to—”

  Gavin’s hands come up between us. “I’m not. I’m just saying that’s a part of why I’m willing to do what I need to for my best friend. Now tell me why you won’t come with us. I know you’re hurting right now, I get that. But I don’t think being alone is going to help.”

  My eyes meet his and I wonder if he knows that I don’t have any other choice. When he looks at me the way he’s looking at me now, all I can do is be honest. Even though I’m angry as hell at him.

  “I’m afraid of holding Dallas back from his dream—of holding both of you back. No matter what he says, the fact is this guy liked what he saw when I wasn’t performing with you.” I shrug like I’m not being torn in two on the inside. Maybe this development that doesn’t include me is Mandy’s doing and maybe it isn’t. But I’m not whole, not fully myself, and I need time to grieve my grandfather without the risk of letting my grief debilitate the band. “And I need more time to handle Papa’s matters the way he would’ve wanted them handled. I’m not like Dallas. I can’t channel my grief the way that he can.”

  The way he’s staring makes me think he’s about to make some grand profession about us or that he’s going to take my advice and stay, but he only says, “Be careful in this house alone, okay? Lock up good. Windows and doors. And if you need anything, call me. No matter what time it is or what’s going on.”

  “I will,” I say, not knowing if that’s the truth. “Gavin . . . I—”

  His lips crash down onto mine and I lift onto the tips of my toes, savoring this one last taste. My small reason to hope. My hands hold tight to his hips, clutching his waistband. He drags out the end of our kiss, sucking my bottom lip gently before releasing it.

  “I’m still pissed at you, Gavin Michael Garrison. This is a bad idea. It’s not worth it. The right opportunity will come along when it’s meant to. Dallas will understand.”

  He ignores every single one of my pleas and answers with one of his own. “Wait for me, Bluebird? Please?”

  I glance over my shoulder, looking to see if my brother saw our kiss. Strangely Gavin doesn’t seem as worried. Dallas’s back is to us as he shoves something into the cab of his truck. Treacherous tears well in my throat on their promising journey toward the ducts in my eyes.

  We’re standing together, locked in one another’s stares and breathing each other’s air on the front porch, when my brother calls out to Gavin to get a move on. He gives me one more pleading look and then a soft kiss on the forehead when he realizes I’m really not going to go with them.

  For the first time, I’m the one who pulls away. Frustration binds me and tugs at my nerves.

  “You drive across the entire state to bail your mom out. You do everything and anything Dallas asks including breaking the law and risking jail time. You even gave me what I wanted, despite the many risks involved.”

  He gives me the what-are-you-getting-at look.

  My voice is sharper than I intend for it to be when I ask him what I’ve been wondering for years.

  “Who has your back, Gavin? Who’s looking out for you? Tell me. Tell me who holds you up when you start to fall? Who is there for you when you need them? You’re the man behind the beat, literally. You’ve always been the heart of this band, beating steadily behind us. Who’s behind you?”

  Me, I think to myself. Let it be me.

  “I’ve got this, Bluebird. I don’t need anyone. I never did.”

  The truth hurts. It punches me in the chest and bruises my heart. A solid lump of hurt forms instantly in my throat, blocking my attempts at swallowing my feelings. Inhaling his warmth one last time, I resist the urge to drag his face back to mine and kiss him until he agrees to stay and get legal permission to leave. An image of him being handcuffed and shoved into the back of a police car stifles my ability to breathe.

  When he pulls away, I let him go.

  Once Gavin climbs into the truck, I watch them drive off until they’re out of sight. Feels like they pull a piece of my heart along with them and I can almost see it bouncing battered and bloody behind the truck.

  It’s then that I realize I didn’t answer him, not with words. I didn’t confirm whether or not I would wait. And he left anyway.

  “I don’t need anyone. I never did.”

  Breathing is suddenly harder, as if the air thickened once they were out of sight. My heart has to put forth a bit more effort to beat.

  I can see it—how the audition will go. How excited they’ll be when they find out they’ve been added to the tour. And where will I be? An image of myself appears unwelcome in my mind. I’m dressed in all black, my wild hair tamed and slicked back into a tight bun as I play the kind of music that the maestro demands instead of the kind I want—the kind that frees me.

  No.

  I shake my head to clear the stifling picture and start making a list of everything that needs to be done.

  I’ll have to call Jaggerd to take me to pick up Dallas’s truck from the airport. The thought reminds me that I want to see my grandparents’ RV. I’m grateful for Jag’s friendship, for having someone here to help with the mountain of responsibilities I have to deal with now that Papa is gone. As much fun as turning into a younger version of Mrs. Lawson while Gavin and Dallas go on tour seems like it could be, or possibly to jail in Gavin’s case, I’m going to do my b
est not to sit around and wallow.

  I’ve never really thought much about what I’d do with myself without the band, other than my brief hiatus last year. And as much as my brother is going to fight me on it, and I know that he will, I’m not going back to Houston for fall semester. Life is short. My parents and grandparents are nonliving proof. Maybe my band doesn’t need me anymore, maybe it never will again. But I will not move backward.

  I meander slowly through the empty living room. Without Nana or Papa, I feel like the shadow of a ghost haunting their house.

  Folding myself in a shawl-style chenille throw that we keep draped over the back of what was once Nana’s favorite rocking chair, I peruse the pictures that have adorned these walls for as long as I can remember. When I come to one of me, Dallas, and Gavin at our first official band rehearsal in the shed out back when I was fifteen, I stop and run my fingers over us, passing my brother’s dopey grin, my own worshipful expression turned toward the boy on my left, and linger on Gavin’s smirking mouth below his soulful eyes. I move my fingers to my still-tingling lips.

  Wait for me, Bluebird.

  I don’t know what’s going to happen, with us, with the band, with my brother. But I have one memory, one solid piece of the past that I can hold on to and add to my internal memory box while I wait for the universe to help me figure it all out.

  For one night, I held fire. And then a few nights ago, fire held me, too.

  I thought it would destroy me, being that close to him. In some ways it did. But as I take a long, lonely walk down memory lane, I realize that the fire Gavin and I created has fueled me as well.

  I will wait for him. Feels like I’ve been waiting on him for most of my life.

  But I will not put off living for another second.

  Chapter 32

  “I’M GLAD THAT YOU CALLED,” JAG TELLS ME AS I CLIMB INTO THE metallic blue classic Mustang he and his father rebuilt when we were dating.

  “I’m glad you were in the neighborhood. And thanks again for having your guys get Dallas’s truck. That was really sweet of you.”