“She looks much better than the last time I saw her. She looks healthy again. But…” his voice trailed off.
“But what?” I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on my knees.
“I’m not really sure how to describe it. You remember how whenever she smiled or laughed, she used to do it with her whole body?” he hedged.
Boy, did I remember. I used to make it my mission to put that whole-body smile on her face every day.
“Yeah, I remember,” I whispered.
“Now, it’s like only half her face smiles or laughs. It never reaches her eyes. She’s more reserved. Quieter,” his tone held a note of confusion.
“Maybe it’s because she was sick?” I offered as a way of explanation.
“I don’t know. I just know she’s not quite herself.”
“Is she still creating?” That would be the most telling thing about how Izzy was doing.
“Yes. She actually sold a collection of pieces and has some in a gallery in Charleston.”
I’d worried the stress that caused her to move away from me had also caused her to move away from her art. For nearly a year and a half, her blog went without updates. I’d know. I’d been her first follower. When an alert came that she’d finally posted after months and months of nothing, my heart had raced. Until I saw what she posted. Then it stopped.
She’d gone to one of the places on our travel bucket list. One of the places I’d dreamed of taking her. That was the day I finally faced the facts. She’d moved on without me. She no longer needed or wanted me in her life. That was when I took my big leap. I got so drunk and so high that day. And I stayed in that state, coming down only long enough to perform until the label forced me to wake up. When I saw the selfie of her in Italy, I’d stopped following her blog. My wounded heart couldn’t take watching her live her life without me. So, I had to start living my life without her.
“That’s awesome. I bet she’s stoked.”
I flopped back against the couch cushion once more. I was so proud of her for continuing to create. When she’d quit blogging, I was worried that she’d given up her art. And that possibility broke my heart even further because I knew art was an extension of her like music was an extension of me. I knew how much not being able to write songs wounded my heart.
“She seemed happy about it, but in a quiet way. She didn’t gush. She didn’t show me any photos of her work on her phone,” Dad continued talking, trying to make sense of his observations.
“That’s odd. She always took pictures of her finished work and was anxious to share them.” I rubbed my palm along my jaw. The late day stubble scratched at my skin.
“She did tell me she’s been doing more photography. And she’s been travelling.”
I asked what I’d been dreading to learn the answer to, “And what about Beckett?”
“Well, he’s a huge fan of yours. Was following LO before your first record deal,” Dad offered.
“I don’t want to know that, Dad. I want to hate him.” I pouted in defeat.
“He seems to really care about her. He takes care of her.”
“What do you mean? Did her illness leave her needing help?” Was she disabled as a result of her battle for her health?
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. I just mean, he looks out for her. Anticipates her needs,” Dad stammered as he tried to explain.
“I don’t understand,” I said in a frustrated tone.
“Like he fixed her plate for her. Got her all the condiments she needed.”
“So, he’s a gentleman,” I said begrudgingly.
“He got everything without a word from her. He knew everything she wanted from the butter but no sour cream for her baked potato to bar-b-que sauce for her steak.”
“Oh.” Even after knowing her all these years, I wasn’t sure I could fix her plate properly.
“And he seems really protective of her and her health.” Was Dad trying to convince me that Izzy was better off with Beckett than she’d be with me?
“It’s good that he treats her well. Does he make her happy?” Part of me hoped he’d say no.
“You know, I’m not really sure. I think so. I mean, she seems… content.” It seemed my dad was struggling with finding the right words to describe what he’d seen.
“Content doesn’t necessarily mean happy though,” I said in a petulant tone.
“I know that. I just don’t know the right way to describe her now. She’s just different. You’ll see for yourself, if you ever man up and call her,” he scolded.
“I know. I need to talk to her. But I think I need to do it face to face.” Definitely face to face.
“You should come to Sue and Andrew’s anniversary party next month. You can talk to her there,” Dad suggested.
“Get me the information, and I’ll see if I can make it.” Putting a deadline on when I’d have to face her made my heart trip and stumble.
“She asked about you,” Dad mentioned cautiously.
“She did?” my voice cracked. “What did you tell her?” I grasped a thread fraying from a tear in the denim above my knee.
“That you were doing better. She was worried about you.”
“Why?”
For so many months, I’d lived with the idea that when the press drug her through the mud, she turned her back on me. Stopped caring about me. It was hard to let go of those thoughts even though I suspected they weren’t true.
“She saw the news, Dawson. Everybody saw the news. We all watched you self-destruct in the pages of trashy magazines, on daytime talk shows, Internet gossip sites. We were all worried about you.”
“Oh…” I wound the thread I’d freed from my jeans around my finger, making the tip turn purple.
“I assured her that you’re doing much better now.”
“Anything else?” I chuckled humorlessly. In some ways, I was doing better. In others, I wasn’t so sure.
“Yeah, that she should talk to you.” He was a broken record. I should talk to her. She should talk to me. As if words could fix all that had broken over the years.
“I hear you, Dad.” I sighed and unwrapped the tip of my finger. The blood rushed painfully back to where it belonged. I welcomed the mild discomfort.
“Good, I’m going to keep saying it until you act on it,” he persisted.
