Loving Dallas

by Caisey Quinn

  After I’ve put my guitar aside and cleared the stage so Wade could warm up, I head back to my bus in hopes of catching a quick nap before the show. Feels like I haven’t slept in a month.

  Halfway there I see my sister and Belinda making their way backstage and I stop dead in my tracks.

  “Stop gaping at me like I’m about to faint dead away, Dallas Lark,” Belinda says to greet me. “I’m fine. I’ve been in remission for months now. I just wear the scarves still because I like them and I’m not used to the short hair.”

  She’s about twenty pounds thinner than I remember and even with the scarf I can tell that her once-long red locks are now cropped in a short pixie cut. She didn’t come to Papa’s funeral. Robyn mentioned that she was ill and couldn’t make it. I thought she meant like a cold or something.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . .”

  “That I was in remission? Surely Robyn told you.” She shakes her head. “That girl acts like I’m going to relapse any second, though. You should see the stuff she makes me eat.” Belinda laughs lightly, probably hoping to break the tension I’ve suddenly created with my inability to conceal my shock. “When the doctors gave us the lists of restricted and recommended foods, you would’ve thought they were handing her a dietary Bible.”

  Apparently I could fill a fucking book with the things Robyn hasn’t told me. The pieces of the puzzle that is Robyn Breeland are beginning to take shape in my head. The food. The obsession with healthy eating and all her overzealous ordering habits.

  “Oh my God,” Belinda practically squeals, sounding more like a teenage girl than a grown woman. “There he is. Can we get closer to the stage?”

  Dixie and I both follow her line of sight to where Wade is now warming up.

  Grrr.

  For this woman, though, the one who made me homemade chicken noodle soup when I had the flu, I’ll endure it.

  “Come on,” I say, offering her my arm. “I can do better than closer to the stage.”

  Once I’ve escorted them both past security and up the stairs to the restricted backstage area, I tug my sister’s elbow and pull her aside.

  “Tell me what the hell is going on.” I nod toward Belinda.

  Dixie shrugs. “She’s a huge fan of his—”

  “I’m not talking about that.” My jaw clenches and I have to swallow several times to get my emotions in check. “Remission. When did she have cancer? Did you know? Did Robyn tell you?”

  Dixie and I have had our communication issues lately. She keeps the details of her relationship with Gavin off my radar and I haven’t exactly filled her in on what Robyn and I are up to. But if she tells me right now that she’s known all this time that Robyn’s mom had cancer and she didn’t tell me, I don’t know how I’m going to keep from losing my shit.

  “She didn’t tell me, either,” Dixie informs me, choosing to answer my last question first. “Belinda seems to think we knew. I practically yelled at her on the way here. Obviously if we’d known we would’ve been there, would’ve visited her in the hospital.”

  I watch the woman with stars in her eyes staring at Wade onstage. She turns to me and gives me two thumbs up and she looks so much like her daughter I’m struck with a pang of longing. I want Robyn here. Mostly so I can demand to know why she didn’t tell me her mom had cancer, but also because I want to hold her. To kiss her and tell her I’m sorry I wasn’t there for her, for both of them.

  After Robyn’s dad died I made sure to cut their grass, change the oil in their cars, and take out the garbage as often as I could. I wanted to make sure they didn’t have to feel his loss in those ways as well. Belinda eventually “fired” me and told me I wasn’t the hired help before she hired actual help to take over the landscaping duties. She told me the McKinley boys at the garage could change her oil just fine.

  Those Breeland women. Self-sufficient pains in my ass they are. But God help me, I fucking love them.

  “How bad was it?”

  Dixie’s mouth tightens at the corners. “Bad. She had to do two rounds of chemo. Had an awful reaction and didn’t respond to the first round well at all.”

  “When?”

  I don’t know why I’m asking. I already know.

  “That summer,” Dixie says softly, almost so softly I don’t hear her over Jase’s guitar.

