Loving Dallas
You don’t love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or their fancy car, but because they sing a song only you can hear.
—Oscar Wilde
T
HE AIRPORT
IS ABOUT AS CROWDED
AS
I
EXPECT
H
ELL TO
BE WHEN
I get there. Everyone’s either on their phone or eating or staring up at the electronic flight schedules. A few moms scream at their kids to stay the fuck where they are and not move. Even one who has hers on a leash attached to a teddy bear backpack. Christ. Why would anyone travel with these tiny gremlins?
My phone buzzes with a text from my manager.
See you in Omaha! Safe travels, Superstar!
I stare at it for a full minute. This is it. I’m joining an actual tour paid for by someone other than myself. And if all goes well, a record deal will follow.
“We’re now boarding passengers in groups one and two; that includes all first-class passengers and those of you in our Elite and Platinum Traveler Rewards programs.”
The overhead announcement is at my gate so I take my place in line toward the back with the other folks in coach. An attractive brunette with a microphone to her mouth makes eye contact as she rattles off more of the flight information. I tip my cowboy hat at her.
My pulse amps up with each step closer to the sky bridge that connects the building to the plane. Just as my turn to hand over my ticket comes, I step out of line in a moment of panic. Groups three and four come and go. I watch as everyone else says their goodbyes and boards the plane.
My granddad used to say that there are times in a man’s life when he has to make hard decisions. Might be choosing between two good things, or picking the lesser of two evils, he’d say. When the time comes, it isn’t always the choice itself that matters so much as the ability to make it and more important, to stand behind it and commit to it. For better or worse your choices are yours and you have to own them. It’s what makes you a man, he’d say.
“Sir? Will you be flying with us today?” The brunette reaches for my boarding pass.
I check my phone again. The last text message from my sister says that yes, she is fine, stop worrying and go live my dream already. But I can still hear my father’s voice in my head, reminding me that I’m supposed to take care of her. I should be home, looking out for her, making sure she’s safe and sound and has everything she needs.
My mind and heart engage in an all-out war. Turn tail and head home to my sister and my best friend—to the band I abandoned—or get on this plane and leave them behind.
“Sir?” The flight attendant looks less interested and more irritated than before.
Handing over my boarding pass, I adjust the guitar on my back and take the first step toward a neon dream I’ve been chasing for as long as I can remember.
I knew I’d get here one day—I just didn’t expect to be alone.
T
HIRTY-
SIX CITIES BLURRED
BY ME SO QUICKLY
I
F
ELT LIKE
I
’D BEEN
on a six-week drinking binge. I’d busted my ass on stage after stage and it had been worth it. Or at least I hope it was. Technically I’m still waiting to hear if I’ve been officially signed by Capitol Records.
After the final show in Atlanta, I grab a beer with Afton Tate, another artist on the tour who’s become a pretty good buddy. He settles onto the stool beside me in the Porter Beer Bar—a place in Little Five Points that he suggested because it supposedly has fantastic beer. The sleek steel and exposed brick combined with the relaxed vibe is welcoming and I make a note to remember this place. Mumford & Sons can barely be heard over the din of first dates and groups of twenty-somethings surrounding us.
“To finishing one hell of a tour,” I say, lifting my amber-filled glass in Tate’s direction.
“To whatever the hell comes next,” he says with a grin.
I take a long pull of the lager I ordered and am thankful that he was right about the beer. Tate laughs lightly as an attractive brunette wedging her way to the bar to order a drink bumps my elbow accidentally. Or maybe accidentally on purpose.
I smile and tip my chin at her and she smiles back with interest gleaming in whiskey-colored eyes. Her rectangular framed glasses are cute and her face is pretty, but she’s a little vanilla for me. Her blazer and lack of cleavage shout “looking for something long term.” Not my style. Probably my drinking buddy’s type, though.
Taking another drink, I glance over at Tate, then subtly tilt my head to the girl to see if he’s interested.
He regards her for a full minute before he shakes his head and shrugs. “I’m tired, man. I’m going to turn in early. You’re not?”
“Never too tired for that,” I say, shifting my eyes toward one of the brunette’s friends—a blonde who has that good-time girl look about her.
“You will be,” he mutters under his breath before tipping his bottle back.
Before I can respond my phone buzzes in my pocket. I motion to the bartender for another beer while retrieving my phone.
Mandy Lantram, the screen informs me.
