“Love you, too, Dixie Leigh.” My usually closed-off brother is overflowing with the emotions. I like it. It’s different, but I like it.
After we hang up, my phone buzzes in my hand and texts from Dallas come in one after another.
My vision blurs trying to read it all.
Dallas has really put a lot of thought into this. I agree with all but one of his song choices and I text him back to tell him so. I’m a little surprised when I notice the excitement and anticipation welling up inside me.
I want this. I want to do this.
Moreover, I want to win.
At the edge of my awareness, there is still that same nagging concern that is always there. The thought of playing music with Gavin feels like facing a giant mountainous incline the world expects me to climb. One with terrain I have no clue how to navigate and haven’t had time to train adequately for.
I shake my head and stand. This isn’t about Gavin Garrison. This is about my band—a band I am just now acknowledging is as much mine as Dallas’s or Gavin’s.
I can do this. I have loved. And lost. I have grown. I am stronger.
I’ve learned a few vital lessons over these past few months. It’s not knowledge and experience that helps us to grow and mature.
It’s pain. It’s damage. It’s recovering from it. Surviving it.
I am stronger because I had to be. I’ve been hurt so many times. By life, by death, by love, and by loss. I am happier because I’ve known profound sadness, wiser because I’ve made epic mistakes and learned from them. But I am still standing.
Damn straight I am.
Oz sits faceup on the kitchen table and I run my fingers over his strings. “You ready for this? Want one more run at this thing? Think we’re ready?”
The buzz of electricity hums through my fingertips like an answer and it ignites every cell in my body. I am grinning like a maniac as I use my ancient laptop to research the competition.
I’m still smiling when my next student rings the doorbell. I have survived everything in my life so far—this won’t kill me.
At least I hope it won’t.
10 | Gavin
“GARRISON! HOW MANY times do I have to tell you? No personal calls at work.”
My boss looks sunburned 365 days a year. He’s turning a deep shade of crimson nearing on blood violet while he goes off on me.
“I mean, you’re the bartender. Get it? The name says it all. Bar and tender. As in tender of the bar, as in the asshole that holds up the line because he’s on the phone instead of pouring drinks. When you don’t pour the drinks, I don’t make the money. I don’t make the money, I can’t write you a paycheck. Got that?”
“Cal? Not to be a smartass, but my phone call probably won’t last half as long as that speech just did.”
“Two minutes,” he says, shoving the phone at me. “I mean it.”
“I’ll keep it to one,” I say, just to aggravate him because he makes it so easy. Once he shakes his head and moves out of earshot? I lift the phone to my ear.
“I told you not to call me at work. We had an agreement. I can’t keep doing this with you—”
“Garrison?
Fuck me.
“Dallas Lark. Holy shit. How goes the honeymoon? Y’all make a sex tape yet? ’Cause I can probably find a buyer.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t know it was me,” he practically growls through the phone.
“Yeah, no. My bad. Thought you were someone else calling.”
“I gathered that. Something going on?”
“Nah.” Not anymore, anyway. “What’s up? Other than you being married and all?”
“The sky. Sorry about calling you at work but I tried your cell and it was off.”
Yeah. There’s a reason for that. One I have no desire to discuss with him. “It’s fine. Just make it quick and I’ll call you when I get off.”
Dallas chuckles. “All right. Well, here goes.”
I shove my palm against my free ear to close it off from the commotion in the bar.