Loving Dallas

by Caisey Quinn

  The mental image of someone crushing a peanut makes my stomach lurch.

  “No, I’m definitely not t-terminating or, um, giving him or her up for adoption. And the dad’s not exactly . . . he probably won’t be coming to any of my appointments.” The tension in my chest squeezes hard once before a new and overwhelming sensation takes over.

  This is my baby.

  Mine.

  Innocent, helpless, and growing inside of me.

  Inside of me.

  Because it’s mine.

  Nothing will ever hurt this child. If anyone or anything tried, I would destroy them. Annihilate them. Erase their family tree from existence and burn their entire universe to the ground.

  Whoa. Where did that come from?

  A few deep breaths later, I rein in this fiercely protective side I didn’t even know I possessed and smile at Dr. Lassiter. Maybe it’s all the adrenaline, or just finally knowing the truth for sure, but a tranquil calm settles over me.

  “I would love to see my baby. And I’m ready to hear the heartbeat, too. The sooner the better.”

  She looks as relieved as I feel. “Perfect. Be right back.”

  32 | Robyn

  I AM PREGNANT.

  And from the looks of the ultrasound screen, I am carrying an immensely adorable gummy bear in my belly. One that apparently hates Italian food, loves Chinese, and will violently reject any red meat or chocolate I try to consume.

  Chocolate, kid? Seriously? Perhaps I’m carrying the spawn of Satan.

  But I know I’m not because nothing that cute could be evil.

  I stared at the blurry black-and-white image on the screen as Dr. Lassiter informed me I was nearly seven weeks along. Seven.

  I knew exactly when and where my little gummy bear had been conceived.

  “Denver,” I whispered to myself as a steady pounding rhythmic sound filled the room while tears swam in my eyes.

  I left the doctor’s office with a serious hankering for pancakes.

  Less than an hour later, in the middle of my second stack, I work through possible scenarios in my head. Most of them end with Dallas glaring at me with horrified hatred in his eyes and telling me that I ruined his life.

  So I’m not all that eager to update him.

  “Sorry, hon. The waitress for this section was a no-show,” a wrinkled woman with blue hair tells me as she refills my long-empty cup of apple juice. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you. I’m good.”

  Once she moves on to the table behind me, I pull up the tour schedule on my phone, making every attempt not to get sticky syrup on it but failing.

  After wiping it with a damp napkin, I click a few times and see that only four shows are left. Noting the dates, I realize it’s only three weeks until it ends.

  Nothing major is going to happen in three weeks. I’m not going to blow up like I swallowed a basketball or give birth, so we’re good. Once the tour is over, I’ll invite Dallas over for dinner and tell him in a warm and friendly environment that I’m pregnant and that he can be as involved or as uninvolved as he likes.

  “We’ve got this,” I say patting my full belly confidently.

  But then a waitress about my age with hair in a falling-down ponytail and looking tear-stained and world-weary runs into the diner, apologizing profusely to the blue-haired woman who’s now glaring at her from behind the counter.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m late. The babysitter didn’t show so I had to call my mom for help and she gave me this huge lecture about responsibility and then my car wouldn’t start and I got stuck behind a garbage truck. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “You can be sorry all you want. Your pay is being docked. And you have two tables over there that probably won’t tip you for shit.”

  I wince at her harsh words.

  Is this my future? Have I been put here in this very place at this exact time to see what my life is going to be like?

  “I need this job, Irene. You know I do. Randy still hasn’t paid any child support and I’m doing the best I can. I have to get a new fuel pump on my car but I won’t be late again, I swear.”

  “That’s what you said last week,” Irene of the blue hair says before disappearing into the kitchen.

  The distraught waitress makes her way to me and offers me coffee, which I turn down but do so while smiling.

  “You okay, hon?”

  She gives me a weak smile. “This wasn’t supposed to be my life,” she says quietly. Her name tag has Lexi printed on it. “I wanted to be a nurse when I grew up. But what can you do, right? We don’t get to choose the hand we’re dealt, I guess.”

