“It was never about becoming rich. It was about doing something I love.” ~Holliday Hughes
When the plane touches down in Austin, I lean over and say, “Stay close to me.” I don’t want to scare her, but LAX sucked this morning and when I fly commercial, I get a lot of unwanted attention. I don’t want Holliday hurt in the chaos that surrounds me.
She’s done well with all the media craziness over the last few months. Our elopement is old news now. The press has put their focus on Holliday and what they call a ‘bump watch.’ She’s been doing a lot of fucking yoga lately and can almost do as many sit-ups as me. She doesn’t need it. Her body is hot as fuck already, but I think it makes her feel like she has some control over the situation.
Recently, cheating stories have popped up online claiming the honeymoon is over and I’m moving on with this actress or that model. It’s all bullshit. We know the truth and don’t have anything to prove.
I take her hand just as security greets us as we walk off the plane. We’re escorted down the escalator to baggage claim. While waiting, I’m asked for autographs and photos. Even though the band is gone, it’s still easy for me to step into the Johnny Outlaw persona. It’s a part of who I am, not Holliday’s favorite part, but she understands and sees through the act.
To draw the crowd, I separate from her. I continue giving the fans what they want, who they want—Johnny Outlaw—sunglasses, bad attitude, and impatience works well in these types of situations. As soon as our suitcases are retrieved, I get us the hell out of here.
My job as a celebrity is over. I need to protect my wife. Without making a big deal of it, I nod toward the door and our team is on the move. I direct security to cover her first, me second, and keep my eyes on her as much as I can, mindful of her whereabouts as I position myself a step ahead of Holliday with security taking the tail. She doesn’t notice she’s being sandwiched for safety. I’d be happy if she never had to deal with this, never had to have a second thought about her safety or mine, but with my fame and her growing fame, we have to be aware at all times.
I hear my name being called, then some guy yells, “Outlaw,” which gets my attention. He’s wearing a T-shirt with our band on it. It’s from our last tour when Cory was still alive. The reminder makes me want to escape the scrutiny I feel I’m under to keep producing. The break I’ve had has been good.
Holliday gets in the car and I quickly follow. The door is shut. The trunk is closed, and we’re off. The phrase ‘The silence is deafening’ is felt within the vehicle. These situations can go wrong fast, but there’s also a rush that comes from fans wanting a piece of you. I know it’s Johnny Outlaw they want, but it still takes time to come down from the high. Since I’ve been out of the spotlight, it’s gotten easier to separate my job from my real life. It also helps that Holliday gets me. She always did, and gives me the space I need when necessary, but is also there when I fall. She slides her hand across the leather seat, and asks, “You okay?”
Back at LAX, she was called a gold-digging whore twice and accused of using me to further her business. Yet, here she is worried about me. I take her hand, and ask, “Are you okay?”
Shrugging, she says, “It is what it is.”
“Don’t listen to them.”
“It’s kind of hard not to when they’re yelling at me.”
I angle my body toward her, and say, “Don’t ever believe what they say. Believe me.”
Squeezing my hand, she smiles. “That’s easy to do.”
I lean over and kiss her before sitting back and staring out the window the rest of the ride. My parents aren’t expecting me. I thought it was best this way, but now I’m having doubts. This could backfire and it will be humiliating if it does in front of Holliday.
We check into the hotel and go up to the room. As soon as the door closes, she drops her purse on the bed and walks to the window, checking out the view. With her arms crossed, she asks, “Does it get easier?”
The drapes frame her body, her curves highlighted from the outside light. Walking up behind her, I touch her shoulders. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want the truth.”
“No, it doesn’t get easier, but you do get more used to it, if that makes sense.”
Her voice is soft, too quiet. I hear the sad realization in her tone. “When you have a good day, the paparazzi turn them bad.” Turning around in my arms, she says, “But your fans make it good, right?”
With a small nod, I say, “Yeah, they make it great. They get my art. They understand what I’m trying to do.”
“So maybe one day, people will accept me as your wife.”
