Neon Dreams: Loving Dallas Part 25

"I will kill him. He's a dead man."

She laughs a little, but then she looks at me and her eyes go wide. "Robyn? You okay? I promise, it's all right. I'm okay. Don't cry."

"f.u.c.k. Am I crying?"

I wipe my eyes and sure enough, they're damp. Well, h.e.l.l.

"How could he? I mean, it's so obvious that you two-"

She waves her hand. "I don't know. All I know is, whatever was going on, he didn't want me there to see it. He basically told me to leave and not come back. So yeah. I'm thinking of getting the first of many cats because I'm obviously destined to be a lonely old cat lady."

"Like h.e.l.l you are. I will get this waiter's number right now and you will-"

I'm interrupted by the waiter in question. He sets our food down and grins sheepishly. So he heard me then. Good.

"Anything else I can get you, ladies?"

"You bet your sweet-"

"We're fine," Dixie says loudly. "Thanks."

He leaves us with another lingering grin.

"See?" I say, gesturing wildly toward his retreating figure and nearly knocking my water over. "There are other fish in the sea. Smoking-hot fish, mind you. Gavin Garrison can suck it."

Dixie takes a bite of her wrap, eyeing me speculatively while she chews. "You're really worked up today. What's going on with you?"

c.r.a.p. We've reached the portion of the lunch date that's about me.

"Eat a little more. Then I'll tell you."

"Robyn Breeland," she begins, setting her wrap down harshly. "If you invited me here to tell me you have a deadly disease or something awful and are just stalling for time by messing around about the waiter then I-"

"No, it's nothing awful." I sigh. "Well . . . I don't think it's awful anyway. Your brother might feel differently."

"My brother?"

I push my spirally pasta salad noodles around with my fork. "He and I have kind of been seeing each other casually during the tour. Since we were together so much anyway, it just sort of . . . happened."

"Feel free to spare me the details."

"No problem."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"So . . ." Dixie prompts. "Now you realize you're in love and you want to tell him that he's the one and you plan to spend the rest of your life with him making lots of pretty babies for me to spoil?"

Score one for her. "Um, well . . . you got one part right."

"You're in love?"

I shrug. Yeah, I am. I always have been. But I don't think that necessitates a formal announcement.

She tries again. "You plan to tell him he's the one? Because you know how he is. Just because he might not say it doesn't mean he doesn't feel the same way."

"That's not it. Not exactly."

"So then . . . babies?" Her eyes light up and her mouth drops open.

"Just the one, I hope. At least, there was only one on the ultrasound, thank goodness."

Dixie makes an "ahh" sound that causes several people nearby to turn and look at us.

"Shh. Keep it down. I didn't plan to tell the whole restaurant."

"Oh my G.o.d." Dixie clasps a hand over her mouth. Another "Oh my G.o.d" still escapes, though it's m.u.f.fled. Tears s.h.i.+ne in her eyes.

"You're going to make me cry again," I say, because she is.

"Oh my G.o.d, 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 d.a.m.ned, 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 s.h.i.+t. 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 h.e.l.l 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 b.u.mp 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 rehea.r.s.ed 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 h.e.l.l 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 hara.s.sment 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 s.e.x 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 alb.u.m, 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.

f.u.c.k.

I knew in New Orleans, and maybe I knew even before that. But d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l, I love her. Not like I love my fans or my sister or my job or my music. I am crazy head over a.s.s in f.u.c.king obsessive love with her. And there's not a d.a.m.n thing I can do about it. I'm leaving the country, for f.u.c.k'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.

I want to see her, to go to her place and apologize and lay my heart on the line. But now that it's time, I'm chickening out for fear of two possible outcomes. One, her new man is there and I kill him and go to jail instead of on tour. Two, she feels the same way and dumps her new man and spends her life sitting around waiting on me to finish living my dream.

Neither of those feels right.

Not really.

So I pull out my phone and take the mangina way out. Texting. Which was probably invented by a coward who'd acted like a jacka.s.s and needed to apologize to some girl but didn't have the b.a.l.l.s to do it on the phone or in person. Cowards unite, Dude.

I'm sorry for being such an a.s.s. I understand why you haven't called me back. I'm happy for you and I should've said that instead of storming out. Tell your new guy he's lucky I'm leaving the country and that he better treat you right.

When she doesn't reply, I send one more-one that says three words I should have told her in person-and then I shut my phone off because I've become too much of a p.u.s.s.y to even handle her goodbye.

"I'm so glad the label decided to add Rio to the tour. The food is amazing, the people are beautiful, and wait until you see the water. It's this incredible shade of aquamarine and so clear you wouldn't believe it."

Mandy prattles on in the back of the town car that's taking us to the airport. I couldn't give two f.u.c.ks about leaving the country right now. Or what color the water is anywhere. The only color I care about right now is emerald. The color of Robyn's eyes. They darken to jade when I p.i.s.s her off. And they're lighter, peridot maybe, when they're filled with tears.

Propping my elbow on the ledge of the tinted window, I stare out at Texas as it pa.s.ses.

When we pull up to the DallasFort Worth airport, the driver gets out and handles checking our luggage. I don't have much. A guitar. Two suitcases full of clothes. Everything else will be handled by crew members.

"Come on, Superstar," Mandy says, linking her arm with mine. The contact p.i.s.ses me off.

"Enough with the superstar s.h.i.+t," I say, ignoring the years of manners that have been ingrained in me.

Mandy jerks her arm loose and glares at me.

"Excuse me? Do you have a problem we need to handle, Dallas? Because right now, on the way to the biggest opportunity of your life, I can't even imagine what could be putting you in such a bad mood."

"Guess you aren't very creative then," I grumble, following the entourage with us toward a private security entrance we've been cleared for. Behind me I can already hear people losing their s.h.i.+t over Wade. Camera phones are flas.h.i.+ng everywhere. I keep my sungla.s.ses on and my head down.

"Hey," she says, practically stomping her designer stiletto on the floor. "Talk to me. What's the problem here?"

I don't exactly have the words and if I did, she'd be the last person I'd share them with.

"I'm tired is all," I say. "Sorry."

"If you need to blow off some steam, it's a long flight. Our seats are together. We could-"

"No," I say too quickly. "No thanks, I mean." Pa.s.s, Mandy. Hard f.u.c.king pa.s.s.

"You should know something, Dallas," she murmurs low as she takes my arm again without my having offered it. "I always-and I mean always-get what I want."

"Must be nice," I say drily.