“One baby,” Robyn hiss-whispers at me. “There is only one in there and I’ll thank y’all to quit putting the idea of multiples out into the universe. I’m freaking out enough as it is.”
I grin at her because she’s ridiculous. If she can handle Dallas, she can handle anything.
“So do I just keep guessing or what?”
“Or what,” Dallas says, before kissing Robyn quickly and allowing her Elvis impersonator uncle to cut in. “Come with me. We need to talk.”
The tension in his voice is freaking me the fuck out. “Dude. Whatever is going on, just tell me already. You know I don’t do well with beating around the bush.”
I half-expect him to make a manwhore joke about the bushes I’ve beaten but ever since I walked away from touring to get my life right, he hasn’t made a single crack. I don’t know if it’s Robyn’s influence on him or what, but I appreciate it. Nothing makes moving on from your mistakes harder than having them tossed into your face on a regular basis—whether it’s people kidding around or otherwise.
Once we’ve stepped away from the crowd, Dallas jerks his chin to a giant willow tree and we step behind it.
“So the battle of the bands at the Tavern,” he begins. “I talked to Dixie about it again after the rehearsal dinner.”
Could’ve been worse, I guess. I nod. “And?”
“And she’s still not sure. She’s taking the Over the Rainbow business—giving underpriviledged kids music lessons—very seriously and it takes up a lot of her time.”
Jesus. Of course she does. And yes I do know how she is. Because she couldn’t just be beautiful or talented or amazingly gorgeous. She has to be perfect. All of that light shouldn’t be tainted by my darkness.
But something is creeping up on the edge of my consciousness. It takes a few seconds but then it’s staring me full-on in the face.
“Wait. Only underprivileged kids?”
Dallas swallows so hard I see his Adam’s apple move behind his undone shirt collar.
“Yeah. Children of single parents, terminally ill parents or guardians, deceased parents, low-income families, and, um . . . drug addicts.”
I can’t verbalize how I feel right now, but I have a dangerous desire to hit something. It doesn’t make sense. She’s doing a good thing. Because she’s a good person, period. But it feels . . . personal.
Dixie the Fixer. Just grab a fiddle and fix everything right up. Kiss it all better—or in my case, fuck it all better.
“Gav. Breathe. She’s not doing it to hurt anyone or to get attention. She takes ridiculous stuff as payment, like one single dad mows the grass at the house and a young unwed mother makes her dinner once a week. Stuff like that. It’s not meant to upset anyone.”
“I know,” I choke out. “She would never hurt anyone on purpose.”
“Right. And like it or not, man, what you went through growing up, everything with your mom, we kind of went through it, too, once we moved to Amarillo. It affected me and Dixie both and sometimes it influences our decisions.”
“Doing favors for junkies is a bad idea, Dallas. Period. You know that. She should know that. It’s her getting hurt that I worry about.”
Dallas shakes his head. “Back up a step, man. I can see you making this about something else. She’s not doing favors for junkies. She’s sharing her gift with kids. Kids, man. Stop and let that sink in. Kids don’t deserve to be punished for their parents’ decisions. You should know that.”
Don’t they? I sure as hell got punished plenty for my mom’s choices. Still do from time to time. But none of that should ever come near my Bluebird.
“They come to the house? While she’s there alone?”