“Do you now? That’s awesome. I—”
“I am so sorry, Mr. Walker,” a woman interrupts as I’m signing Rebecca’s tablet. “We were just at the concert and the girls convinced us to stop in for cheese fries. I told them to leave you be, but they—”
“It’s fine. Really.” I hand Rebecca’s tablet back and a few others hand their items over to be signed. “I’ve always wanted to meet my prettiest fans. And here they are.” I wink at the group and giggles fill the diner.
Five concert tickets, two iPad minis, and a Rosa’s Diner menu later, I’ve signed and smiled and had my picture taken to their hearts’ content. The two moms thanked me profusely. One of them slipped me her number.
“Looks like you have that effect on women of all ages,” Robyn mutters under her breath. “Well, most of them.” She nods to a girl lagging behind the group.
She seemed shy, more reserved than the others, and she didn’t hand me anything to sign. Her dark curly hair in a low ponytail reminds me so much of Dixie, of how she had to wear my hand-me-downs, of how withdrawn she was after mom and dad died, and how I swore to myself that somehow, one day, I would make it better, that it’s almost painful to look at her.
“Can I sign something for you, sweetheart?” I ask her once the other girls have followed the two women with them toward the door.
She regards me warily, like I might bite. Then she shrugs, clearly not as impressed with me as the rest of the group was.
“Actually I’m more of a Jase Wade fan. But thanks. Great show tonight.” With that, she turns and leaves and I gape at Robyn. Who immediately bursts out in hysterical laughter.
“She just . . . totally . . . put . . . in your place,” she barely chokes out.
“Nice. Sheesh. And here I was finally feeling better about not writing and Dixie junior goes and puts me down.”
Robyn sobers almost instantly. “You haven’t been writing? But what about the songs you sang tonight?”
I cringe. I hadn’t meant to throw myself a pity party.
I grab a salt shaker and spin it back and forth between my hands. “Egh. Some of it was old stuff. I threw in a few covers, and Dixie wrote ‘Better to Burn.’ ”
“So . . . how long has it been since you’ve actually written anything?” The concern in her voice matches the way her eyes are watching me.
I focus on my salt shaker.
“A while. Six months maybe. More since I’ve actually written a full song. The band was working on one. Leaving Amarillo, I mean.” I hate that I have to clarify because I have a new band now. Feels like infidelity somehow. “But we never got the chance to finish it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She uses the same tone she used to say she was sorry about Papa’s passing. I finally look into her eyes and see the genuine sympathy in them.
Robyn cares about me. I know this. I’ve always known this. I care about her, too, I do. As much as the only other women I’ve ever cared about, which is a short list limited to my mom, Nana, and little sister. But my life isn’t going to be the kind that allows for a wife and two kids and a picket fence, and she deserves that. So it’s time I got to the point, told her we’re cool and I’m going to put my big-boy pants on and call it a night, despite my dick’s dire protest.
“You don’t want to talk about it, I’m guessing.”