Peering around him, I smiled at my parents. “I think I’m going to turn in now, guys.” Stepping to each of them, I wrapped them in hugs.
“It’s so good to have you home, sweetpea.” Strong arms gave me a bear hug.
“It’s good to be home, Dad.” When I spoke the words, they were only partially a lie.
“Beckett, you going to turn in, too, or did you want to watch the next episode with us?” Dad asked when he released me.
“I think I’ll tuck Isabelle in, then turn in myself. I had a long shift yesterday. It’s starting to catch up with me.”
“Goodnight, then. Thanks for bringing our girl home for a visit,” Mom told him, giving him a hug too.
“I’ll wake you up early in the morning, so we can grab breakfast at the club before our tee time,” Dad reminded him.
“Looking forward to it, sir.”
With our arms around each other’s waist, we made our way up the stairs. Beckett stopped outside my bedroom door. I looked up in his eyes. His eyes held a plea. For what, I wasn’t sure.
“You want to see my room?” I offered without thinking.
He gazed at me for a long moment before he answered, “For just a minute. Then you need to get some sleep.” He booped me on the nose gently.
Twisting the knob, I allowed him to enter first when the door swung open. He laughed when he stepped inside. “I see you always had a thing for pink.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I sat on the edge of my bed as he wandered around my room.
He bent down to look at the open sketchbook on my desk. “I didn’t think you ever left a project unfinished.” Not that he’d seen much of my work. But he knew how many hours I poured into editing photos for my clients, making sure they were perfect before sending them out.
“My focus wasn’t always so steadfast when I was younger.” Back then, I flitted to whatever inspired me. Dawson said I was just like a butterfly, flitting from flower to flower. Eventually, I finished each project, but I never forced the creativity. I just followed wherever it led. Now I was methodical with each task I started from beginning to end.
He moved to the paintings and sketches adorning my walls. “Butterflies, huh? Just like your tattoo.” He referenced my second tattoo. I’d gotten it in Italy last July. It was my symbolic attempt at trying to live again. A talisman that had yet to really work its magic on me.
I shrugged. “They’ve always been my favorite animal.”
Snickering, he said, “Calling them animals is debatable.”
“Pfft,” I huffed as I flopped back on the bed, refusing to indulge him in a conversation I’d had in the past with another member of the opposite sex who shared the same opinion as Beckett.
From my prone position, I didn’t notice he’d wandered to the bulletin board full of photos. The entire wall chronicled my relationship with Dawson in much more detail than the framed photos in the hallway. Amongst the photos were sketches I made of him and us throughout the years. Doodles on napkins, torn notebook paper, whatever I had handy when the urge struck me. Dawson and my love for him had inspired many works of my art.
Sitting up on my elbows, I watched as he studied each item, sometimes leaning really close to examine my work or a photograph. I wondered what an outsider might be able to read in our expressions, our eyes, our body language way back then. It had taken me and Dawson forever to acknowledge our feelings for each other. And even when we finally had, the timing had never been quite right.
Until it was.
And then it wasn’t again.
To distract myself from imagining what was going through Beckett’s mind, I opened my bag and dug out my pajamas and toothbrush. With them in my arms, I stood and said, “I’m going to use the restroom. I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t even turn around when he said, “OK.”
I stepped into my bathroom and shut the door. Dragging in a couple deep breaths, I examined my face in the mirror, trying to imagine what Beckett would see in it when I came out.
Would he see how torn I was? Or how coming here stirred up things I’d thought were gone? Hoped were gone?
Shaking my head, I changed quickly into my silky grey sleep shirt and shorts.
When I opened the door, I found Beckett still lost in the wall of my past. I pulled down the covers and scooted to the far side of the bed. Dawson’s spot. Closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, and I could’ve sworn the pillow still held lingering traces of him. When I opened my eyes, I found Beckett staring at me from my bedside.
