20 | Gavin
I’VE BEEN IN a lot of tough and precarious situations in my life. Hell, my life is one big, complicated situation. But none have been daunting to the point of debilitating the way facing Dixie Lark is about to be.
It’s as if I’m about to face a firing squad and I’m the one supplying the ammo.
Once I pull on a pair of Dallas’s old gym shorts and a T-shirt featuring the name of our high school football team, I make my way to the kitchen, where I can hear Dixie making coffee. My feet are lead weights as I move, begging me to slow down and reconsider before I ruin everything good in my life only moments after finally getting it back.
For a moment, I just stand there, watching her making coffee.
What would life be like if I were normal? Would it be like this? Waking up to her, morning coffee with her, holding her in my arms every night—it sounds like Heaven on Earth and like a life I could never begin to be worthy of.
“Hey. You want it black as usual?”
I blank out for a second staring at her full mouth.
“Gav? Coffee?”
I shake my head. “Black is fine. Like my soul.”
She gives me a pointed look but doesn’t comment on my mood. I take the mug she hands me and lower myself into one of the wooden chairs at the table.
“So what did you want to tell me?” she asks tentatively, eyeing me carefully while sitting in the seat adjacent to mine.
I take a long swallow of hot coffee and then a deep breath. “What do you want to know?”
Something flashes in her eyes. Intrigue? Worry? I can’t tell for sure.
“Everything,” she whispers softly. Then a little louder, “And nothing.”
I force a half smile. “Oh, that’s all? That I can do.”
Neither of us speaks for a few minutes but then she sets her mug aside and clasps her hands together on top of the table. Her stare meets mine, an immeasurable number of emotions swirling in her eyes, and I know this is the calm before the storm.
Maybe we should take cover, have this conversation beneath the table or locked in a bunker somewhere that we can’t escape, can’t walk out of until our issues are resolved.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were home? Even if you didn’t want to see me, it would’ve been nice to know without finding out like . . . like I did.”
Man up and tell her the truth, Garrison. Before someone else does.
I stare at my coffee mug, realizing it says WORLD’S GREATEST NANA on it. Dixie’s has sheet music printed across it and the words DEAR MUSIC, THANKS FOR THE THERAPY.
I spin mine in my hands a few times before answering.
“I didn’t call you when I first came home because I needed time. There were things—like the probation situation I told you about—that I wanted to get handled and squared away before contacting you. There was some jail time involved and I didn’t want you coming to that place, though eventually I guess you had to anyway.” Or she chose to. Whichever.
“Okay,” she answers slowly, tracing the rim of her cup with one finger. “So let’s back up. How did you end up on probation to begin with?”
And here we go.
Deep into the year that I think of as my dark period, which, with my life, is saying something.
“The year you were gone wasn’t a great one. I wasn’t making very good choices. I was using . . . and then I was in an accident. One that was my fault.”
I see the ripple of disappointed sadness that crosses her features. No matter what I do, I will always hurt her in one way or another. The knowledge settles onto my chest like a ton of bricks.
Dixie looks momentarily like she can’t decide which part to question first. “Using what exactly?”
I rub my fingers over my eyelids. “Coke mostly. It was around all the time. Guy my mom was seeing wasn’t shy about sharing. I’d drink a little, do a few lines, and go play my drums until I couldn’t move my arms.”