  She doesn’t clarify which summer. She doesn’t have to. The summer before I turned twenty-one, Robyn began acting strangely. Up until then, she’d done all the social media and online outreach for the band. She’d gone overboard in her typical way, acting as our manager and our agent even though she didn’t know a whole lot about the music business. What she did know was how to reach people and to this day I’m certain she is one of the main reasons we had such a large local following.

  We were planning a six-week tour between Dixie’s junior and senior year of high school. Mostly just the tristate area, but a big deal for Leaving Amarillo since it was our first time actually going on “tour.” Robyn was all set to go with us and she was so excited about being on the road. She had this whole list of places we were going to go in each city we were scheduled to play in, a road trip music mix, and enough snacks stockpiled to feed a football team.

  Then she bailed. Said she had decided to take a few summer classes and she stopped answering my calls. Eventually I got frustrated and drove down to see her at school. Except she wasn’t there.

  When I showed up at her house and confronted her, her eyes filled with tears and she broke down. Said she just couldn’t do it anymore. I needed to focus on the band and she had other obligations. I’d assumed she meant school obligations. She’d always been such an academic overachiever.

  From that night on her porch until now I have imagined a thousand scenarios that caused Robyn to end it. I can’t even count the nights I lay awake wondering.

  Was there another guy?

  Did she finally decide I wasn’t worth waiting for? That I was just going to spend my life chasing a dream I’d never catch?

  I’d refused to leave her porch that night until the sun peeked over the horizon.

  “Just tell me what I did. I can fix it, baby. Please.”

  I’d been fucking pathetic.

  “You can’t,” she’d said a dozen times. “No one can.”

  The more I’d pressed, the more she’d closed herself off to me.

  “Just come with me,” I’d begged. “We have a show in Fort Worth tomorrow night. Sunday we can go to that museum like you wanted.” I’d never given two fucks about visiting art museums, but I’d suffered through a couple for her. She’d get so excited. While she was looking at paintings I couldn’t make heads or tails of, I’d be watching her. The way her eyes would light up and her mouth would drop open just slightly as she stared in awe at each work.

  For a moment, I thought I’d had her. She got that look, the same one she got when she looked at her favorite paintings. Then her expression blanked, her eyes lost their light, and she shook her head.

  “I can’t, Dallas. Life on the road is your thing. Not mine.” She wouldn’t even meet my eyes when she said it.

  I’d wondered briefly that if maybe I had more money, if the band were more successful, if I could promise her fancy hotels and room service instead of leftover pizza and Cracker Jacks in a van, if that would’ve mattered. But I’d never known her to be materialistic and up until then she’d seemed fine with the lack of luxury accommodations.

  But as we said goodbye for the final time, my insecurities took over and I decided that she’d simply gotten tired of my shit and finally lost faith. In the band. In me. In us.

  There was always a possibility the band would never take off, never “make it,” so to speak.

  I’d had a choice to make.

  I could let her down or let her go.

  Standing here now, staring at the woman she loves most in the world and half-listening while Dixie details the hell that was Robyn and Belinda’s life that summer, I know I chose wrong.
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  29 | Robyn

  “YOU LATE?”

  Dallas’s words echo in my head over and over.

  Because I am late. And I am never late. My life runs according to a very set schedule and my body cooperates with this most of the time.

  I try to reason it away. I’m stressed. I’ve been traveling a lot. My body is just out of whack.

  After hours of hanging decorations and lights and chasing down everything from extension cords to building permits, my feet and lower back ache like I spent the morning beginning my career as a barefoot carrot farmer. To make matters worse, I feel like I’m coming down with something. Something I am hoping and praying has nothing to do with the fact that my monthly visitor from Hell had yet to arrive. The nausea has mostly subsided but a wave blindsides me and while Katie handles the rest of the setup I am in the bathroom, sitting on a closed toilet seat holding a wet paper towel to my neck.