“I should go to my room,” his voice was gruff with an emotion I couldn’t pinpoint.
“Sorry Mom put you in the guest room.” Though I was secretly grateful for it.
He brushed a lock of hair off my forehead. He shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s fine. I want them to like me, so I’ll respect their wishes.”
“Come lie down with me?” I held open the blanket.
His eyes searched mine. “For just a bit,” he relented.
“Until I fall asleep, please?” I poked out my lower lip just a tad.
With a smile, he shook his head. “I can never say no to you.” He climbed in next to me, fully dressed, and drew me into his arms. Pressing a chaste kiss to my lips, he murmured, “Go to sleep, beautiful girl.”
“OK,” I replied with a yawn as I snuggled deeply into his embrace. His arms might not be home, but they were a nice place to be.
When I woke the next morning, I was alone. Quietly, I padded down the hallway to the guest room. The covers were rumpled from Beckett sleeping there, but he was gone. He must have gone in there after I fell asleep last night.
“He and your dad already left,” Mom said from behind me.
“Oh. I didn’t even look at the clock when I woke up.” I shrugged and dragged my fingers through my hair.
“I’ll fix us some breakfast while you go get dressed.” She squeezed me around my shoulders and set off in the direction of the kitchen.
“OK. I need to type something up really quick first. But it won’t take long.” I knew putting my feelings down would help me sort them out. Booting up my laptop, I logged into my parents’ WiFi. With a few clicks, I navigated to my blog’s homepage.
Once there, I started a post. My blog had started out years ago as a place to share my art and inspirations. Then when I went on tour with the band, it became a place to share my experiences with the handful of people who followed me. My blog grew to the place where I was making a little bit of money from advertisers on my page. At least it was. I didn’t have very many people who routinely followed anymore because I didn’t publicly post much of anything over the past two years. Oh, I created posts, but I never published them. This one might wind up with that same fate. Only time would tell.
Hey you,
Yeah, I mean you reading this letter. Sorry for the informal address, but I don’t know you, so that’s the best I’ve got. I know I must sound crazy. Maybe I am. I don’t know what’s crazier, me actually writing a letter instead of texting, tweeting and posting some passive-aggressive message on Facebook, or me reaching out to a stranger, thinking you MIGHT hold the answers to help me.
I figure this whole mess started with a letter, well, a drawing mostly, that he answered. Then it ended with a letter he didn’t, so maybe a letter can help me find clarity. Maybe I should start at the beginning. Then after you have all the facts, you can tell me what to do.
When I was six, I needed a friend. So, I drew a picture and asked him. He said yes.
When I was eight, I needed a boyfriend. So, I wrote a note and asked him. He said yes.
When I was sixteen, I needed his help. So, I sent an email and asked for his help. He said yes.
When I was twenty-one, I needed a favor. So, I sent a text and asked him. He said yes.
When I was twenty-three, I needed him. So, I called. He didn’t answer. So, I sent a text and an email and a note and a picture. He never answered.
Now I’m twenty-five, and I need to mo
ve on. I need to live and love and be happy. He’s living his dream and loving life somewhere else. I have a second chance at life, and I need to take it.
But yesterday there was an envelope in my mailbox. That old familiar handwriting I haven’t seen in years… well, other than all the times I dig through my box of memories hidden in my closet. Maybe I should just throw it out with all the junk mail that also filled my mailbox and pretend I didn’t see it, like he did all those years ago with my messages. What do you think I should do?
Thanks,
Indulging in Idiocy (aka Izzy)
After hitting ‘publish’, a small weight lifted from my heart.
Go figure.
I got dressed quickly, not wanting to spend any more time in the land that time forgot while in the harsh light of the sun. Thundering down the stairs, I made my way to our bright, happy kitchen.
“Isabelle,” Mom called in her scolding tone. “Some things never change,” she continued, quirking her brow at me before turning back to the pan on the stove.