I touch her face, hearing the question deep down that she’s asking. “Don’t do that. You’re my wife because I love you. That will never change. Block the static and focus on the truth.”
She leans her head against my chest and nods as I hold her. “Block the static,” she repeats.
As we drive into town, I notice that Elgin has changed a lot since I left ten years ago. What used to be a small Texas town, stereotypical with its open fields, cowboy hats, and pickup trucks, is no more. Now it’s full of strip malls, coffeehouses, and a few more liquor stores. I pull up and park in front of one of them, cutting the engine. Looking at Holliday, I say, “No one shows up at my dad’s house without a twelve pack of Lone Star. Want anything?”
“I’m good. I’ll wait here.”
I walk in and straight back to the beer cooler. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Old Joe running the counter just like he did when I was in high school. He watches me as I walk and I’m pretty sure he recognizes me. I grab the beer and head back up. Just as I pass the sodas, one catches my eye and I go back to grab it for Holliday. I remember her saying one time that it was her favorite. “Joe,” I say, setting the drinks down on the counter.
“Jack Dalton, Jr. Long time.”
“Yeah. You doing okay?”
“Yep,” he says, typing on the cash register. “Holding down the fort like always. How bout you?”
Setting two twenties down on the counter, I reply, “Going good. Keep the change.” He hands me a receipt and bags the soda. “Thanks, Joe. Have a good one.”
Right as I reach the door, he says, “We’re proud of you, Son. You’ve done well for yourself.”
“Thanks.” I get in the SUV and set the beer in the back. Handing the bag to Holliday, I say, “For you.”
She looks inside and smiles, her eyes showing her happiness. “You got me Big Red. I just might have fallen even more in love with you if that’s possible.”
With a wink and smile that I know drives her wild, I say, “I know how to woo the ladies alright.”
When I pull off the single lane road onto the dirt road that leads to my house, I spot the old barn up ahead. His domain and escape. My fingers flex around the steering wheel as the demons get louder in my head—failure, disappointment, weak, sissy, and the worst he ever said to me—ashamed you’re my son.
“Dalton?”
Just as the chorus to an Ozzy song kicks in, I jump, startled by Holliday’s hand on my arm. “What?” I reach over and turn off the music.
“What’s going on?”
“What?” I’m short with her, but I don’t mean to be.
“Suddenly you turned the music up so loud that the windows were vibrating.”
I put the car in park and look down at the stereo. “I didn’t realize. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I was just worried. Guess we’re here.”
Looking over my left shoulder, I see the garage nearby and the house beyond. There’s the field where I played baseball and helped with the crops, and the barn where I wasn’t allowed to go once I got injured. I turn to Holliday. “Let me lead okay?”
“Okay.”
I get out and go around, helping her down. Hearing a screen door slam shut, we both turn to find my mom squinting her eyes in our direction.
“Is that your mom?” she asks.
Not able to stop the smile, I say, “That’s her. C’mon.”
My mom hurries down the front porch steps with her own big grin. “Jack Dalton, give your mama a hug.”
It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been gone, how much money you’ve made, or even how famous you are, when you come back to the place you grew up, you feel like the kid you once were. My mom doesn’t treat me like a rock star or millionaire. When I reach her, she hugs me so tight that the air constricts in my lungs. I hug her back just as tight, realizing how much I’ve missed her. “You’re too skinny,” she says. “You can’t survive off sprouts and sunshine out in California. A boy needs hearty food to grow.”
“I don’t think I’m growing anymore, but I won’t turn down your home cooking.”
She eyes Holliday and with a gracious smile, says, “You must be my son’s wife.”
Taking her hand, I pull her close and introduce her properly. “Mom, this is Holli.”
My mom’s arms go wide as she welcomes her into the family. “The wedding was all over the news for months and I’ve seen stuff online about you, but it’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
Holliday hugs her, and says, “Thank you. It’s so nice to meet you too, Mrs. Dalton.”