  After a few minutes the soggy texture of it against my skin threatens to bring the half a turkey sandwich I had for lunch back up, so I throw it away and lean on the cool marble wall, concentrating on taking deep breaths until I regain my equilibrium. That is, until the scent of the bleach-based cleaner they must use to sanitize the ladies’ room hits my nostrils and nearly doubles me over.

  Tonight’s party is one of the most important of my career, the one Mr. Martin will use to decide if I can really pull this off as well as I’ve said I can. I might as well be wearing a T-shirt that says, “Don’t believe the hype.”

  The two-story historic home is fully decorated by the time I feel steady enough to leave the restroom. Guests are pouring in and it looks like I pulled myself together just in time. The main room is alive with neon blue lights streaking the blackened ceiling and our LED-lit displays are strategically placed by each minibar. Maneuvering my way through the crowd in search of Katie, because I basically owe her my life for covering for me, I crane my neck in search of her blond head. The second I think I’ve caught a glimpse of her, a solid mass slams against me, sending me careening toward a waiter in a tux carrying a tray of the signature cocktails Midnight Bay created for Jase’s tour. Just before I crash into him and his tray full of glasses, a strong hand grips my upper arm and yanks me back to safety.

  “Shit, Robyn. My bad.” Jase Wade stands with one hand still holding tightly to me and the other wrapped around his cell phone.

  Taking a steadying breath I give him a wavering smile. “No worries. I’m fine.”

  Sort of. Minus the constant urge to vomit making me wish I could go home and curl up in old sweats. Wade is usually so much smoother. From the bags under his bloodshot eyes and disarray his shirt is in, he looks as bad as I feel and I can’t help but wonder if he’s okay.

  “You all right? I think there’s something going around.”

  He looks at me strangely, as if I’ve asked if he’s interested in nuclear physics and the atomic properties of space. “Yeah. Fine. Thanks.”

  “You sure? Because the one-word answers don’t exactly scream ‘having the time of my life.’ Congratulations on the album going platinum, by the way.”

  He releases my arm and shrugs, giving me a halfhearted grin. “Thanks.”

  A modest Jase Wade isn’t something I’ve seen before. If anyone has the cocky country-boy swagger down to a science, it’s him. Dallas has been garnering a lot of attention since “Better to Burn” went gold. Both happening at the same time has likely created some competitive friction but I’m afraid to ask, for fear I’ll hear something I shouldn’t.

  “Well, um, I should go check on the hors d’oeuvres, so . . .”

  “You want to get some air? You look like you need it as badly as I do.” He rakes a hand roughly over his head and glances around for the nearest exit.

  “You sure know how to flatter a girl.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Stop. You know you’re gorgeous. You just look a little . . . I don’t know . . . out of sorts or something.”

  “Or something,” I say, taking his arm and leading him to the French doors that open to the balcony. Thankfully no one stops us as we make our way outside. Fresh air is actually starting to sound pretty good.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Jase says as we step over to a deserted section of balcony. “You tell me why you’re green and look seconds from chunking on my shoes and I’ll tell you why I was barreling through the room like a runaway truck that nearly took you down.”

  Sighing, I take a few minutes to breathe in the crisp, cool air around us.

  When I turn to Jase, either he missed his calling as an actor or he’s genuinely concerned about my well-being.

  “I either have the flu or food poisoning. I’ve been feeling off since New Orleans and I can’t shake it.”

  “Did you go to the doctor?”

  I gesture toward the party I had all of six days to plan. “When? In all of my spare time?”

  He nods like he gets it. “That sucks. I hope you get to feeling better. Can I get you something to drink? Ginger ale or club soda or something?”

  “Thanks. I’m good. For now.”

  “You should go home if you’re feeling bad. The party is pretty much handling itself here. Hell, I’m the guest of honor and I don’t think anyone even cares if I’m here.” He rests his elbows on the balcony ledge and looks out over the courtyard.

  I tilt my head. “That’s not true. All of this is for you, you know. To celebrate your hard work and success.”

  “My success,” he huffs out under his breath.

  “Whoa. I didn’t realize you’d invited me out here to your pity party.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “Who peed in your Wheaties?”

