I don’t even blame her.

Groaning, I stretch as far as my back will allow and lumber out of my bed. After a quick shower, I throw on a T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans and step into the lace-up work boots I rarely bother to lace.

Glancing at my reflection on my way out, I note that I should have shaved my face, but I would’ve been late and I’m not really in the mood for pissy Dallas at the moment.

I glance down at the kitchen table and see a notice about the rent on the trailer being overdue. Usually I scrape up enough to keep it paid on time, but I’ve been saving my money lately. My mom is rarely even here and this isn’t where I plan to spend the rest of my life.

My plan for becoming a worthwhile human being has three major components.

The first is paying for all past mistakes in full so those fuckers don’t sneak up on me. I’m fulfilling all the requirements of my probation to a T. The second is making a regular effort to reach long-term goals involving the things that matter, like money, music, and my life. The third is finding a way to be completely honest with Dixie—about everything.

It’s the third one I’m struggling with the most.

The rehearsal space isn’t too far away but it’s beginning to mist outside so I walk to the truck stop a few blocks down the road and check for Mr. Kyung. He’s on the phone, speaking Korean with an earpiece in, when I step inside.

Without even acknowledging that he sees me, he tosses a pair of keys into the air—lobbing them in a perfect arc into my hands.

“Komawoyo,” I call out as I turn to leave. “Bring her back before closing.”

He waves me off while continuing his conversation.

He’s one of the very few people on the planet who actually trust me.

When I was nine I got caught stealing a pack of cheese from Kyung’s. He took one look at me, saw that I was filthy and most likely starving half to death, and told me he wouldn’t turn me in if I would work off what I owed and promise never to steal another thing. Most days I swept the floors, restocked drinks, and delivered groceries and food orders to nearby houses I could reach on foot. Every time I walked in the door his seventy-something-year-old mother insisted on making me enough food for two meals. Now that I’m older I’m pretty sure it was just his way of providing for a kid he felt sorry for, but I still appreciate that he did it without making me feel ashamed. He made it clear that in his family a man is nothing without his pride. I have always been thankful that he allowed me to keep what little bit I had.

When I was sixteen and still “working” off a five-dollar seven-year-old debt, Mr. Kyung bought an old red Isuzu pickup and hired me officially as the delivery guy, but it was also officially under the table.

In some ways, the man of small stature and few words is like a father to me. I never stole another thing. Since getting the job at the Tavern I haven’t needed the extra cash but he still lets me borrow the truck and come by for a meal now and then. No questions asked. His mother passed away a few years ago and his wife started doing the cooking.

“It’s not as good as my mother’s was,” he told me quietly in his still slightly broken English over some type of dumpling soup he called manduguk, “but if you stop coming by it will hurt Lin’s feelings and I’ll have to hurt you.”

Again, I don’t know if he was just worried I wouldn’t eat otherwise, or if it really would have hurt his wife’s feelings or what, but I still come in every now and then.

I drive the barely running truck back to my place, load up my kit just in case Dallas has more than a simple meeting in mind, then head to the rehearsal space in downtown Amarillo. I listen to my favorite rock station on the way, concentrating hard on the music and wishing I had the drumming chops of Keith Moon or John Bonham, while trying to keep the anxiety over seeing Dixie at bay.

It works for a little while, right up until I pull behind the building and see EmmyLou parked beside Dallas’s truck. She’s already here then.

Dallas will be glad she wasn’t late. Whatever it is, for him to call an emergency band meeting the same night as his rehearsal dinner, it must be important.

I pocket the keys to the truck and make my way to the back door of the repurposed storage building we used to rent out to rehearse in. When I open the door she’s the first thing I see.

My adrenaline, testosterone, and heart rate all rise immediately at the sight of her.

Dixie sits cross-legged on the couch, Oz in his case beside her. Clearly she had the same inclination I did about the purpose of this meeting. Dallas is standing across from her but his guitar is nowhere in sight.

“Now that you’re both here,” he begins as soon as the door is closed behind me, “let’s get right to it. We all have to be at the restaurant in about two hours so we don’t have time to waste.”

Dallas continues before I have time to check if any sign of comprehension registers on Dixie’s face.

“There is a battle of the bands at the Tavern two weeks from now and I went ahead and signed us up before the list was full. We haven’t played together in months and I know I should’ve talked to you both first, but time wasn’t a luxury I had.”

Dixie’s mouth opens slightly and I can tell this is the first she’s heard of this. Dallas puts his hands up and continues.

“I’m proposing that we give Leaving Amarillo one more shot, rehearse as soon as I get back from my honeymoon, play a warm-up gig next weekend, and perform in the battle.” He pauses, glancing briefly at both of us before going on. “But Austin MusicFest was like herding cats with the two of you and I won’t do that again. We all three have to want this equally, have to be ready to give it all we have. Otherwise, we can say to hell with it, and I’m going to see if Afton Tate wants to work together on writing and hope I can make a living writing songs for other people. This isn’t just about living my dream anymore,” he tells us on a heavy sigh. “I have a family to support now, one who I would do anything for—same goes for you two. Don’t say yes for me, say yes if and only if you really want this. If it’s your dream, too. If it’s not, I’ll have us taken off the list. Drill Sergeant Dallas is retiring so either you’re in or you’re out.”

He huffs out a loud breath and my eyes dart to where Dixie sits, still as stone with only her side profile visible to me. When neither of us answers right away, Dallas looks ready to throw his hands up.

“Well . . .” he prompts.

“I’m in,” I choke out before clearing my throat. “I’m with you. All in.”

I’ve been hoping for this moment since I saw the flyer in the bar, not that I was hoping for Dallas’s solo career to fail by any means, but I’d be lying my ass off if I said I didn’t want to once again be a part of the only thing that has ever mattered to me. I’m done lying, to them and to myself.

The silence takes on a sort of self-awareness, as if it’s as much in the room as we are.

“Dix,” Dallas says quietly. “I know it’s been a tough year. I know you’ve dealt with a lot on your own and whatever you decide, I will be okay with. I mean it.”

My heart feels like a lead weight in my chest when she stands. She lifts Oz but doesn’t remove him from his case and I can feel that she’s going to pass. On this. On me. Because of the pain I’ve caused her.

When she turns to face me I do my best to give her a “what do we have to lose” look and a hopeful shrug, but she barely registers my presence. There’s blind drive in her eyes; I just don’t know what it’s driving her to do. I don’t have to wait long as she starts to make her way to the door.

Her voice is soft but clear when she faces Dallas. “Is that all you wanted?”

He nods. “Yeah. Mostly. I had a request about the wedding but we can discuss that tonight at the rehearsal dinner.”