“Call me Judy. All my friends do.” She smiles, wrapping her arm around Holliday’s shoulders. “Let’s go inside and get some iced tea. JD, your dad is out back working in the barn.”
I glance at Holliday and she smiles at the nickname. “I’ll introduce Holliday to him and then we’ll come inside. Give us a few minutes.”
She walks ahead with a nod. “I’ll get the tea ready and then you can fill me in on the wedding I wasn’t invited to and what brought on this surprise visit.”
We hold hands and walk in silence to the barn out back. A country song is coming from inside. I assume it’s Hank or George, his favorites. Country music wasn’t my thing. I can feel my palms sweating, my anxiety getting the best of me. I just hope Holliday doesn’t notice. When we stop in front of the open doors, a man—an older version of the dad I once knew, an older version of me, sits on a barstool at his workbench.
He briefly glances up, then back in thought before he sets down his pliers, and asks, “What brings you here?”
I can’t help being disappointed, though this is the reunion I expected.
“Thought it was time for a visit.”
Tinkering with the pliers again, he says, “Your mom’s inside.”
“I came to visit both of you. I got beer out in the truck.”
Dad looks at us out of the corner of his eyes. “You shouldn’t let good beer go to waste in the heat. I take it this is the wife, Junior?”
Fucking Junior. I haven’t heard that in years. “Yes, this is Holli.”
Holliday steps forward and puts out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir.”
“Good to meet ya,” he says, shaking her hand. “The son of a bitch always could get the lookers.” He starts walking toward the SUV, stepping around me. “You better have brought the good stuff, Son.”
Signaling for her to come with us, I say to my father, “I brought your favorite.”
An hour later, my dad is the asshole he’s always been. Plain and simple. I’m now old enough to know he’s not changing for me or anyone else.
“Saw Patty O’Toole the other day,” he says, eyeing me, ignoring Holliday. “She’s got three kids now.” His head lulls, the alcohol starting to sink in. “Why’d you two break up again?” His eyes meet mine, then his gaze lands on Holliday. “Patty was a looker too… and Homecoming Queen.”
My mom smiles, trying to lessen the tension building on the back porch where we’re sitting, by saying, “Not as pretty as you, Holli. You and JD make a beautiful couple.”
“Well, I’m no Homecoming Queen,” she replies, “but I get by.”
“You more than get by,” I snap, pissed he has the nerve to say that to her. “Ignore him.”
“Ignore me?” he laughs.
Glaring, I remind him, “Isn’t it Patty Brouchard now?”
“Oh Holli,” my mother interrupts. I’m thinking on purpose. “My son was so handsome standing center field in his tuxedo with that crown on his head. I should show you the pictures. And I still want you to tell me about the wedding.” She glances over at me and I can see the hurt in her eyes.
Holliday smiles. “I’d love that.” Nudging me, she says, “I didn’t know you were Homecoming King?”
Bumping my shoe against hers, I say, “I can’t seem to shake the title, no matter how hard I try. The press loves shit like that.”
“JD,” Mom admonishes.
“Sorry.” I laugh, enjoying that some things never change.
Mom starts for the door, and says, “Come inside, Holli. Let’s give the boys some time to talk. I’ll show you some embarrassing photos of my son.”
I can already tell Holliday’s going to be using this against me later when we’re alone. But I love that she’s smiling too much to argue. She says, “I can’t wait to see those.” As soon as the door closes, I turn and face out over the porch railing, putting my back to my dad. I feel the confrontation between us brewing.
And then it bubbles over. Sitting in his rocking chair, he says, “You could have had a good life here. Patty has a good life. She’s settled. Her husband is the high school baseball coach. Her oldest plays little leag—”
“And?” I turn to face him. “What the fuck does it matter what Patty or Ricky are doing?”
“That could’ve been you,” he says, pointing a finger. “You had so much potential. You could have pushed through the pain. You chose to wuss out, to cry on your mother’s apron like that would make it better. Locking yourself in that room all day, listening to that damn rock music.”