  Her eyes are watery and I suddenly feel every bite of pancake I’ve taken like a lead weight.

  She’s gone, having stepped over to the next table and moved on with her life, before I can say anything. Not that anything I could’ve said would’ve made her life any better. She wasn’t confiding in me in hopes of garnering advice, I don’t think. It was more like she had to say that out loud to someone and I happened to be here.

  Knowing I should probably start being more frugal since I’m about to have another mouth to feed, but unable to just do nothing, I grab my wallet and a pen from my purse.

  “It’s never too late,” I scrawl on a napkin. I pull out all the cash I have on me and lay it down. It’s nearly three hundred dollars. I have no idea what a fuel pump costs, but I hope that it helps. Sometimes just a little kindness makes a big difference.

  It’s never too late, I think to myself as I leave. I believe that. Truly.

  Maybe I’m wrong about Dallas. Maybe he doesn’t just care about his music and his career. Maybe he cares about me, too.

  But if he doesn’t, if he wants absolutely nothing to do with me or my little gummy bear, then so be it.

  This wasn’t supposed to be my life, either; unwed mother at almost twenty-four isn’t exactly my childhood dream come true, but it is my life now. And I’m going to live it the best way that I possibly can. My child will know love and kindness and if Dallas doesn’t want him or her, I will want him or her enough for the both of us. And then some.

  33 | Dallas

  “BABE, I’M NOT TRYING TO HATE ON YOUR COOKING OR ANYTHING, but I legit have no fucking clue what these are.”

  Robyn’s smiling at my ignorance when she comes back into the room with a tray of what I hope is recognizable food.

  The tour just wrapped up last week and I have a few days before I leave for Mexico. Robyn blew me off for a while, saying she didn’t want me to catch what she had. As much as I didn’t want to sound like a lovesick idiot, I was twenty-five kinds of relieved when she finally called and invited me over for dinner.

  “They’re kale chips, silly. Try one.”

  “They’re green and it looks like a plate full of the garnish I usually ignore when it’s sitting next to my steak.”

  “How very observant of you. Just eat one. They taste like potato chips. I promise.”

  Reluctantly, I lift one to my mouth. “Here goes.”

  Robyn watches me, an amused grin playing at her lips.

  “Stop smirking at me,” I say once I’ve swallowed. “They’re all right, I guess. Though you do know we have plenty of potatoes here in the great state of Texas, right?”

  “Potatoes are full of starch, which turns to sugar.”

  I pop another freaky green baked leaf into my mouth. Now that I know when Robyn got so nutritionally conscious, I try to just go with it.

  “So what other surprises have you got over there?”

  “None. I made the Greek chicken that you like and sautéed some vegetables. Ones you’ll recognize.” She slides the tray of food closer to me. “There’s flour tortillas if you want to make a fajita.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I work on assembling my fajita while Robyn grabs me a beer. When she returns I see that she’s drinking plain water.

  “No wine tonight? Or good old Midnight Bay bourbon?”

 
I expect her to toss a throw pillow at me but she just sits down. Across from me instead of next to me, which is just plain disappointing. I’m pretty sure I was invited here for a specific reason, more than just to try kale chips. I have a bad feeling it’s not a reason I’m going to like.

  “Nope. Plain old water tonight. I’d never drink bourbon with dinner anyway. It’s more of a dessert drink.”

  “Too bad. I’d hoped there’d be a bottle lying around somewhere. I wanted to celebrate.”

  Robyn’s eyes widen. “Celebrate?”

  “My big news. About the tour. I kind of hoped that’s why you invited me over.”

  Part of me thinks she’s messing around and that any minute she’s going to bust out a bottle of champagne. Either she’s developed some hard-core acting skills or she truly has no clue what the hell I’m talking about.