“It’s my manager,” I tell Tate before plugging my open ear and accepting the call.
“They chose you, Dallas,” she says in place of a greeting. It’s the call I’ve been waiting for. The one I feared wouldn’t come. “You’re the new opener on Jase Wade’s Kickin’ Up Crazy tour. Barry has the paperwork ready to sign, and the tour kicks off in a few weeks. I know you mentioned maybe heading home, but I think your downtime would be better spent recording in the studio.”
She goes on to detail a schedule that includes every moment I’m permitted to sleep and breathe. But this is everything I ever wanted, so I’m not complaining.
When I finally end the call, Afton claps me on the back and offers to buy the next round to celebrate. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that this is actually happening. It’s everything I ever wanted . . . well, mostly. I wanted my
band
to make it big, but some dreams don’t come made to order.
The bartender sets our new drinks in front of us and I excuse myself to make a phone call. I’m pulling her name up as I make my way out of the boisterous crowd filling the bar.
I hold the door open on my way and a group of attractive women comes in thanking me for being a gentleman.
Stepping outside, I place the phone to my ear and hear it still ringing. I feel the grin spread across my face when she finally picks up.
“Hey. Where are you?”
“Well hello to you, too.” She laughs lightly. “I’m on the Blue Ridge Parkway. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful it is. I think fall is my new favorite season.”
My sister is on some epic road trip that gives me heartburn and panic attacks on a regular basis. But she seems to be enjoying herself, so I try to tamp down my brotherly instincts. She’s twenty years old now so I can’t exactly order her to go home where she’s safe like I could when we were kids.
“No truck stops after dark, okay? And be sure you’re—”
“Locking the doors, keeping the gas tank filled, checking the air in the tires, and carrying my Mace with me at all times.” She finishes my much-repeated spiel for me. “I know, big brother. I got this. I’ve only got a few more stops, then I’ll head home and you can rest easy.”
“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” I say, meaning it. “I just worry about you is all.”
“I know,
Dad
,” she teases. “And I appreciate your concern.”
It’s not the first time she’s called me that and in some ways, I suppose I do treat her more like a daughter than a sister. Our actual dad was from a low-income section of Amarillo, Texas. He grew up working from the time he could ride a bike. Paper route. Lawn boy. Window, car, whatever washer. Dog walker. You name it, he did it. He ran errands for the elderly, started painting houses by the time he was sixteen, and pretty much did anything and everything he could to earn a buck. Over the years he saved his pennies and by the time he was eighteen, he was able to afford to send himself to college. He’d met my mom there. She was a cello player studying music education. My grandparents helped as much as they could, of course, but for the most part, my dad was a self-made man. He was proud of that, it was part of who he was, and his work ethic was ingrained in my DNA. As were his protective tendencies. Even though he’s been dead ten years now, the beliefs he instilled in me live on.
“Take care of each other,” he’d said to my sister and me before he and my mother were killed in a car accident involving a drunk driver. But he’d given me this look before he left and I knew what he really meant.
Take care of your sister, Dallas,
he’d conveyed silently.
I’ve done my best to honor his final request, which is why being away from her feels so strange. When we’d moved from our two-story house in a suburb of Austin to a tiny two-bedroom shack with our grandparents in Amarillo, I’d done everything I could to make sure my sister didn’t suffer more than necessary. I’d taken the converted closet as a bedroom so she could have the bigger one. I’d mowed the same lawns my father had as a kid to make sure she had extra spending money for ice cream or earrings or whatever her little heart desired. I’d even been careful not to be too rough on my clothes because I knew she’d likely have to wear them as hand-me-downs.
“So you’re okay then? Having a good time still?” I’m glad she’s enjoying herself, I am. But I won’t be too upset when she’s done traipsing across the countryside, either.
“I am having a
great
time,” my sister tells me. “Somehow it’s like . . . never mind.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s like they’re here with me.” She sighs, the heavy losses we’ve experienced over the years weighing down her breath. “That sounds dumb, right? I mean, I’m not hallucinating or anything. I just . . .
feel
them.”
She means our grandparents. Because she’s on the road trip they’d planned to spend their life savings on but never got the chance to. And I know exactly how she feels. Between the memories of my parents and my granddad’s voice in my head, I feel them, too.
“I know exactly what you mean, Dixie Leigh. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the guitar lessons Papa gave me. And I could sure go for some of Nana’s cooking right now. Man can only eat so much diner food.”
