I check my phone several times, finding exactly what I expect to time and time again.

No new messages.

This past year, traveling on my own, meeting new people, coming home, and establishing a life for myself—one that didn’t include my brother or Gavin or the band—it hasn’t been easy but it has made me a stronger, more independent version of myself. I have grieved the loss of my grandfather, met new people, seen things I never thought I would, started a successful music instruction business, and moved on from the pain of knowing Gavin didn’t want me the way I wanted him. All of this I’ve done alone. No overprotective brother giving orders or watching my every move, no broody drummer distracting me at every turn, and no one to answer to except myself.

I didn’t reach out to him, even when I knew he was home. Because one thing I decided over these last few months is that I did the reaching in Austin. It’s his turn. He has to decide if he can do this—us, me and him, the band, all of it—for real this time, not with only half his heart.

I’d be lying if I pretended that part of the reason I haven’t answered Dallas yet about rejoining Leaving Amarillo wasn’t Gavin. I’m not saying I wouldn’t just because Gavin doesn’t want to be with me, but I would need a definite answer from him before being able give it another shot with the band. I am strong, stronger than I thought, at least. I can handle it if he doesn’t want me or isn’t able to give himself to me the way that I truly need. Completely.

Once dinner is over, I give in and check my phone for the final time before heading home, and the sting of what I see is a real physical thing in my chest. In a way, it feels like Gavin’s lack of response is the answer. For now at least.

No new messages.

What else is new?

4 | Gavin

IF THERE IS a God, he’s not a big fan of mine. I decided this as a kid when my mom was strung out for days and there was no food in the house, but as if I needed further proof, I’m currently in the seventh circle of Hell. Wearing a tux.

“Missed you at the rehearsal dinner last night,” Dallas says as we pose for another round of pictures. “Hate that your boss wouldn’t let you off.”

“Yeah. He’s a real dick.” And I’m practically a professional liar. “Sorry, man.”

“No worries. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” He claps me quickly on the shoulder, before grinning once more for the photographer.

As if dealing with what I thought was my dead mom passed out on the kitchen floor last night wasn’t bad enough, lying about it to my best friend is somehow worse. Somehow my mom has always managed to turn what should be her shit into mine. Pushing the image of me shaking her awake and screaming for her to regain consciousness out of my head, I do my best to force a smile toward the camera.

The bridal parties didn’t mix before the wedding and for that I’m grateful. At one point the groomsmen, me and Dallas’s friends Levi and Alex, stepped outside to take a picture with the bride. So far I’ve only seen hints of Dixie, caught the faint scent of her, and heard a chiming laugh down the hall that might have belonged to her.

Heritage House is an interesting mix of elegant and rustic. The property isn’t far from Hamilton Pool, where Dallas and Robyn met. According to Dallas, Robyn has always dreamed of getting married here. I feel out of place surrounded by so many smiling faces full of love. There are mirrors reflecting everything all over the damn place. Everywhere I look I see a reflection of a man I don’t recognize. A man pretending to be something he isn’t.

Beneath the monkey suit, the tattoos, and the freshly shaven face, I am still a wreck of a human being. I’m still a lost, hungry, fucked-up kid confused about the way the world works and where I belong in it. My adrenaline spikes when we line up to enter the atrium-style room where the wedding is being held. My teeth are even on edge when Cassidy nearly bumps me on her way to the room where the bridal party is getting ready.

“Sorry, Gav,” she mumbles quickly as she scurries past.

I grunt and nod, noticing a disheveled-looking Jaggerd McKinley staring dazedly after her.

Ah. Slutty wedding sex. I’m familiar with it. While I’ve fooled around with a bridesmaid or two in my day when we played gigs at weddings, I don’t recall ever hooking up with a girl I actually knew or one who was friends with my ex. Not that I ever technically had an ex. Whatever.

I don’t know how Dixie will feel about this or if it will even matter to her, but the thought that it might bothers me on multiple levels. I have so many questions and no right to ask her any of them.

Did she get back with McKinley when she came home?

Would she care if he hooked up with Cassidy?

Is she hooking up with McKinley—or anyone for that matter?

Is she still pissed I didn’t tell her I was home?

And the biggest one of all, if I tell her everything, will she ever be able to forgive me?

Judging from the icicles that formed around her when I looked in her direction at our band meeting yesterday, the outlook isn’t looking so great for those last two.

Only one way to find out, I suppose.

The wedding coordinator decided to make a slight change, apparently, and I can’t help but wonder if Dixie asked her to or if my not attending the rehearsal caused it. Instead of walking Dixie down the aisle, something I was both terrified and excited about, I will stand with Dallas and Dixie will walk alone.

While Dallas and I walk to the front of the altar, I try to visualize telling Dixie everything, the same way Dallas visualizes us having an amazing show before we perform. I can see myself talking but I can’t hear the words.

The small chapel is quiet while I shake Dallas’s hand and congratulate him one last time. There’s a sacred sort of silence surrounding us. Robyn’s family isn’t huge but her side is still much fuller than the Lark side. I glance out over the crowd, seeing only a few familiar faces. I grin at Dallas while fighting the urge to loosen my tie.

“I’m nervous,” he whispers. “This isn’t like playing music. What if I’m a terrible husband and father? What if I—”

“Relax,” I tell him. “Robyn seems really set on sticking with you now that you knocked her up and all. So I think it’s okay even if you suck at it.” But he won’t. I watch him sometimes with her, the adoration in his stare, the slight gleam of amusement in his eyes as if he still can’t believe she actually picked him.

He’s a lucky guy—but he’s a good guy, too, and he loves the hell out of her, so Robyn could’ve done worse. I want to ask them both, no, demand, to know what the secret is. How do you give yourself to someone—flaws and all—and expect them to just love you for the rest of your natural-born lives?

Before I have time to contemplate these burning questions any further, the doors in the back of the room open and Dixie stands there in all her perfect glory. Her dress is strapless and dark blue, a midnight-sky shade of silk that falls just below her knees and wraps her body lovingly. My Bluebird even has a feather in her hair and I nearly get hard at the sight of it barely restraining her wild curls. She holds a small bundle of white flowers and her ink shows on her arms. Everything about her is vibrant and breathtaking.

She is perfection personified and in my heart she’s mine. Always has been, always will be.

Except . . . she isn’t.

I am a statue as she comes down the aisle toward me. I stand unblinking, immovable, unwilling to miss a single second of this sight. As much as I wish I could, I can’t picture us having a day like this. A traditional Texas wedding, her in a white dress and me in another stifling monkey suit—but I also can’t deny that in this moment, my eyes locked on hers as she comes closer, I’m pretending and wishing like hell.