I shook my head though he couldn’t see me. “’Night, Dad.”
“Goodnight, Son.”
After we hung up, I hit play on the remote and finished watching the end of the show. Then I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I grabbed my laptop and went on the band’s social media pages. With us leaving the label, it would be our responsibility to interact directly with the fans, at least for a while. I didn’t feel like answering messages, so I ignored them. But I decided to do a live post for our followers.
Setting my computer on the coffee table, I cradled my guitar and pressed the button to go live. Instantly, the number of viewers started climbing.
“Hello out there, Loyals. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything on here. As you may have heard, we’re going to be putting out a new album soon. We’re very excited to see what you all think of our new music. Tonight, I started working on a new song. It’s called ‘Dear Universe’. I’m going to give you a taste of just the melody tonight. Hope you like it.” As I talked, thumbs ups, hearts, smiley faces and comments silently cascaded across the screen.
My fingers picked out the notes as I played them a thirty-second tease.
“That’s all, guys. Talk to you again soon.” I logged out.
An idea started forming in my mind. But I was too exhausted to flesh it out just yet. I turned off everything downstairs and retreated to my room. I prayed sleep would claim me tonight. Quickly. Reaching beneath my bed, I pulled out the fireproof box that held my most valuable treasures. The items scattered on my nightstand needed to be secured inside before I chased slumber.
My fingers quickly entered the combination, her birthday, and the
hinged lid opened. Picking up the black ring box, I flipped it open. Somehow, the ring I’d bought to symbolize love and forever managed to still sparkle and throw rainbows in the light even though the love and forever were things of the past. Before I could be hypnotized by the perfectly cut prism, I closed the box and placed it inside the fireproof safe. Then I picked up the book Izzy had made me so many years ago, chronicling our story. I traced the design on the cover of the book. It had been a year since I’d opened it. With a cautious finger, I lifted the cover. A sketch, a note and a photograph artfully arranged graced the first page.
I was six years old the day my world changed forever.
Chapter 7
Izzy
The next morning after breakfast, I bid goodbye to my parents and promised to see them next month at their anniversary party. Leaving was harder than I’d thought it would be. For so long, I’d avoided coming home. But now that I had, a part of me wasn’t ready to leave.
♪ Goodbye to You by Michelle Branch
Getting away from my apartment did little to distract me from the unopened letter I left waiting for me like a booby trap. Going to my childhood home with all those memories was the last thing I should’ve done in my quest to move forward, leaving the past in the past. I closed my eyes and feigned sleep as Beckett drove me back. Under the cover of sleep, I let my mind wander.
I could barely remember a time when I didn’t know Dawson. The day he moved into my life changed me forever. It was the summer after kindergarten. I was almost six…
“Mom, I’m gonna go play with Brownie outside,” I shouted from the kitchen.
“OK, sweetie. Make sure you stay in the backyard,” she called back as I pranced to the door.
The backdoor slammed behind me, making me cringe. I forgot to close it gently. “Isabelle,” Mom’s voice scolded.
“Sorry, Mom. I forgot,” I shouted as I skipped down the steps.
“Who’s a good boy?” I said in a baby voice as my puppy bounded up to me. Squatting down, I rubbed him all over as he licked my face. “Go get your ball,” I told Brownie and pointed to his favorite red toy.
I spent the rest of the morning playing with my best friend, my only friend—the puppy I’d gotten a few months ago. I’d tried really hard to make friends at school. I did everything my mom told me to—be kind, smile, share. And some kids were nice to me, but none of them lived in my neighborhood. It made for a pretty lonely summer to look forward to. I wanted friends, but I was shy.
Brownie and I played for hours. Doors slamming next door caught my attention.
“Dawson, grab your backpack,” a lady’s voice called.
“Got it,” a kid voice answered.
There was a kid next door. There had never been a kid next door. I dashed over to the fence and peeked through the slats. A boy a little bigger than me was walking towards the front door of the empty house. A man and a woman walked behind him. I leaned to the left and was able to see a big truck on the street.
I ran inside my house, the door slamming behind me.
“Isabelle, how many times have I told you not to slam the door?”
I didn’t even bother to apologize. “Mom, there are people next door,” I shouted excitedly as I ran to the living room.
“I noticed the sold sign in front of the house the other day. I guess the new family is moving in today.” She didn’t bother to stop dusting the furniture. Mom didn’t seem to understand the seriousness of the situation.
“They have a kid, Mom. Maybe he’ll be my friend.” I bounced in place.
“That’s nice, sweetie. Now, how about some lunch?” She reached over and ruffled my hair.
“Can I eat it in my treehouse?”
“Sure,” she said with a sigh. I’d stay in there all the time if she’d let me. She made me a sandwich and put it in a bag. After adding a handful of grapes and some cookies, she handed me the bag.
“Be right back.”
I ran up the stairs to my room. Snatching my backpack from under my desk where I’d abandoned it the last day of school, I stuffed my colored pencils and sketchpad in it. I thundered back down to the kitchen.
“Sweetie, you’re going to fall one of these days running in the house, especially on those stairs.”
