Missing Dixie

by Caisey Quinn

  I barely made it on time myself—practically had to sprint inside after my lesson with the troubled little boy whose parents I have still yet to meet ran a little long

  “The wedding coordinator is ready for y’all,” I tell them when I see the gray-haired lady motioning maniacally. “Like five minutes ago.”

  “You first, Maid of Honor,” Robyn tells me with a tense smile.

  The wedding isn’t huge but it’s in a huge place. A property Robyn has dreamed of getting married on since we were kids. Photographers are everywhere and OK! magazine is here doing an exposé on Dallas Walker and the love of a lifetime who led him to walk away from the fame.

  Part of me wondered how my brother would be when he got home. I was expecting him to be forlorn or sullen or something. He had everything he’d ever dreamed of as far as music was concerned—well, everything except his band. But Dallas Walker the solo act decided he’d rather come home and marry his pregnant girlfriend instead of continuing on tour. The press is having a field day—proclaiming Dallas and Robyn’s relationship the stuff fairy tales are made of. Dallas says give it a week and the tabloids will be screaming that they’re done forever and Robyn is pregnant and alone.

  Life sure is funny sometimes.

  I can’t help it, I check my phone to see if there is anything from Gavin. I’ve been doing this for far too long and like always, there isn’t a peep.

  A few of the moms of the kids I give music lessons to have messaged me back saying they don’t know the little boy I’ve been asking about and don’t recognize him from my description.

  Liam is his name and every week on Tuesdays and Thursdays he arrives like clockwork at five on the dot. He doesn’t seem to enjoy learning to play piano or violin but he keeps coming, so I keep trying. I just wish I could talk to his mom or dad about his behavior and how to reach him. So far all he’s said out loud to me is his name.

  “You. Come. Now,” the wedding coordinator from Heritage House hollers at me. I began a slow march down the aisle with a fake version of my bouquet. The spray on the fake flowers makes me sneeze and the woman looks at me like I’m intentionally pissing her off.

  “Sorry,” I tell her as I continue my stroll to the altar. Once I’m down I see Robyn’s friend Katie and our mutual friend Cassidy coming down as well. They’re escorted by two of Dallas’s friends. I was supposed to walk with Gavin, but as per usual, he is missing and I am alone.

  Once we’re in place the music begins to play. Dallas has taken his place beside the blank space where Gavin is supposed to be and I give him an encouraging grin. I’m proud of him, happy for him, and all-around ecstatic about his upcoming nuptials, but Gavin’s absence is weighing on me heavily.

  Maybe he really did have to work, but it felt to me like Dallas wasn’t buying it and I’m not, either.

  When Robyn’s mom begins coming down the aisle, we all giggle a little as Mrs. Lawson takes her arm looking proud as a peacock. Apparently it’s bad luck for the actual bride and groom to rehearse before the wedding, so Mrs. Lawson volunteered to stand in—bless her.

  Once they arrive, the pastor reads his part of the vows, has Dallas and Mrs. Lawson repeat after him, and then pronounces them man and wife. We all make our exit to a small smattering of applause from the members of Robyn’s family that are in attendance.

  I glance around to see if Gavin made it but see no sign of him. It’s a mutual gut punch of welcome relief and disappointed concern that he’s not here. Seeing him earlier in the rehearsal space was like watching the color coming back into my life. All while feeling like someone was ringing out my intestines like dishrags.

  “He better not bail tomorrow, Dallas. I told you about him. You know how he—” Robyn’s sentence cuts off abruptly when I whirl around. There’s no need to ask who she’s referring to. Our perpetually troubled drummer friend who specializes in disappearing and reappearing at will.

  “Missed you at rehearsal dinner,” I text to his number. “Hope everything is okay.”

  We do two more walk-throughs, me with my invisible Gavin, before heading into a formal dining room for dinner.

  I check my phone several times, finding exactly what I expect to time and time again.

  No new messages.