  He chuckles, but it’s devoid of the lighthearted happiness that typically accompanies laughter.

  Suddenly he turns to me, nailing me with an inquisitive stare I’m not prepared for. “You’re a hardworking girl, Red. You ever wonder if it’s worth it? The long hours? The traveling? Missing out on time with your family? Missing out on having a life, period?”

  I regard him warily. He probably doesn’t realize how revealing his questions are. Or how much I can relate to them.

  “Sometimes. I guess I tell myself that one day all the sacrifices will be worth it.”

  “When?” he demands, growing instantly angry at my answer and catching me off guard. “When do people just sit back and say, ‘Okay. You did enough to deserve to just get to live your life. Now go enjoy it.’ Because I gotta tell you, in my experience, that day is never fucking coming. Your single hits number one and that puts more pressure on the album to do the same so they add more tour dates. More promotional appearances. More radio interviews and talk show appearances. Sell out venues? They add sixteen more shows. It’s all about feeding the machine. Put your heart and body and soul into it, and poof, money comes out. Too bad you won’t have time to spend it.” He shakes his head. “I’m not complaining.”

  I arch a brow at him.

  “Okay. Yeah, I am complaining. But I’m also trying to caution you from making the same mistakes I have.”

  “Which are?”

  “Too many to name. But most importantly, don’t use each goal you reach as a reason to set another, higher, less attainable one. Because I can tell you from experience that a life of chasing the next number one, the next promotion, the next opportunity, without ever taking the time to sit back and enjoy what you’ve accomplished is exhausting. And empty.”

  I blanch at his declaration. Jase Wade is sad. I can see it so clearly now. Why he puts up the front. It’s a defense mechanism, same as my own. I completely understand what Dallas was talking about now. About “Performer Dallas” and “Person Dallas.”

  Performer Jase Wade is on top of the world right now. But Person Jase is lonely and full of regrets. Who knew?

  “You want to talk about it?” I coax gently, leaning against him just to let him know he’s not alone.

  Performer Jase would make a comment laced with innuendo at the contact. But this version
of him just gives me a shrug and pitiful puppy-dog eyes.

  “Not really. Nothing I can do about it, anyway.”

  “You sure? Sometimes a fresh perspective helps with—”

  “My wife got remarried today.” He lets out a soft breath and continues speaking more to himself than me. “My album goes platinum and I get to celebrate on the day my wife marries a fucking accountant.”

  If he had thrown me over the balcony, I don’t think I would’ve been more surprised than I am now.

  “You’re married?” I don’t even bother keeping the incredulous apprehension out of my voice.

  “Not anymore.”

  “But . . .”

  “But no one ever mentioned me having a wife? That’s because we separated several years ago and she filed for divorce when my career took off.”

  “I’m sorry. What happened?” I shake my head. “Jesus. My mama would smack my mouth for prying. I’m so sorry.”

  “I made choice, choices that hurt the two women I loved more than anything in this world.”

  “Two?”

  Jase turns his attention to his phone and when he holds it up I think it’s my cue to leave him the hell alone to wallow. A gorgeous auburn-haired little girl with startling green eyes and angelic curls smiles into the camera. She can’t be more than three or four and she’s holding up tiny hands covered in finger paint.

  “That’s an old picture, but that’s my McKenna,” he says softly. “I call her Mac. She’ll turn thirteen soon.” There is reverence in his voice and it hits me hard in my chest.

  My hand lifts to my mouth and inexplicable tears fill my eyes. “God. Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. She’s beautiful.”

  He pulls up a more recent picture of a smirking twelve-year-old girl who looks a lot like him. A tear escapes my left eye, then one from my right follows and I feel like a complete jackass. First of all, it was my job to research Wade and all of his history so that I could make sure this tour was the right opportunity for Midnight Bay. Second, he’s Jase freaking Wade. How does no one know he has a wife, well, ex-wife, and a kid? Third, why the hell am I crying?