She laughs and I use the moment to tell her about joining Jase Wade’s tour.
“Dallas!” she practically squeals at me. “And here I thought you were calling just to check in. Congratulations! I’m so happy for you, big brother.”
“Thanks.”
Some siblings might be jealous of each other’s success or resentful, especially since this was our dream once upon a time. But Dixie has always been one of the most selfless people I know.
“I can talk to the label again. They loved your song, Dix. I can convince them that you need to—”
“I need to be right where I am, Dallas.” She pauses a moment and I can picture her expression as she chooses her words carefully. “After this, I’m going to New Mexico. Then I’m going home for a while, so you can rest easy. I love you, and I’m happy for you. I miss you and I miss . . .” For a second I’m sure she’s going to say Gavin and that’s going to turn this into an entirely different conversation. But she doesn’t. “The band,” she says instead.
“Me, too.”
“But the label wanted you, Dallas. And I needed this trip even more than I realized. I needed to make peace with all that we’ve lost before I could appreciate what I have. So you do what you need to and stop worrying about me so much. I can take care of myself. Promise.”
I know that she can. Despite our dad’s last words, Dixie always made it fairly easy on me. She rarely asked for anything. When I tried to give her the money I’d saved over the years so that she could go to college, she informed me that she’d applied for a scholarship and that she’d only go if she got it. Which she did, because she’s one of the most talented musicians I’ve ever known.
Dixie has the same passion for music that our mother did and the talent that flowed from our father’s fingertips. Our dad wasn’t as interested in music professionally, maybe because he grew up with a musician father who’d never managed to make a successful career from it—but like our mom used to say, Dad had music in his soul whether he wanted it there or not. He was one of those people who could find a beat anywhere. And according to my granddad, he never met an instrument he couldn’t tame.
My sister plays with this superhuman ease, almost as if playing is effortless for her, something that just occurs when she touches an instrument. But I’m more like my mom. I had to practice my ass off. Playing the guitar began as something I did for fun, just fooling around. But when people started paying me fifty bucks to play at their parties, I realized I could earn money doing something I thought was fun instead of schlepping a push mower all around town.
Fifty bucks bought my sister new blue jeans of her very own. And all the ice cream she could eat.
I’d saved and sacrificed and given everything I had to give. I’d even tried to give up my shot at making it when a label executive didn’t want my sister as part of the deal. But Dixie had shoved me out the door, telling me that I’d given up enough and it was my turn to live my dream now.
Part of me is here for selfish reasons. Because I love the thrill of performing, and because it feels like I’m proving something to my late father. I like to think he’d be proud of me. But mostly, my hope is that I can make the kind of living with music that will ensure my sister doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to. Like spend her life in an orchestra pit. Or work as a waitress in Amarillo for the rest of her life.
“It’s your turn now,” she’s told me several times. “This is your dream. Stop worrying about me and go get it already.”
“Dallas,” my sister says slightly louder, breaking into my thoughts. “This is still what you want, right? The tour? The music?”
It takes me too long to answer. So I make sure to add plenty of gusto to my voice when I do.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course it is.”
“You sure everything’s okay? Is Gavin okay? He told me about the whole probation thing, but maybe now you can get the label to talk to someone and explain—”
“Everything’s fine. I should go, Dixie. Afton Tate says hello, by the way. I’m grabbing a few drinks with him now. Call and check in when you get to New Mexico, okay?”
“Okay,” she says, so low I have to strain to hear over the sounds of cars passing by. “I’ll call you soon. Love you.”
“Love you, too,” I say before disconnecting the call.
For a second I thought she was about to say something else, but I wait a beat and she doesn’t text or dial me back.
My skin prickles at my lie of omission as I make my way back inside the bar. Gavin Garrison isn’t with me and he hasn’t been since he left after the audition in Nashville. I thought he would’ve gotten in touch with her by now and as much as I want to tell her, it doesn’t feel like my truth to tell.
Then there’s the fact that I feel like I’m faking it until I make it out on the road alone. I haven’t written a full song in over a year. Not one that was any good, anyway. If it weren’t for my sister’s lyrics, I probably wouldn’t even be here. But I have to push aside my writer’s block or inspiration block or whatever the hell it is that’s blocking me. Because I’m here now, right where I always dreamed of being.
