“Well hello to you, too.” She laughs lightly. “I’m on the Blue Ridge Parkway. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful it is. I think fall is my new favorite season.”

My sister is on some epic road trip that gives me heartburn and panic attacks on a regular basis. But she seems to be enjoying herself, so I try to tamp down my brotherly instincts. She’s twenty years old now so I can’t exactly order her to go home where she’s safe like I could when we were kids.

“No truck stops after dark, okay? And be sure you’re—”

“Locking the doors, keeping the gas tank filled, checking the air in the tires, and carrying my Mace with me at all times.” She finishes my much-repeated spiel for me. “I know, big brother. I got this. I’ve only got a few more stops, then I’ll head home and you can rest easy.”

“I’m glad you’re having a good time,” I say, meaning it. “I just worry about you is all.”

“I know, Dad,” she teases. “And I appreciate your concern.”

It’s not the first time she’s called me that and in some ways, I suppose I do treat her more like a daughter than a sister. Our actual dad was from a low-income section of Amarillo, Texas. He grew up working from the time he could ride a bike. Paper route. Lawn boy. Window, car, whatever washer. Dog walker. You name it, he did it. He ran errands for the elderly, started painting houses by the time he was sixteen, and pretty much did anything and everything he could to earn a buck. Over the years he saved his pennies and by the time he was eighteen, he was able to afford to send himself to college. He’d met my mom there. She was a cello player studying music education. My grandparents helped as much as they could, of course, but for the most part, my dad was a self-made man. He was proud of that, it was part of who he was, and his work ethic was ingrained in my DNA. As were his protective tendencies. Even though he’s been dead ten years now, the beliefs he instilled in me live on.

“Take care of each other,” he’d said to my sister and me before he and my mother were killed in a car accident involving a drunk driver. But he’d given me this look before he left and I knew what he really meant. Take care of your sister, Dallas, he’d conveyed silently.

I’ve done my best to honor his final request, which is why being away from her feels so strange. When we’d moved from our two-story house in a suburb of Austin to a tiny two-bedroom shack with our grandparents in Amarillo, I’d done everything I could to make sure my sister didn’t suffer more than necessary. I’d taken the converted closet as a bedroom so she could have the bigger one. I’d mowed the same lawns my father had as a kid to make sure she had extra spending money for ice cream or earrings or whatever her little heart desired. I’d even been careful not to be too rough on my clothes because I knew she’d likely have to wear them as hand-me-downs.

“So you’re okay then? Having a good time still?” I’m glad she’s enjoying herself, I am. But I won’t be too upset when she’s done traipsing across the countryside, either.

“I am having a great time,” my sister tells me. “Somehow it’s like . . . never mind.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s like they’re here with me.” She sighs, the heavy losses we’ve experienced over the years weighing down her breath. “That sounds dumb, right? I mean, I’m not hallucinating or anything. I just . . . feel them.”

She means our grandparents. Because she’s on the road trip they’d planned to spend their life savings on but never got the chance to. And I know exactly how she feels. Between the memories of my parents and my granddad’s voice in my head, I feel them, too.

“I know exactly what you mean, Dixie Leigh. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about the guitar lessons Papa gave me. And I could sure go for some of Nana’s cooking right now. Man can only eat so much diner food.”

She laughs and I use the moment to tell her about joining Jase Wade’s tour.

“Dallas!” she practically squeals at me. “And here I thought you were calling just to check in. Congratulations! I’m so happy for you, big brother.”

“Thanks.”

Some siblings might be jealous of each other’s success or resentful, especially since this was our dream once upon a time. But Dixie has always been one of the most selfless people I know.

“I can talk to the label again. They loved your song, Dix. I can convince them that you need to—”

“I need to be right where I am, Dallas.” She pauses a moment and I can picture her expression as she chooses her words carefully. “After this, I’m going to New Mexico. Then I’m going home for a while, so you can rest easy. I love you, and I’m happy for you. I miss you and I miss . . .” For a second I’m sure she’s going to say Gavin and that’s going to turn this into an entirely different conversation. But she doesn’t. “The band,” she says instead.

“Me, too.”

“But the label wanted you, Dallas. And I needed this trip even more than I realized. I needed to make peace with all that we’ve lost before I could appreciate what I have. So you do what you need to and stop worrying about me so much. I can take care of myself. Promise.”

I know that she can. Despite our dad’s last words, Dixie always made it fairly easy on me. She rarely asked for anything. When I tried to give her the money I’d saved over the years so that she could go to college, she informed me that she’d applied for a scholarship and that she’d only go if she got it. Which she did, because she’s one of the most talented musicians I’ve ever known.

Dixie has the same passion for music that our mother did and the talent that flowed from our father’s fingertips. Our dad wasn’t as interested in music professionally, maybe because he grew up with a musician father who’d never managed to make a successful career from it—but like our mom used to say, Dad had music in his soul whether he wanted it there or not. He was one of those people who could find a beat anywhere. And according to my granddad, he never met an instrument he couldn’t tame.

My sister plays with this superhuman ease, almost as if playing is effortless for her, something that just occurs when she touches an instrument. But I’m more like my mom. I had to practice my ass off. Playing the guitar began as something I did for fun, just fooling around. But when people started paying me fifty bucks to play at their parties, I realized I could earn money doing something I thought was fun instead of schlepping a push mower all around town.

Fifty bucks bought my sister new blue jeans of her very own. And all the ice cream she could eat.

I’d saved and sacrificed and given everything I had to give. I’d even tried to give up my shot at making it when a label executive didn’t want my sister as part of the deal. But Dixie had shoved me out the door, telling me that I’d given up enough and it was my turn to live my dream now.

Part of me is here for selfish reasons. Because I love the thrill of performing, and because it feels like I’m proving something to my late father. I like to think he’d be proud of me. But mostly, my hope is that I can make the kind of living with music that will ensure my sister doesn’t have to do anything she doesn’t want to. Like spend her life in an orchestra pit. Or work as a waitress in Amarillo for the rest of her life.

“It’s your turn now,” she’s told me several times. “This is your dream. Stop worrying about me and go get it already.”

“Dallas,” my sister says slightly louder, breaking into my thoughts. “This is still what you want, right? The tour? The music?”

It takes me too long to answer. So I make sure to add plenty of gusto to my voice when I do.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course it is.”

“You sure everything’s okay? Is Gavin okay? He told me about the whole probation thing, but maybe now you can get the label to talk to someone and explain—”