No new messages.
This past year, traveling on my own, meeting new people, coming home, and establishing a life for myself—one that didn’t include my brother or Gavin or the band—it hasn’t been easy but it has made me a stronger, more independent version of myself. I have grieved the loss of my grandfather, met new people, seen things I never thought I would, started a successful music instruction business, and moved on from the pain of knowing Gavin didn’t want me the way I wanted him. All of this I’ve done alone. No overprotective brother giving orders or watching my every move, no broody drummer distracting me at every turn, and no one to answer to except myself.
I didn’t reach out to him, even when I knew he was home. Because one thing I decided over these last few months is that I did the reaching in Austin. It’s his turn. He has to decide if he can do this—us, me and him, the band, all of it—for real this time, not with only half his heart.
I’d be lying if I pretended that part of the reason I haven’t answered Dallas yet about rejoining Leaving Amarillo wasn’t Gavin. I’m not saying I wouldn’t just because Gavin doesn’t want to be with me, but I would need a definite answer from him before being able give it another shot with the band. I am strong, stronger than I thought, at least. I can handle it if he doesn’t want me or isn’t able to give himself to me the way that I truly need. Completely.
Once dinner is over, I give in and check my phone for the final time before heading home, and the sting of what I see is a real physical thing in my chest. In a way, it feels like Gavin’s lack of response is the answer. For now at least.
No new messages.
What else is new?
4 | Gavin
IF THERE IS a God, he’s not a big fan of mine. I decided this as a kid when my mom was strung out for days and there was no food in the house, but as if I needed further proof, I’m currently in the seventh circle of Hell. Wearing a tux.
“Missed you at the rehearsal dinner last night,” Dallas says as we pose for another round of pictures. “Hate that your boss wouldn’t let you off.”
“Yeah. He’s a real dick.” And I’m practically a professional liar. “Sorry, man.”
“No worries. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” He claps me quickly on the shoulder, before grinning once more for the photographer.
As if dealing with what I thought was my dead mom passed out on the kitchen floor last night wasn’t bad enough, lying about it to my best friend is somehow worse. Somehow my mom has always managed to turn what should be her shit into mine. Pushing the image of me shaking her awake and screaming for her to regain consciousness out of my head, I do my best to force a smile toward the camera.
The bridal parties didn’t mix before the wedding and for that I’m grateful. At one point the groomsmen, me and Dallas’s friends Levi and Alex, stepped outside to take a picture with the bride. So far I’ve only seen hints of Dixie, caught the faint scent of her, and heard a chiming laugh down the hall that might have belonged to her.
Heritage House is an interesting mix of elegant and rustic. The property isn’t far from Hamilton Pool, where Dallas and Robyn met. According to Dallas, Robyn has always dreamed of getting married here. I feel out of place surrounded by so many smiling faces full of love. There are mirrors reflecting everything all over the damn place. Everywhere I look I see a reflection of a man I don’t recognize. A man pretending to be something he isn’t.