“I’ll slow down,” I promised, like I did every time she scolded me about running inside. But I was in a hurry.
Mom added my lunch and a bottle of water to my backpack. With a quick zip, I was ready to go spend the rest of my afternoon in the treehouse.
Brownie trailed behind me as I made my way across the lush grass to the edge of the backyard. I leaned down and gave him a pat, then placed my small hands on the boards Daddy had fastened to the tree trunk. One, two, three, four… I counted the rungs as I climbed, hand over hand, until I pushed the trap door open.
Brownie whimpered at the base of the tree, but he’d have to stay down there since he didn’t know how to climb. I dropped my bag and scooted my bean bag chair over to the window. With my sandwich in hand, I sank down on the pink cloud. The fun sound of tumbling Styrofoam beads filled my ears. While I ate, I watched the house next door.
Men moved from the big truck, carrying boxes into the house. I looked around and didn’t see the man or lady anywhere. They were probably inside. A thumping sound drew my attention to the neighbors’ backyard. The boy was throwing a ball against the fence. Brownie ran over and started whining.
“Hey there,” the boy said through the fence crack to Brownie, who proceeded to leap against the fence, trying to make a new friend.
“Brownie, get down,” I shouted out the window.
The boy stepped back from the fence, so he could peer up and see me in the treehouse.
“Hey, is that your dog?” he asked.
“Yeah. You wanna come over and meet him?” I tried not to sound too excited.
“Uh-huh,” he said and nodded.
I scrambled down the ladder and rushed over to the gate to let him in. As soon as he crossed into our yard, he dropped to his knees to greet Brownie, who eagerly licked his face.
“That’s Brownie. I’m Isabelle. But you can call me Izzy, if you want,” I said quietly, lacing my fingers nervously behind my back.
“Hey, I’m Dawson. Just Dawson. So, you can call me Dawson.”
He looked up at me, and my heart stuttered. Eyes the color of honey were set above rosy cheeks. Wispy, dark curls peeked from beneath the edge of his red ball cap. And when he smiled, a deep dimple appeared in his left cheek. He was cute. Really cute.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Six. I’m gonna be in first grade,” he said, still petting Brownie.
“Me too,” I said excitedly.
“You don’t talk like you’re six.”
“Well, I am almost six,” I said with my hand on my hip, forgetting my shyness for a moment.
He held up his hands in surrender. “OK. So… can Brownie do any tricks?”
“He fetches, but that’s it.” I dropped my hands by my side.
“I bet I can teach him to sit and shake,” he said confidently.
“He is kinda smart, so you probably could,” I agreed.
“Can I make him fetch?”
“Go get your ball, Brownie.”
He ran off with his clumsy puppy gait and returned quickly with his red ball in his mouth. Dawson threw it for him several times. Each time, Brownie returned it. Eventually, the puppy was worn out and lay in the shade. Dawson wiped his hands on his shorts. I didn’t want Dawson to leave yet. No one had ever been over to play before.
“Wanna go up in my treehouse? I could share my lunch with you,” I offered shyly.
“Yeah. Treehouses are cool. I always wanted one.” He leaned back to look up in the tree.
“You can share mine.” I’d share anything if it meant he’d be my friend.
He followed me up the trunk. “The bean bag’s more comfy than the chair,” I told him, trying to be a good host like my mom.
&nbs
p; “But it’s pink,” he whined.
“So, what? Pink’s my favorite color.”
“It’s a girl color.” He looked at me like I was stupid.
“I am a girl. But here, you can cover the pink up with my blue blankie.”
I held out the blanket I kept in the bin in the corner. He quickly doused the pink in blue and collapsed into the pillow of beans.
“I have half a sandwich left. And some grapes and some cookies we can share.”
“Thanks. Mom and Dad are so busy unpacking, I think they forgot about lunch.” His stomach rumbled, making us both laugh.
I divided up the food and gave him the napkin with the sandwich half. He dug in, cramming a whole cookie in his mouth at once.
“Dis is ‘ood,” he mumbled with his mouth full.
I giggled at his boyish lack of manners.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, dislodging cookie crumbs, which fell to his shirt. “Sorry. Mom says, ‘Don’t talk with food in your mouth’, but I forget sometimes.”
“That’s OK. My mom’s always telling me not to run inside or slam the backdoor, but I forget too.”
We bonded over all the things our moms reminded us to do constantly. After we finished our picnic, he wandered around the treehouse, looking over the drawings I’d hung on the walls. There were crayon pictures, pencil images, marker depictions and painted representations of butterflies. They were in a rainbow of colors.
He stopped by one of my newest pictures. It was one of my favorites. I’d worked really hard on it. “Why’d you color your water pink? Er’body knows water’s blue, silly.”
“I am not silly. And not all water’s blue. This is a pink river.” I huffed and planted my hands on my hips.
“You made that up.” He frowned at me.
I shook my head. “Nu-uh. I saw a picture in a book at the doctor’s office. The river has trees full of pink flowers all ‘round it. The flowers fall in the water and make it pink.”
“Whatever you say,” he said as he stepped to the next drawing pinned to the wall.
Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series: Box Set 1 Page 22