Loving Dallas

He didn’t call tonight and I’m trying not to dwell on how few times we’ve actually spoken since he’s been gone.

I don’t know when I became this person—this woman who stays up late on a work night waiting for her boyfriend to call. I wasn’t even this girl in high school. But then, he called when he was supposed to back then.

And he was five minutes down the road instead of on the other side of the world.

Katie’s moving in with Drew and I’m turning her room into a guest room and what was once the home office into a nursery. I tried to put the crib together today and ended up crying in the middle of the floor surrounded by wooden pieces I wanted to light on fire.

My chest tightens as I realize this is my life now. Dallas’s life isn’t going to be conventional and neither is our relationship. That was the word Katie used earlier. She’d told me that if anyone could handle an “unconventional” relationship it was me.

I hope she’s right.

I should be okay with this. Part of my job was to set up opportunities for him to get his picture taken with women who wanted to get close to him.

I try not to imagine Brazilian models fawning all over him but the image comes anyway.

Screw it.

I try to call him.

No answer.

I drift in and out of consciousness for a while until my phone buzzes in my hand.

Dallas finally texted.

Call you tomorrow. Show ran late. Love you.

Once my eyes have adjusted I text him back that it’s okay and I love him, too. But I miss him, so I pull my laptop from my nightstand and pull up his fan page.

New pictures have already been added. He looks so handsome up onstage. The way the light shines behind him makes him glow like an otherworldly being.

My larger-than-life Dallas Lark. I can feel my heart swelling with pride.

Below the official ones are some fan-posted ones.

Girls are draped all over him, hugging him, taking selfies with him, kissing him on the cheek.

I can handle this. I can. I have to.

But Lord help me, some of these women are insanely gorgeous. Very soon I am going to look like I swallowed a basketball. I already have a bump, one I can’t hide much longer. And Dallas is going to be surrounded by perfection.

I need to hear his voice. Need to hear him tell me good night. I pull up his name on my phone and listen to the ringing.

When his voice mail picks up, I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

I won’t do this. I won’t be the pathetic girlfriend at home making him feel guilty because she misses him. Besides, it’s not just about me anymore. I can’t keep doing this. The last thing I want my kiddo to see is Mommy sitting around pining for Daddy.

“Sweet dreams, baby,” I say into the phone as new pictures pop onto his page.

I hope he does have sweet dreams. But I have a feeling I’ll be having nightmares.

I curl up to my pillow, trying not to dwell on the fact that even though I’m technically already one myself, I need my mommy.





38 | Dallas

TIMING WAS THE THIRD MOST IMPORTANT THING I LEARNED about playing music. Nana would reiterate its importance to Dixie and me over and over during our piano lessons.

Papa taught me about patience and persistence, but Nana taught me about timing.

“It’s not enough to just play the right notes,” she’d say. “You have to play them at the right time, play them when you feel them and not a second sooner.”

Timing.

It could be a bitch sometimes.

Robyn and I keep missing each other.

We’ve both called. Left messages. Texted.

But every time I have a free minute, she’s in a meeting or in bed. The times she’s tried to call I’ve either been tied up in interviews or sound checks or trying to catch what little sleep I can between shows.

Now I was up in bed failing at sleeping again, knowing I’d have to be at the airport heading to London in a few hours, but unable to really rest until I heard her voice.

I listen to the last voice mail she left until I fall asleep. “Sweet dreams, baby,” her sultry voice says over and over. I’d get a hard dick if I weren’t so wiped out.

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