“You got lucky,” I say, not in a sarcastic way but in an honest-to-God happy for him way. “Still . . . that’s a huge-ass risk, man. I’m glad it worked out how you wanted it to. Good thing Breeland kept her standards low all these years.”

I’m screwing with him. I am also jealous as hell.

“No shit,” he says on a laugh. “You know, it’s funny. I thought music was my first love. All I’d ever dreamed of was making it big. Then I did and I realized that without her, it didn’t even matter. None of it. You know?”

Yeah, I knew. Or I could imagine a pretty close scenario at least.

“I need to get back to work.”

“Hey,” Dallas begins, sounding like he has one more urgent detail to share. “My sister is going to be pissed at first, but you know her. She loves you and when she loves someone, that’s that. She’ll come around eventually.”

I huff my disbelief into the phone because he has no idea. Dallas knows mostly everything but not every single detail, not the details that will crush my sweet Bluebird if I don’t explain them first. I wish I had some actual dirt on McKinley, but for now all I can do is hope and pray he continues keeping what he knows to himself.

After we disconnect our call I take my place behind the bar. Cal heads my way as soon as he sees me and I brace myself for the ass-chewing.

Instead he slams a stack of bright yellow flyers with black block print on them in front of me.

“Hang these up on your break. Matter of fact, plan to work right through all your breaks for the rest of the week.”

“Got it.”

I fill a few orders before I even look at what’s on the flyers. But when I do, I almost drop the shot glass I’m towel-drying.

Dixie Lark is playing the Tavern this weekend. Like, playing playing. As in solo, as in all by herself. The flyer has a black-and-white photo of her with her head down and Oz on her shoulder. She looks beautiful—angelic. My inner demons roar to life.

They want to dirty her up, fuck her deep and hard without giving a single thought to telling her the truth or protecting her from the darkness within me.

Among the hissed whispers and dark desires, a sliver of hope, like a light slicing into a dark room through a door left ajar, carves a path inside my chest.

Maybe she is ready. Maybe she misses performing and the band really will get a second chance.

Maybe I will, too.

11 | Dixie

“NO YOU DID not do this.” I gape at the yellow flyer in my hands. “Are you outside of your mind? This is insane. I can’t do this!”

Leandra shakes off my massive freak-out. “You already did, babe. Remember? I was there. I saw how amazing you were. The entire place was captivated.”

I shake my head, wishing I could crumple the paper into a ball and make it disappear. “Lee, I know you mean well. But I can’t . . . seriously. I just . . . I don’t perform solo ever and—”

“You do, Dixie. And you told me yourself you miss it. Anyone who looks at you can see how badly you need to play.” I didn’t realize she was paying such close attention. “You do so much for us. Let us do something for you. Everyone is coming. We’re going to be your cheering section.”

“You doing something nice for me somehow turns into me having to perform alone in front of a live audience. You could’ve just bought me a box of chocolates or a cookie bouquet.”

She laughs as if I’m kidding. “Girl, you are the most talented thing in Amarillo. You have a true gift—the kind most people would give their eyeteeth for. And here you are, holed up and giving free lessons to kids because you love to play. You need to play.”

“I love these kids.”

“You love everyone, Dixie, and I love you for that. But sweetheart, you’re young, you’re free, and you should be out there. Go on a date. Play a show. Have some drinks. Dance with a stranger. Kiss someone full on the mouth just because you can.”

I give her a pouty frown. “You’re not that much older than me.”

“Yes, but I’m a mom. It adds like five years to my actual age. Trust me.”

I laugh and nudge her hard enough to nearly knock her skinny butt off the piano bench. “You’re gorgeous. You could have any guy you wanted.”

I regret my words immediately.

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.