I shake my head. “As crazy as the past twenty-four hours have been, I think adding more insanity to it might be the worst thing I could do. You had a condition, one that I said I could uphold. I lied. Expecting you to . . . um, you know, whatever, with me, and then pretending it didn’t matter or didn’t change anything, would be the definition of denial. So this is your out.”
My brother says something to us and Gavin nods his understanding over at him before returning his full attention to me. “My condition had nothing to do with not expecting it to matter.” He leans down and taps one finger under my chin. “Everything we do together matters, Bluebird. Everything.”
He’s right. And I think that’s why I’m willing to forgo our one night. I wanted to be closer to him and after today, after everything I saw, mostly the parts he didn’t want me to see, I know that I am probably closer to him than anyone has ever been. I walk in a daze behind him toward the stage.
“And Dixie?”
My attention snaps into focus. “Yeah?”
“I never said I wanted an out.” His eyes don’t leave mine as he slips my room key into his back pocket.
Lightning stops everything as soon as sound check is over. People are milling around like disoriented cattle as coordinators try to herd them into bars.
“Stage nine, you’re going into Bourbon Girl. Let’s go,” a man in a black T-shirt and matching ball cap turned backward hollers at us.
We follow his directions into Bourbon Girl, a bar we’ve played in before. Seeing the familiar lit-up American flag onstage comforts me and also makes me want to burst into “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
Dallas and Gavin set up our damp equipment while wiping it all down with towels the bar has generously provided. My hair hangs wet and heavy down my back as I retrieve Oz from his nice dry case. I missed him.
Some musicians look at their equipment as a way to earn money. And I guess mine does that for me, but there are so many memories connected to this fiddle, some that aren’t even mine, that I could almost swear he comes to life and speaks to me when we play. Sure, he’s dented and scratched and has a few nicks here and there, but those things are part of what makes him so special. After a few paying gigs, Dallas encouraged me to buy a new one, but I couldn’t even fathom the idea. It felt like cheating or selling out. New strings are about all I can handle. I’ll play Oz until he crumbles in my hands.
Dallas is texting on his phone off to the side of the stage when I look up and realize that the bar is full.
“Um, D?” I call out. “Think maybe we should play some music or something?”
Dallas looks up from his phone and grins at the crowd. “Or something. You ready, Garrison?”
“Let’s do this,” Gavin answers, lowering himself onto his stool. He taps out the count and I play my opener. A montage of this past week plays behind my eyes. The waitress at Mangieri’s, Gavin blowing into my room like a tornado, the kiss outside of the storage space, him licking ice cream from my stomach, straddling him in his friend’s car, his mom slapping him, the look in his eye when he slipped my extra room key into his pocket.
I pour everything I’m feeling into Oz—the confusion, the lust, the pain, the need, and the excitement that is beyond anything I have ever felt before. I’m alive. I’m so alive in this moment that I’m almost outside of myself looking in.
It’s times like this, times when I’m on, giving it my all as my bow dances across the strings like it has a mind of its own, that I feel like I can fly. Leave this stage, this crowd, this world even, and ascend to a higher plane.