Sheepishly, I shrugged and sank down in my regular seat. “Sorry.”
She dished out breakfast and slid my plate in front of me. My eyes lit up as I saw she’d made another one of my favorites.
“Nobody’s here to scold me this morning. But I used cage-free eggs, turkey sausage and low-fat cheese.”
I laughed, delighted to dig into the scrambled egg mix that no matter how many times I’d made it myself, I could never get quite right. “It’s delicious,” I moaned around my fork.
She leaned forward and cupped her hand around her mouth. Dropping her voice conspiratorially, she said, “But that’s real bacon.”
Laughter exploded from my lips.
“What? That facon sucks,” she replied indignantly.
“Oh, don’t I know it. Thanks, Mom.” I took a big bite of one crispy fried strip.
“For cooking you real bacon?” She smirked at me.
“No, for everything. For always taking care of me. Even now, when I’m grown.” I hadn’t thanked my parents enough for what they did to take care of me the past couple years. Or apologized for what I’d put them through.
“Aww, sweetie. That’s my job. One day when you have kids of your own, you’ll understand. You’ll know what it’s like to watch a piece of your heart wander around outside of your body. Rejoicing when that piece is happy and lamenting when that piece is sad. And then when that piece is sick” —her voice hitched. She took a sip of her juice before continuing, — “You think you’ll just die.”
Tears filled my eyes. I knew my parents went through a lot the last few years with my illness. Plus, I wasn’t sure with all the treatments I’d endured if I’d even be able to have kids one day. The two thoughts combined left me feeling emotionally tenuous. I opened my mouth to speak, but my mom held up her hand to stop me.
“I didn’t mean to get all sentimental on you. I want us to have a fun girls’ day. So, I’m going to not so subtly change the subject to something less teary.” She patted my hand.
“Thanks,” I said, hoarsely then chomped on another piece of crispy, pork-fried heaven.
“Soooo, what’s the scoop on you and Beckett?” Mom teased in a sing-song voice, snatching a piece of bacon off the platter and pointing it at me.
Thankfully, my mouth was full, buying me some time before I had to answer.
“What about me and Beckett?” I asked cautiously after I swallowed slowly.
“He’s the first guy you’ve brought home. That makes me think it’s serious.” Her eyes dropped to her mug, where she added a healthy heap of sugar.
“Mom, you say that like there have been tons of other guys I chose not to bring home.” My fingers traced the rim of my coffee cup. Somehow in the past couple years, I’d become a major fidgeter.
“You’re right, there’s only ever been one boy before. And this was always his home too.” She gave me a knowing look.
“Right.” I brought my cup to my lips and savored the sweet and bitter flavor of the dark, liquid nirvana in a mug. Then I chomped on another slice of bacon.
“You still didn’t answer my question.” Purposefully, she set her coffee down and gave me a stern look.
I wiped my mouth with my napkin. “Honestly, I don’t know exactly what’s going on with Beckett, so I don’t know how to answer you.”
“How does he make you feel?” Without asking if I wanted more, she added a couple more slices of bacon to my now empty plate.
“Um… nice?” I offered, scrunching up my nose.
“Aww, honey. Why did that sound like a question?” Her brow crinkled in confusion. That made two of us.
“Mom, how did you feel when you first started dating Daddy?” My voice was much more timid than I’d like for it to be.
With a sigh, a dreamy look took over her features. “My heart soared every time I thought about him. It felt like butterflies lived in my stomach every time he kissed me. Being with him felt like everything. And when we were apart, it felt like I’d lost everything.”
“It felt like that from the very beginning?” I couldn’t disguise the awe in my voice as I pushed my mug aside and leaned forward to capture every word.
“Yes, and it still feels like it over thirty years later.” My heart sank at her declaration, so sure and true.
Absentmindedly, my fingers tracked the pattern of the wood grain on the table. “What if… what if you’d only felt nice when you thought about him? And you’d just felt warm inside when he kissed you instead of the butterflies? And what if being together and being apart felt nearly the same?” I whispered.
