“I’m afraid of holding Dallas back from his dream—of holding both of you back. No matter what he says, the fact is this guy liked what he saw when I wasn’t performing with you.” I shrug like I’m not being torn in two on the inside. Maybe this development that doesn’t include me is Mandy’s doing and maybe it isn’t. But I’m not whole, not fully myself, and I need time to grieve my grandfather without the risk of letting my grief debilitate the band. “And I need more time to handle Papa’s matters the way he would’ve wanted them handled. I’m not like Dallas. I can’t channel my grief the way that he can.”
The way he’s staring makes me think he’s about to make some grand profession about us or that he’s going to take my advice and stay, but he only says, “Be careful in this house alone, okay? Lock up good. Windows and doors. And if you need anything, call me. No matter what time it is or what’s going on.”
“I will,” I say, not knowing if that’s the truth. “Gavin . . . I—”
His lips crash down onto mine and I lift onto the tips of my toes, savoring this one last taste. My small reason to hope. My hands hold tight to his hips, clutching his waistband. He drags out the end of our kiss, sucking my bottom lip gently before releasing it.
“I’m still pissed at you, Gavin Michael Garrison. This is a bad idea. It’s not worth it. The right opportunity will come along when it’s meant to. Dallas will understand.”
He ignores every single one of my pleas and answers with one of his own. “Wait for me, Bluebird? Please?”
I glance over my shoulder, looking to see if my brother saw our kiss. Strangely Gavin doesn’t seem as worried. Dallas’s back is to us as he shoves something into the cab of his truck. Treacherous tears well in my throat on their promising journey toward the ducts in my eyes.
We’re standing together, locked in one another’s stares and breathing each other’s air on the front porch, when my brother calls out to Gavin to get a move on. He gives me one more pleading look and then a soft kiss on the forehead when he realizes I’m really not going to go with them.
For the first time, I’m the one who pulls away. Frustration binds me and tugs at my nerves.
“You drive across the entire state to bail your mom out. You do everything and anything Dallas asks including breaking the law and risking jail time. You even gave me what I wanted, despite the many risks involved.”
He gives me the what-are-you-getting-at look.
My voice is sharper than I intend for it to be when I ask him what I’ve been wondering for years.
“Who has your back, Gavin? Who’s looking out for you? Tell me. Tell me who holds you up when you start to fall? Who is there for you when you need them? You’re the man behind the beat, literally. You’ve always been the heart of this band, beating steadily behind us. Who’s behind you?”
Me, I think to myself. Let it be me.
“I’ve got this, Bluebird. I don’t need anyone. I never did.”
The truth hurts. It punches me in the chest and bruises my heart. A solid lump of hurt forms instantly in my throat, blocking my attempts at swallowing my feelings. Inhaling his warmth one last time, I resist the urge to drag his face back to mine and kiss him until he agrees to stay and get legal permission to leave. An image of him being handcuffed and shoved into the back of a police car stifles my ability to breathe.
When he pulls away, I let him go.
Once Gavin climbs into the truck, I watch them drive off until they’re out of sight. Feels like they pull a piece of my heart along with them and I can almost see it bouncing battered and bloody behind the truck.
It’s then that I realize I didn’t answer him, not with words. I didn’t confirm whether or not I would wait. And he left anyway.
“I don’t need anyone. I never did.”
Breathing is suddenly harder, as if the air thickened once they were out of sight. My heart has to put forth a bit more effort to beat.
I can see it—how the audition will go. How excited they’ll be when they find out they’ve been added to the tour. And where will I be? An image of myself appears unwelcome in my mind. I’m dressed in all black, my wild hair tamed and slicked back into a tight bun as I play the kind of music that the maestro demands instead of the kind I want—the kind that frees me.
No.