“You should have come to the doctor’s appointment. You know,” I say, standing upright. “The one you chose to not show up for. I was never gonna play again, not like I did. Not college ball or pro ball.”
“See? You admit it. You could have played. You could have worked hard to get back to the shape you were in.”
When I was a kid, he was my hero. Today, he stands before me a bitter shell of the man I once admired, but I’m too pissed to feel sorry for him. “You just don’t get it,” I say, shaking my head. “Do you not realize who I am?”
“I realize who you aren’t.”
He always did know how to hit where it hurts most. I don’t even know why I care anymore, so I stop trying to please him, and fight back. “I’m a fucking rock star.” Raising my voice, I say, “I have millions of fans and more money than I can spend in two lifetimes. I own three homes and have the most beautiful fucking wife in the world. If I want, I never have to work another day in my life—”
“That might be wise since the news said your friend had all the talent.”
My arm flies back, ready to deck him. But he stands to his full height and warns, “If you throw that punch, you better knock me out, Son. Cuz if you don’t, you’re not gonna wake up in the hospital the same man.”
“Dalton?” Holliday calls from the doorway. She comes closer, the creak of the door drawing my gaze to her. She touches my arm, and whispers, “You don’t need to do this. You don’t have anything to prove.”
“And what does a woman from Cal-I-forn-I-A know? You probably spend your days spending his money. He could be here, where he belongs, raising a family with a good girl, going to a respectable job five days a week. Instead, he’s out there raising hell and doing drugs. Look where that got the other guy. It got him buried six feet under before the age of thirty.”
My heart thumps heavy in my chest, my head filling with the bad or what Holliday calls the demons, I fight. I’ve been good over the last few months. I can’t let him drag me back under—the undertow is too hard to fight a second time. She stands in front of me, her hands on my chest. “Don’t listen to him. He’s trying to provoke you. Don’t let him win.”
“Listen to her new age crap,” he says. “And run back to Pretend Land. The rest of us will be here.”
“What is your problem?” Holliday asks. “Why are you doing this?”
“A real woman knows her place,” he says, turning on Holliday.
“Don’t, Dad. I’m warning you.”
“You’re warning me?” He laughs. “You’re a fool. You had everything here and you let it slip away. That family of Patty’s could’ve been yours. The coaching job, this place when I die, but no, you left, proving me right about you all along. You’re weak.”
“I left so I wouldn’t end up like you.” I feel the pressure of Holliday’s hands holding me back when I say, “So if you think that makes me weak, so be it. But what you think of me doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is what this woman thinks. She not only loves me for who I am, but believes in me, something you never really did.”
“You lost your roots along the way to La La Land, Junior,” he says, snidely.
“You act like you’re mad because I left, but you’re the one who drove me to the county line and dropped me off at the bus stop. So I didn’t lose my roots, I had them ripped out from under me because I ruined your dreams of playing pro ball.”
“You were great. The greatest. You had a billboard in the center of town your senior year. You could have been someone, a real player. Instead, you decided to sulk in your room and listen to that noisy music. Your mind was made up and your bag was already packed. I just saved you the trouble of walking the eight miles.”
Looking down into Holliday’s eyes, her eyebrows together in worry, I say, “This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have come.”
“No, honey,” my mom says, letting the door slam behind her. “I’m glad you did. I’ve missed you terribly.” She hugs me. “I had no idea you were planning on leaving for good and even less of an idea that your dad drove you.”
“He drove me away is what you mean—literally and figuratively,” I say, my bitterness coming back. My mom has tears in her eyes, so I hug her even tighter, thinking it might be the last time I ever do. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“I never meant for you to leave,” she says, “I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.” I turn, and leave, rushing to the field I used to play ball in, the one I once loved. My dad used his best crop field to make that baseball field, to learn, to make him proud of me one day. Like the field, I’ve outgrown it, him, this life. I run through the tall grass to a log I dragged out here after the injury. It’s where home plate once was, it’s where I came to think, where I was when I decided I needed to leave, and where I sit now, knowing I’ll never return.