“I’m not sure. Because that isn’t how it happened for me. Why? Is that how you feel about Beckett?” her voice was soft and concerned.
I nodded because the lump in my throat wouldn’t let me speak.
Mom pushed her chair back, causing it to scrape against the linoleum, and dropped down by my chair, pulling me into her arms. She could tell I was about to break.
She stroked her hand down my spine. “I think love is different for everybody. Maybe it doesn’t have to whisk you up in a whirlwind that makes you feel as if you could soar or plummet at any moment. Maybe love can wash over you like a gentle rain and fill you up slowly.”
God, I hoped she was right, because I didn’t want to live the rest of my life without the prospect of love. I’d had the storm. And it was glorious. Until it was devastating. I was pretty certain that love like that didn’t come around too often. The odds of me ever finding that kind of hurricane again were slim to none. All I could hope for was a warm drizzle.
“But I do have some motherly advice for you.” She leaned back so she could look into my eyes. “If you aren’t sure about how you feel, keep the pace slow. Examine your heart to find out if there’s something you’re looking for or something holding you back. The answers are within you.”
“I’m afraid, Mom,” I admitted.
“Of what?”
I looked directly in her eyes, praying answers were there instead. “Of what answers I might find in my heart.”
“Because your heart has always belonged to one person?” She knew me so well.
That lump was back, preventing me from answering beyond a slight nod.
Her smile dropped from her lips. “About that and what happened back then and not giving you the message from Dawson… don’t be mad,” she pleaded with a frown.
My nose scrunched up in confusion. “Why would I be mad? Dawson made his choice. He backed off like the label wanted. Found some casual hookup for the vultures to write about. And in his mind, he probably thought it would take the heat off me too.” I straightened my spine and drew in a fortifying breath. “Anyway, it’s whatever. It’s done now. And has been done for a while.”
“You remember Dawson sent a message to me through his dad, so I could give you his new phone number?” She squeezed my knee to draw my focus back to her.
“Yeah, by the time you remembered, it was too late. I was
recovering from surgery, and Dawson had obviously moved on. A lot.” The thought of it still stabbed my heart with pain. All those photos on the magazine covers that littered the common areas of the hospital during my recovery. But the one photo of the kiss was the one that obliterated my heart.
“I didn’t actually forget,” she winced as the words fell from her lips.
“What do you mean, Mom?” I asked carefully.
“Well, I did forget initially. I mean, you were so sick, and then we thought you were going to die. And on top of it, you were so sad, my only focus was you.” She rocked back on her heels.
“I know all that, Mom. That’s what you explained the day Dawson’s dad came to see me.” What was she getting at?
“Right. But I didn’t forget for as long as I implied.” Her face held an apology I still didn’t understand.
I scooted my chair back to examine her carefully, but I didn’t say anything. She stood and walked over to the junk drawer.
“When I came back home from Atlanta during one of your early treatments, I saw the slip of paper where I’d scribbled Dawson’s number down. And I thought about bringing it to you when I returned. But you were so fragile, not just from being sick for so many weeks, but also from the heartbreak of Dawson disappearing and the scandal from the, um… tape of the two of you in Amsterdam and then those photos that showed he cheated on you. I decided you would be better off without reconnecting with him.” While she had been rambling, she rooted through the junk drawer.
She walked back over to me and pressed a scrap of paper in my hand. Through blurry eyes, I read Dawson’s name and ten digits strung together in a meaningful order.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t give it to you then. Maybe it would’ve changed things. I don’t know,” she croaked out.
Inside, I was fuming. All the what ifs tumbled around in my head like a pair of sneakers in an empty dryer. But I pressed pause on them for the moment. The desire to ease my mom’s obvious distress quelled the rage. I’d deal with it later. Just I like always did.
Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series: Box Set 1 Page 18