  This past year, traveling on my own, meeting new people, coming home, and establishing a life for myself—one that didn’t include my brother or Gavin or the band—it hasn’t been easy but it has made me a stronger, more independent version of myself. I have grieved the loss of my grandfather, met new people, seen things I never thought I would, started a successful music instruction business, and moved on from the pain of knowing Gavin didn’t want me the way I wanted him. All of this I’ve done alone. No overprotective brother giving orders or watching my every move, no broody drummer distracting me at every turn, and no one to answer to except myself.

  I didn’t reach out to him, even when I knew he was home. Because one thing I decided over these last few months is that I did the reaching in Austin. It’s his turn. He has to decide if he can do this—us, me and him, the band, all of it—for real this time, not with only half his heart.

  I’d be lying if I pretended that part of the reason I haven’t answered Dallas yet about rejoining Leaving Amarillo wasn’t Gavin. I’m not saying I wouldn’t just because Gavin doesn’t want to be with me, but I would need a definite answer from him before being able give it another shot with the band. I am strong, stronger than I thought, at least. I can handle it if he doesn’t want me or isn’t able to give himself to me the way that I truly need. Completely.

  Once dinner is over, I give in and check my phone for the final time before heading home, and the sting of what I see is a real physical thing in my chest. In a way, it feels like Gavin’s lack of response is the answer. For now at least.

  No new messages.

  What else is new?

  4 | Gavin

  IF THERE IS a God, he’s not a big fan of mine. I decided this as a kid when my mom was strung out for days and there was no food in the house, but as if I needed further proof, I’m currently in the seventh circle of Hell. Wearing a tux.

  “Missed you at the rehearsal dinner last night,” Dallas says as we pose for another round of pictures. “Hate that your boss wouldn’t let you off.”

  “Yeah. He’s a real dick.” And I’m practically a professional liar. “Sorry, man.”

  “No worries. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” He claps me quickly on the shoulder, before grinning once more for the photographer.

  As if dealing with what I thought was my dead mom passed out on the kitchen floor last night wasn’t bad enough, lying about it to my best friend is somehow worse. Somehow my mom has always managed to turn what should be her shit into mine. Pushing the image of me shaking her awake and screaming for her to regain consciousness out of my head, I do my best to force a smile toward the camera.

  The bridal parties didn’t mix before the wedding and for that I’m grateful. At one point the groomsmen, me and Dallas’s friends Levi and Alex, stepped outside to take a picture with the bride. So far I’ve only seen hints of Dixie, caught the faint scent of her, and heard a chiming laugh down the hall that might have belonged to her.

  Heritage House is an interesting mix of elegant and rustic. The property isn’t far from Hamilton Pool, where Dallas and Robyn met. According to Dallas, Robyn has always dreamed of getting married here. I feel out of place surrounded by so many smiling faces full of love. There are mirrors reflecting everything all over the damn place. Everywhere I look I see a reflection of a man I don’t recognize. A man pretending to be something he isn’t.

  Beneath the monkey suit, the tattoos, and the freshly shaven face, I am still a wreck of a human being. I’m still a lost, hungry, fucked-up kid confused about the way the world works and where I belong in it. My adrenaline spikes when we line up to enter the atrium-style room where the wedding is being held. My teeth are even on edge when Cassidy nearly bumps me on her way to t
he room where the bridal party is getting ready.

  “Sorry, Gav,” she mumbles quickly as she scurries past.

  I grunt and nod, noticing a disheveled-looking Jaggerd McKinley staring dazedly after her.

  Ah. Slutty wedding sex. I’m familiar with it. While I’ve fooled around with a bridesmaid or two in my day when we played gigs at weddings, I don’t recall ever hooking up with a girl I actually knew or one who was friends with my ex. Not that I ever technically had an ex. Whatever.

  I don’t know how Dixie will feel about this or if it will even matter to her, but the thought that it might bothers me on multiple levels. I have so many questions and no right to ask her any of them.

  Did she get back with McKinley when she came home?

  Would she care if he hooked up with Cassidy?

