Bile rises in my throat and I’m just about to barge in on their moment and announce that I won’t be sitting the encore out after all when Mandy continues.
“Look, I promised to be honest with you and I’m sorry if the truth hurts. But this might be for the best.” Her voice has grown distant, as if she couldn’t care less what he decides at this point. “You have the talent and the marketability to make it, to really make it. But how many major acts have you seen opening with a fiddle solo by Daisy Duke?” She answers before he can. “None. That’s how many. None, Dallas.” Her voice softens a bit but her words remain sharp, jagged-edged daggers stabbing me in my most sensitive places. “Your sister seems lovely and I can tell that you mean a great deal to each other. But she’s holding you back. Plain and simple.”
I gasp out loud, and then take an immediate step back in case they heard me.
“She’s holding you back. Plain and simple.”
I’ve been holding Dallas back. I’m the reason we’ve been passed on time and time again by managers and recording labels.
There it is—the cold, hard truth spoken out loud by an industry professional. Maybe I don’t like her very much, but Dallas respects her and her opinion. It’s not like she’s saying these things to hurt me—she has no idea that I’m listening.
The bright neon dream I’ve held on to for so long, an image of Leaving Amarillo playing together, making a life of touring and playing the kind of music that was so prominent it was a physical presence in the home we grew up in, fades until it has evaporated completely.
The seeds of doubt planted long ago by curious bystanders paying amused attention to my opening act begin to grow and bloom in my stomach, sending a nauseating excess of fluid up from my throat. My head swims and I know, I know in that moment that she’s right. And that I am going to vomit.
I’ve made it to the back of the building and placed my hands on my knees before I yak all over the place. Thankfully I haven’t eaten so it’s only dry heaves and not anything too substantial.
“Bluebird?”
Oh God. Of course. Of course he’d be the one to find me. A thousand tingling pinpricks dance across my skin. A slick sheen of sweat spreads across my forehead and down my neck as I stand.
“H-hey.” I raise my head and see him crushing a cigarette with the heel of his boot. His tie and button-down shirt are undone. Beneath them he’s wearing his “drummers hit it harder” T-shirt and I don’t know whether to comment on the smoking or the shirt first.
“I thought you quit?”
“Correction. I quit smoking around you.”
“Well, that’s hardly helpful since you’ve been mostly avoiding me since we got here.” Except for the macho man scene he made with Brian, that is. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand while working to regain my equilibrium. “I’ve never known you to be the type to duck and hide.”
He gestures to where I’m standing. “And I’ve never known you to get nervous before a show. What’s wrong?”
“Do you think I’m holding you back, Gav? You and Dallas, I mean.” I can tell by his mildly offended expression that he has no idea what I’m talking about.
“What are you—”
“The band, Gav. Do you think the band would have made it by now if I wasn’t a part of it?”
His forehead creases and his mouth angles downward. “Where the hell is this coming from? Somebody say something to you?”
I can’t help but notice that he didn’t answer my question. I shake my head, unable to voice the lie out loud. Traitorous tears gather in my eyes and give me away.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Don’t do that, Bluebird. Whatever it is that’s psyching you out, let it go.”
Suddenly everything I’ve held in all this time channels itself into a powerful cyclone of deep-seated frustrations aimed right at Gavin Garrison. Grief and guilt and loss intertwine, gaining momentum by the second. Narrowing my eyes, I shake my head.