  “Your big news,” she says slowly. “News that I should’ve heard about by now.”

  “The international leg of the tour.” I press my gaze deeper into hers, trying to figure out if she’s playing dumb or if she really has no idea I’m about to be out of the country for nearly three months.

  “The tour,” she repeats, her intonation at the end making it sound like a question.

  “The international dates have been confirmed. Mexico, Brazil, Canada, London, and maybe even Australia and Tokyo. We leave Monday morning. Did no one at work mention this to you? It’s huge for my career and for Midnight Bay. So basically it’s huge for both of us. I was kind of hoping you might be coming along.” I take a bite of my fajita, and the slightly spicy chicken with the hint of lemon is the best thing I’ve eaten in forever. My girl is a fantastic cook, even if she does substitute garnish for potato chips. “This chicken is amazing, by the way. It’s still my favorite.”

  Robyn is staring dazedly at me so I set my dinner on my plate and push it to the side.

  “Robyn?”

  Suddenly she shakes her head as if shaking herself out of a daydream. “Yeah, um, I mean no. No, I’m not coming on the international leg of the tour. But wow. That’s . . . big news. Congratulations.”

  “I can’t believe no one told you.” This doesn’t make sense. I heard Mandy and a few others talking about it. They mentioned Midnight Bay partnering with similar companies overseas. How do I know this and she doesn’t?

  “I knew Jase’s tour contract was extended,” she says slowly. “I was out sick for a bit and must’ve missed the announcement that they’d added you on to that leg of the tour as well.”

  “I would’ve asked how you’ve been feeling, but you look like you feel one hundred percent better.” Or she did at least, until I mentioned the international tour dates. Now she’s kind of pale and looking like she might be sick again. “You’ve been with the tour this long, I can’t imagine they’d want to send anyone else.”

  I should just say it. I should just come right out and tell her the truth. I don’t want to go to all of these new places where I’m going to be a fish out of water without her. The memory of the night in New Orleans is burned into my memory—and not just because of the sex—though, good Lord, I think records were broken and laws of gravity were defied. But the city came alive for me because of her. I want her with me. Always.

  The startling realization leaves me sitting there stunned.

  “We have marketing associates who specialize in those areas—speak the languages and know the trends—much better than I ever could. I could ask, but they wouldn’t send me. If they did, I’d just be in the way.”

  “You’re never in the way, babe.” I try to catch her gaze, but it’s focused on some point past my left shoulder. I glance in that direction but all I see is her spare bedroom door and it’s closed. “You all right?”

  “Yeah, um, yes. I’m fine,” she answers too quickly. But then she returns her attention to her food and we eat in awkward silence. Or I do at least. She barely touches her chicken.

  “You all done?” she asks once I’ve cleaned my plate. “I’m kind of beat. Being sick took a lot out of me.”

  I nearly get whiplash from the sudden turn of events. “I thought you invited me over here to tell me something. If it wasn’t congratulations on the extended tour, what was it?”

  Robyn pulls back and glances at the door. She’s either ready for me to vacate the premises or anticipating that I will bolt after she tells me whatever she needs to.

  “Dallas,” she says softly. “I do need to tell you something and you might not like it.”

  “Okay.” I stand in case it is something that makes me want to leave, but now I feel like I’m looming over her, intimidating her. Being sick did take a lot out of her. Looking closer, I can see that she’s lost at least five or ten pounds. Crouching into her personal space, I lower myself onto the wooden pallets she’s refurbished into a coffee table and place my hands on her hips, pulling her to me. “What is it? Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

  Her body is rigid in my arms, which is so completely unusual it causes me to take my hands off her.

  “It’s this,” Robyn says, gesturing between us. “I can’t do this anymore. Not with you.”

  Before my brain catches up, I have a physical reaction that I have very little control over. My heart pounds harder, my hands tighten on her waist before I release her. My mouth is dry and my brain empties of all coherent thoughts.

  “I don’t know that I understand exactly.”