Lying down, I stare up at the blue sky, a few clouds drifting by in the unseasonal breeze. I close my eyes and try to remember all the good I had here. A shadow darkens my eyelids. When I open my eyes, Holliday is standing over me, blocking the sun, a halo around her. My angel.
“Why’d I come back?” I ask, sitting up, so she can sit down.
She sits close to me, leaning forward and pulling tall blades of grass in thought. Then she says, “We’re told that dealing with our past will free our futures. But I call bullshit. It’s never as easy as it’s sold to us.”
Staring out into the distance, I say, “It doesn’t matter what I accomplish. He’ll only see my failures.”
“His perspective is screwed up. You getting injured and not being able to play baseball is not a failure, Dalton.”
“What is it then?”
Taking a moment to think about it, she looks me in the eyes, then says, “Destiny. You were never meant to be a professional baseball player or you would be.”
I smile because she has enough faith for the both of us. “Does that make you a part of my destiny?”
“I believe we were meant to be. Even when we were apart, my heart hung onto you.”
Wrapping my arm around her, I kiss her head, and say, “You didn’t have to become a firefighter to become a hero.”
She looks surprised. I bump her knee with mine, and add, “You’ve done more for me than a trip back home could ever do. I don’t need Texas. I have you.” I stand up and look around, surveying the land one last time. “It’s time to go.”
The tips of the wild grass graze my fingertips as we make our way back to the truck. The screen door opens and two figures appear on the front porch as we approach. “Stay for dinner. I’ll make your favorite,” my mother offers.
“Can’t, Mom, but thanks.”
She comes down the stairs. “Stay. Don’t leave like this.”
I hug her like I should have the last time I left, hugging her tight enough for her to know I’ll miss her when I’m gone. “I’m sorry about the wedding. It was spontaneous. No one was invited. It was just the two of us.”
“I can tell she really loves you.” She brushes my hair back and smiles. “I’m proud of you.”
My dad lingers on the front porch—him and his stubborn pride will rot together. “If you go now, don’t bother coming back again,” he yells.
“Dalton, you can’t leave like this,” Holliday starts to say, but my dad cuts her off and says, “He needs to do what he needs to do. We haven’t been a consideration in his life for years now.”
“Honey,” Mom says, “Please don’t leave.”
“What he said,” Holliday starts. “It’s not about consideration, it’s about love. Your son has a hole in his heart that taints his success. He’s worked hard to get to where he is. So he didn’t play baseball. So what? Most baseball players want to be rock stars. Your son is talented and is loved by millions. Yet, all he wants is his parents’ approval.”
“He expects it,” my dad says, standing his ground a few feet away. “It should be earned like respect.”
“Holliday, it’s okay,” I say.
But she’s pissed, and I love her for it. She says, “Love is given. It doesn’t come with a list of qualifications. You should try to let go of the dreams you had for him and let him live his. I know you’d be proud. And, if you ever want to get to know your son for the man he’s become, call me.” She turns and gets inside the car.
I hug my mom one more time, then get in the vehicle. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you, too. Ignore your father and don’t let it be so long next time. I’ve missed you.”
“Okay.” I get inside the SUV and ask Holliday, “You ready?”
A nod suffices.
A few hours later, we’ve checked out of the hotel a day early and are pulling up to the airport. “Don’t forget your Big Red. I know how much you love the stuff.”
Security is curbside waiting for us. We’re rushed through the doors and past the long row of check-in desks and through another door. In a private security room, we’re scanned from head to toe. They check our carry-ons and ask about the brown bag. “Damn,” Holliday replies, “I didn’t even get a sip.”
“Drink some now.”
She chucks the bottle into the trash can. “You know what? I don’t need reminders of the past. I’ve got a future to look forward to with you.”
After we settle in on the plane, she takes my hand and brings it to her lap, and asks, “Are you sure you’re okay with how everything was left? I know it didn’t turn out how you hoped.”
“I’m fine. I’ve got everything I need right here.”