  Is she hooking up with McKinley—or anyone for that matter?

  Is she still pissed I didn’t tell her I was home?

  And the biggest one of all, if I tell her everything, will she ever be able to forgive me?

  Judging from the icicles that formed around her when I looked in her direction at our band meeting yesterday, the outlook isn’t looking so great for those last two.

  Only one way to find out, I suppose.

  The wedding coordinator decided to make a slight change, apparently, and I can’t help but wonder if Dixie asked her to or if my not attending the rehearsal caused it. Instead of walking Dixie down the aisle, something I was both terrified and excited about, I will stand with Dallas and Dixie will walk alone.

  While Dallas and I walk to the front of the altar, I try to visualize telling Dixie everything, the same way Dallas visualizes us having an amazing show before we perform. I can see myself talking but I can’t hear the words.

  The small chapel is quiet while I shake Dallas’s hand and congratulate him one last time. There’s a sacred sort of silence surrounding us. Robyn’s family isn’t huge but her side is still much fuller than the Lark side. I glance out over the crowd, seeing only a few familiar faces. I grin at Dallas while fighting the urge to loosen my tie.

  “I’m nervous,” he whispers. “This isn’t like playing music. What if I’m a terrible husband and father? What if I—”

  “Relax,” I tell him. “Robyn seems really set on sticking with you now that you knocked her up and all. So I think it’s okay even if you suck at it.” But he won’t. I watch him sometimes with her, the adoration in his stare, the slight gleam of amusement in his eyes as if he still can’t believe she actually picked him.

  He’s a lucky guy—but he’s a good guy, too, and he loves the hell out of her, so Robyn could’ve done worse. I want to ask them both, no, demand, to know what the secret is. How do you give yourself to someone—flaws and all—and expect them to just love you for the rest of your natural-born lives?

  Before I have time to contemplate these burning questions any further, the doors in the back of the room open and Dixie stands there in all her perfect glory. Her dress is strapless and dark blue, a midnight-sky shade of silk that falls just below her knees and wraps her body lovingly. My Bluebird even has a feather in her hair and I nearly get hard at the sight of it barely restraining her wild curls. She holds a small bundle of white flowers and her ink shows on her arms. Everything about her is vibrant and breathtaking.

  She is perfection personified and in my heart she’s mine. Always has been, always will be.

  Except . . . she isn’t.

  I am a statue as she comes down the aisle toward me. I stand unblinking, immovable, unwilling to miss a single second of this sight. As much as I wish I could, I can’t picture us having a day like this. A traditional Texas wedding, her in a white dress and me in another stifling monkey suit—but I also can’t deny that in this moment, my eyes locked on hers as she comes closer, I’m pretending and wishing like hell.

  At the last second before she reaches me, she averts her gaze and winks at Dallas before turning to stand on the other side of the altar.

  I thought seeing her yesterday was tough, but this is a wrecking ball to my chest. She isn’t a girl anymore, isn’t my girl. She’s a grown woman who owns me whether she wants to or not.

  I release the breath I was holding captive and take in fresh air so I don’t pass out. Her wildflower and vanilla scent wafts toward me and it’s a struggle not to toss her over my shoulder and carry her out of here.

  The other two bridesmaids come down the aisle escorted by Levi and Alex and I can’t help but wonder why Dallas would choose me as his best man. Maybe because he’s known me the longest, but in all of my twenty-two years, I don’t think I’ve ever been the best man at anything. Except maybe the drums. God, I need my drums.

  I haven’t been with anyone in months and the sexual frustration and proximity to Dixie Lark, the last woman I’ve laid a hand on and the only one I wasn’t supposed to, are about to do me in.

  Just before I completely lose my waning grip on my sanity, a piano begins to play and Robyn makes her grand entrance. Dallas pales and then smiles so wide he looks like he’s about to burst a blood vessel at the sight of her.

  Robyn’s always been attractive but today she literally seems to be glowing, radiating a light all around her that’s almost too intense to stare directly at. Her smile matches Dallas’s and my throat constricts.