  But I can see it in her eyes. For some reason, unbeknownst to me, she’s quitting on us. Quitting on me.

  Again.

  “Robyn?”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, turning her head a second too late. I already saw the tears. “It’s not because I don’t care about you, Dallas. You know that I do. It’s just—”

  “Is your mom all right? Don’t mess with me, Robyn. Don’t do this shit to us again. If she’s sick, you can tell me.”

  She shakes her head quickly. “No. It’s not my mom. She’s fine. Promise.”

  Well, that’s a relief. But there’s still something.

  “Is there someone else?” Maybe I shouldn’t ask, because truth be told, I really don’t want to hear the fucking answer. But at the same time, I need to. She and Wade have been awful cozy at the past few shows and at the party in Nashville. If she’s decided to take the clean slate over the guy she has history with, I have some news for her about the cleanliness of that particular slate.

  “No. Not exactly. There’s just—” Robyn stops midsentence, her eyes widening, and I’d give my favorite guitar to know what’s going on in her beautiful head. “You’re right. There is someone else. Someone whose needs I have to put before my own. I’m sorry.”

  Fuck his fucking needs is what I want to say. But I don’t. Because what the hell can I say? Hey, Robyn, could you do me a favor and hold off on moving on until this tour is over so we can keep fucking? You’re my muse. How about you let me squeeze a few more songs out of this?

  I stand up because her apartment suddenly feels tiny even though it isn’t. I need some distance. With her intoxicating floral and honey scent infiltrating my brain, I want to beg. My primal urges tell me to fight for her, to make promises I can’t keep. But I won’t do that to her.

  “Dallas,” she begins but I can’t listen to her tell me about her new guy. How he’s great and he wants the same things she does and didn’t we say this was casual anyway?

  “It’s fine. Thanks for letting me know. I was supposed to check in with Mandy about some possible shows I might be doing on my own in smaller venues after this tour ends and I completely forgot to touch base with her. I’ll call you later.”

  Robyn follows me to her door. I want to scream at her, ask her why she looks so damn sad if this is what she wants? She found someone else and no longer has to settle for the pathetic parts of a relationship I’m able to give. She should be happy.

  “Wait, please,” she says, her green eyes filling with tears. “At least let me—”

  “There’s no nee
d.” I give her the best smile I can manage. “Come on, babe. We both knew this was coming sooner or later. This was casual, right? Temporary. I’m glad you found someone willing to be a permanent part of your life. I’m sorry I couldn’t be.”

  Her mouth drops open and pain ripples across her pretty face, a quick flash that hit just when I said the word temporary. It thunders into my chest at the same time, the jagged knife of the lie I tell in my tone. Like I don’t care. Like it’s not killing me where I stand to think of another man—any other man—touching her. Holding her. Calling her his.

  “No matter how many guitars you own, you’ll always have a favorite,” my granddad used to say. “It probably won’t be the most expensive one, or the one with the richest sound. Likely it’ll be the one with all the scratches and the nicks in the wood. It’ll be the one that’s been with you the longest, the one you know inside and out because you’ve put it through the most hell.”

  He was right, and not just about guitars.

  I have to get out of here before I hit something and Robyn owns a lot of fancy breakable shit. Most of which I suspect she created herself.

  Because she is amazing like that. And I am losing her. Again.

  No. I’m letting her go. Because it’s the right thing to do and because I’m leaving the country. I’m not exactly ideal boyfriend material.

  “Goodbye, Robyn,” I tell her, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek even though my body begs for more.

  I don’t look into her eyes as I leave. I can’t. Seeing even the tiniest hint of regret in them would break me. I’d lift her sexy ass off the ground and carry her back to her bedroom like a caveman. What I’d do to her body would make it impossible for her to even think of another man touching it ever again.

  My fists are clenched so hard I’m losing feeling in my hands so I decide to walk around for a while before going back to my cold, empty hotel room.