“You’re going to make me cry again,” I say, because she is.
“Oh my God, Robyn. I’m so happy for you. For both of you.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, which causes my tears to fall because I’ve been so worried I forgot to be happy. Seeing her be happy makes me realize that Dallas be damned, I can be happy, too. “What did Dallas say?”
Well . . . I was happy for a second at least.
“He doesn’t exactly know yet.”
Dixie releases my hand. “Holy shit. I know before he does? Nice. But uh, you should probably tell him. Like sooner rather than later. He leaves for Mexico on Monday I think.”
I nod. “Mexico. Then Canada. Then Brazil, I think. I’m going to. I just . . .”
“You’re scared. I can understand that. But you still have to tell him.”
“What if he hates me, Dix? You know him. You know he won’t want this. He’s living his dream right now. How am I supposed to tell him I’m about to turn it into a nightmare?”
“You stop right there, lady. No one calls my niece or nephew a nightmare. And as far as my brother goes . . . you might be surprised. Dallas is a lot of things. Driven. Stubborn. Sometimes downright obnoxiously overprotective. But he’s a good man. And family matters to him. Maybe more so since we hardly have any left.”
“I know that. I do.” I take a few steadying breaths. “That’s my other fear. That his values will cause him to leave his dreams behind to be with us. Then what? What happens two or three years from now when he resents us for costing him his dream? Can you imagine Dallas without music? Working some nine-to-five dead-end job he hates? Because I can and it isn’t pretty. I won’t do that to him.”
Dixie looks so deep into my eyes I fear she can see my soul.
“Robyn,” she says slowly. “You didn’t see his face when he learned about your mom’s cancer. It broke him, knowing you didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth that summer.”
I might not have seen his face that night, but I saw it a few days later and I remember how furious he was.
Dixie continues before I can say anything. “And for the record, he wasn’t the only one who was hurt by that.”
The pain is evident on her face and my shoulders sag beneath the weight of it.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve told you, both of you. He was just so excited about that summer and I didn’t want to take that away from him.” The same way I didn’t want to put a damper on the international leg of his tour now.
Remembering what he told me, about how he bombed his few performances that summer because of me, I feel myself sinking into the hopeless pit of despair. If I don’t tell Dallas he’ll be hurt later and if I do tell him now he’ll be distracted on the road. Either way, I’m repeating mistakes I don’t know how to avoid.
I haven’t called or texted him because I just can’t find the words. Now I know what he meant about the mind-numbing frustration of writer’s block.
Dixie nods. “You’re forgiven. I know you were trying to handle it on your own and your intention wasn’t to hurt anyone. But I’ve learned a lot these past few months. I learned that I can live all on my own without my brother or anyone else dictating my life or my schedule. I’ve learned exactly how important music is to me and how much it means for me to be able to share it with other people. I’ve realized, in hindsight, that I should’ve told Mandy Lantram to go straight to hell when she suggested I sit out of my own band. And I’ve learned that some things are simply worth fighting for. So you might have to bail me out of jail when I back over Gavin’s new lady friend with Dallas’s truck. But of all that, the most important thing I’ve realized is that I should never, ever, underestimate myself. So I want you to take a long, hard look at yourself.”
I glance down at my beige sweater and jeans. Nothing too impressive to see here.
Dixie disagrees, apparently. “You are independent and strong and amazing. You are one of the hardest-working people I know. And to top it off, you’re a truly good person. You’re funny and gorgeous, and mine and Dallas’s lives are better because you’re in them.”
“Why must you insist on making the pregnant lady cry?”
She smiles at me and gives me the universal head tilt of sympathy. “Whatever his reaction is, you can handle it. I know you can. You put up with him for far longer than anyone else ever could.”
“Maybe I could just wait until he gets back. That way he can focus while he’s overseas and—”
“And he can come home to you and your baby bump knowing something very important was kept from him. Again. How well do you think that will go over?”
I place my elbows on the table and rest my face in my hands. I know she’s right. It’s probably why I told her before him, because I needed confirmation that telling him now was the right thing.
“Mandy told me to stay away from him,” I mumble in a last-ditch effort to delay the inevitable.
“I will happily deal with Mandy Lantram if she gives you any grief,” Dixie says, a level of ferocity in her voice I’ve never heard before. “You don’t even think about her. Just tell him. Tell him about the baby and tell him what’s in your heart. I know you, Robyn. And I know you want to give him the easy way out. The I’m-Robyn-Breeland-I-got-this-no-worries-I-don’t-need-you speech.”
I smile because she does know me. Every time I’ve rehearsed telling him in my head, there’s an out clause.
She reaches across the table and takes one of my hands in hers. “Tell him how you feel. All of it. Even if he makes the wrong choice, at least he won’t be able to say you didn’t give him one.”
35 | Dallas
I SPENT THE WEEKEND LYING LOW BUT WHEN I WAKE UP MONDAY morning, my vision is still blurry and my head has a heartbeat of its very own. Hangovers don’t typically linger for more than a day. But then, I’m not usually beat to hell and back from duking it out with Jase Wade, either.
She hasn’t called. Or texted. Or sent smoke signals. Nothing.
I’ve called and left voice mails and texted to the point that she could probably file a valid harassment suit against me.
I take my daily dose of extra-strength Tylenol, then some migraine medicine for good measure, and stumble to the bathroom. After a long, hot shower I feel marginally better. Still sore and tired, but human at least. Today I leave for Mexico and I still haven’t talked to Robyn. I owe her an apology and I’ve decided that even if I have to swallow a year’s worth of pride to do it, I am going to tell her that I’m happy for her. Deep down I am. Deep, deep down.
Telling her goodbye is going to suck. Telling her goodbye and knowing I’m leaving the girl I’ve thought of as mine on some level for the past seven years to some other bastard is going to suck hairy gorilla nuts. But it’s the least I can do.
Getting dressed I think about the night she slapped me at the diner in Denver and the amazing sex that followed. If not for her and that night, I wouldn’t have written “Tough All Over,” it wouldn’t be the headlining track on my upcoming album, and I probably wouldn’t be going on this tour.
Memories of our amazing night in New Orleans and her celebrating my single’s success with me fill my head as I pack the rest of my belongings into my bag.
This is my life, I might as well get used to it. Strangely enough, it isn’t the shows I keep remembering from each city. It’s the time I spent with her. The shows she didn’t attend are hardly even memorable. I played, I grabbed some food and beer, and crashed alone. Without Robyn in my life, it’s black-and-white. All work and no play. Which is odd since technically I “play” for a living. But when she’s there, my world is in brilliant color.
Fuck.
I knew in New Orleans, and maybe I knew even before that. But damn it to hell, I love her. Not like I love my fans or my sister or my job or my music. I am crazy head over ass in fucking obsessive love with her. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’m leaving the country, for fuck’s sakes. I can’t exactly ask her to wait a decade or so while I make music until people get tired of me. She deserves better than that and it sounds like she found it.