  A chill hits me hard when Dixie’s voice fills the air around us. I’m not the only one in shock as she uses her sultry sweet voice to sing “Marry Me,” a Train song I never paid much attention to. Dallas and Dixie were apparently in on this one together. Dallas is practically vibrating with emotion and I pull my eyes from Dixie’s surprise performance at the piano to where the bride and groom are now lost in their own world, in which the rest of us do not exist.

  This is Dallas’s first priority now, not the band. Without him playing drill sergeant, I don’t know if Leaving Amarillo will stand a chance. But I can see in his face that it doesn’t matter; any sacrifice he has to make for this woman will be worth it.

  When Dixie finishes, she takes her place across the altar and I can’t tear my stare from her. Her sapphire eyes shine like diamonds with the promise of tears.

  I wish I could give you this.

  Right as I’m about to look away, her gaze collides with mine. My heart swells in my chest. I have so much to say and no words to say it.

  I’m sorry.

  I’m trying.

  I love you.

  She doesn’t even flinch at the turmoil I know is probably apparent on my face. She just gives me a confident smile and a knowing look as if to say, One day.

  One day that will be us.

  A future.

  A forever.

  I fucking hope so.

  I just have no clue how we’ll ever manage to get there.

  5 | Dixie

  I GOT THIS.

  Right up until I had to be this close to him. Seeing him across the altar was hard; seeing what my impossibly hopeless heart thought was a wistful look in his eyes nearly broke me.

  Now I’m sweating, nervous, and my heart is threatening to make a break for it straight out of my chest for all to see.

  I so do not got this.

  “Smile,” Robyn says quietly to me after the third flash of the camera. “I love you, babe. And you nailed the song and made my wedding the most special day of my life. But you’re making my wedding photos look like mug shots.”

  “Sorry,” I mumble under my breath.

  I switch the small bouquet of calla lilies I’m holding to my other hand and tuck a wayward curl behind my ear.

  I can feel him watching me—he has been since I first made my way down the aisle. He held his breath for a full minute when we had to stand beside each other for pictures and now I’m holding mine.

  Dallas and Robyn kiss again on the photographer’s command and I have to look away.

  I can’t explain it, but it hurts to see such blatant displays of affection when I’m consumed with this longing for a man who keeps his heart so
closely guarded from me in particular. A man who is so close I can inhale him, smell him, and practically taste him. The heat radiates from his body and warms mine. If I leaned back a few inches I would be resting on his chest, a tempting thought that makes me hate myself. But I need the . . . contact.

  I clench my hands around the neck of the bouquet and focus on smiling. On breathing. On keeping myself still where I stand and not dragging Gavin into a back room to force him to give me what I need.

  Answers. Explanations. Himself.

  “Okay, I think we’re good for now,” Jacqueline, the photographer calls out, finally allowing me to relax a few fractions of an inch. “We’ll get a few more at the reception and some as you leave for the honeymoon.”

  So much for relaxing. I haven’t had time to mentally prepare myself for the reception. Dancing. Touching. Other women. Single women who will want to take their turn on the dance floor with Gavin so they can slip him their numbers while I watch.

  I am better than this. I am not this girl anymore.

  No one else has ever had this effect on me and it infuriates me that he does. Still.

  It also doesn’t bode well for my ability to play music on the road with a single Gavin Garrison whom I bear no claim to. I nod and force a smile for Robyn and my brother before heading around behind the chapel and into the sprawling backyard, where guests are already mingling at the reception.

  Robyn’s mom waves from the middle of a group of ladies about her age and I wave back, but I keep walking. What I need is in the back corner of the barn in Jag’s pants.

  Once I reach the table where he’s sitting with his dad and his dad’s girlfriend, Gina, I set my flowers down and hold out my hand. With an eye roll I ignore, he hands over the shiny, silver flask.

  “Pace yourself, crazy girl,” he warns low under his breath as I take my first swallow of gloriously burning liquid fire.