She’s told me her story over the past few months. When she showed up at my door asking about Over the Rainbow, I was obtuse enough to ask what happened to Maisey’s dad. I had no idea it would be such a painful story to hear and tell.
She’s a beautiful blond girl with a swimsuit model figure and magazine cover face. When she was sixteen, she was madly in love with the varsity quarterback at my rival high school. Then she had too many drinks at a party, got assaulted by some disgusting pig who never should’ve been there, and got pregnant. Golden boy couldn’t deal and ran away to college, leaving her in the dust. I don’t think she’s ever recovered from the heartbreak.
Her smile is there but it’s small and doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not looking for a man. I just want to focus on Maisey and being the best mom that I can be. But I’m happy with that. I don’t think you’re happy, Dixie. I think you’re settling for safety’s sake.”
She’s always been honest with me, even when the truths haven’t been easy to tell, so I’m honest with her. “I do miss it. Performing. Being onstage. The band.” I sigh loudly. “But it’s a big dream. Sometimes a terrifying one. One that takes a lot to chase and has no guarantee of coming true. I’m okay with my life as it is.”
Not to mention the fact that Gavin is so tightly entwined into my dream that I can’t figure out how I feel about it from one moment to the next.
“Okay? You’re okay with your life? Lame. We’re talking about your dream,” she practically moans. “They’re supposed to be scary. If they aren’t, you aren’t doing it right. And it’s within reach. Do you know how rare that is for most people?”
I nod, because I do.
“Friday night. We’re all going to be there. Cheering you on.”
I close my eyes. “Even if I’m terrible?”
“Even if you shatter glass and make the local dogs howl like banshees.”
“Garrison, one of your girls is asking for you,” a red-faced heavyset man calls out.
Of course that would be the first thing I hear when I step into the Tavern Friday night. I came early in an attempt to shake off the pre-performance jitters.
So much for that.
After entirely too much deliberation, I pulled out a black leather top and a short, black lace skirt. The McQueen ankle boots I got at an estate sale years ago had been collecting dust in my closet pretty much since the showcase in Nashville. Slipping them on, I began to feel like me again. Who knew shoes had so much power. I didn’t. Until now.
I put on some eyeliner and mascara and a quick coat of my one splurge in life, Marc Jacobs lip gloss in a bold shade of red, tossed my hair up and down a few times, and called it good.
It wasn’t until I was just about walk out the door that I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the living room.
Eyes wide and shining, lips full and glistening, and my skin creamy and just flushed enough to make me look alive. I was holding Oz’s case and for a moment I was transported back in time. Austin. Music. Performing live and setting my soul free.
Somehow I’d lost sight of what that meant to me, of what it did for me, for my heart and soul and general well-being. Now I remember. I need music like I need oxygen. But I’d been depriving myself for so long because . . . because it seemed indulgent. Selfish, even, after Papa died. Joy in the midst of grief felt so wrong . . . and yet, now I could see that it was so very necessary. I read somewhere that when you’re happy you enjoy the music but when you’re sad you understand it. Music was my salvation, it always had been. But when Dallas was leaving to follow the dream we’d shared for so long, I felt like I was abandoning the memory of my grandfather.
Give yourself permission to dream, little one, my Nana used to say. Dream big and wide and run full speed with arms stretched out wide to catch those elusive dreams.
Did I forget that? Did I forget her?
No. I forgot me.
It’s as if I’ve awakened from the dead. I place my hand over my mouth to keep the sound of surprise from escaping.
There I am.
More important, Where have I been?