But after the casual images of the hunky frontman appeared in various magazines last week, doubt about his relationship status started murmurings around the fanbase. The image we secured from an anonymous source seems to definitely put the question of his relationship status to rest. Pick up the pieces of your hearts, ladies. Dawson is still very much available.
THE PHOTO WAS PRETTY DAMNING. A girl with dark curly hair was on my lap with her tongue down my throat. My hands were on her back, full of her shirt fabric.
There was no way in hell that photo was taken when the article was dated. My eyes scanned the image for details. It looked like it was taken on our tour bus. But I hadn’t brought a girl besides Izzy on our tour bus in years. Most of the background had been cropped out or blurred, leaving the focus on me and the girl. I didn’t recognize her. But then there wasn’t much of her to see from the angle of the camera. She was in one of our old band T-shirts. Matter of fact, it was the first T-shirt we’d ever used for merchandise. Those shirts hadn’t been available for over three years. Of course, that alone didn’t prove the photo wasn’t recent. There had to be something in there though that gave me an idea of when it was taken.
I muttered a string of curses and barely resisted the urge to smash my phone. Izzy hadn’t walked away from me two years ago. She’d been pushed, by some tabloid trash and a misplaced phone. It was all a stupid, effing misunderstanding. I had to figure out what to do.
Time flew while I went back through every message she’d left, creating a timeline of her heartbreak. My heart clenched each time I replayed her words. Before long, the bus was pulling up to my house. With a bag slung over my shoulder, my guitar case in one hand and my suitcase in the other, I rushed off the bus, barely saying goodbye to the guys.
The minute I got inside, I dropped my stuff in the foyer. Though I’d hadn’t been here in over a year, my home didn’t smell as if I’d been gone that long. Everything gleamed and smelled clean. I silently thanked God for the cleaning service I’d hired. I’d bought this house for me and Izzy a couple of years ago. When my realtor sent me the pictures, I knew it would be the perfect home for us. I’d flown in for a day to close on it a few weeks before Izzy’s last tour visit. Since then, I’d been back here for four quick trips. I’d barely even slept in my bed under this roof.
I wasn’t supposed to live here alone. I wasn’t sure how I was going to stay longer than a night in the house I bought for her. For our future.
I picked up the stack of mail on the entryway table and made my way to the kitchen. My former record label had been holding my mail until the end of the tour. Settling on the barstool, I went through the envelopes, tossing out all the junk. My heart stuttered at the sight of a rigid, flat envelope. It had been forwarded from my old apartment’s address. The familiar looping script spelled out my name in that precise way she’d perfected over the years. I ripped the top edge open and slipped out a sketch with a note on top.
♪ Don’t Know What You Got ‘Til It’s Gone by Cinderella
The note said: One final memory to add to your sketchbook.
My vision blurred at the image I held in my hands. It was us. Almost an exact replica of the image that has perched at my bedside for the past three years. We were facing each other. Our hands caressed the other’s cheeks. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel her fingers dancing on my cheek. In the drawing, tears filled both of our eyes. A jagged, dark crack was drawn between us, separating us.
My heart ripped, much like the symbolic tear in the picture. I really needed to figure out what to do. I had to talk to her. But I was pretty sure she wouldn’t take my call.
I’d call Dad. He’d know what to do. A quick glance at my phone told me it was too late to call him tonight. I had waited two years. One more night wasn’t going to kill me.
I hoped.
♪ Torn by Natalie Imbruglia
CHAPTER 3
IZZY
“What’s that wonderful smell?” Beckett asked as he meandered into the kitchen.
“My famous lasagna. It was always Isabelle’s favorite,” Mom answered as she chopped veggies for the salad.
Beckett shot me a look. Mom caught the concerned look on his face, and she furrowed her brow.
“Is it not OK? Are you on a no carb diet, Beckett?” Worry laced her tone.
“Oh, no,” he hastened to say.
“Izzy?” Mom’s eyes were confused. “Can you not have lasagna anymore?”
“No, Mom. It’s fine.” I held up my hand, hoping to ward off her worries. Goodness knew, she’d already spent a lifetime of worry on me the past couple years.
“Well, really—” Beckett started, but I interrupted him before he could make my mom feel bad for cooking my favorite meal.
“Mom, I can’t wait to dig in to your lasagna. It’s been too long.” I gave her my brightest smile.
“I did modify the recipe a tad. I thought you might have some restrictions after… you know.” Her hand waved helplessly in the air. “So, I used all wheat noodles, lean meat, and low-fat cheeses. I also made the sauce from scratch, using organic tomatoes and fresh herbs.”
“Wow, Mom. You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.” My heart lurched at all the effort she’d put into making my favorite meal in a way I could enjoy even with the dietary restrictions that went with experimental treatments, a transplant and anti-rejection meds.
“Cooking your favorite meal is never too much trouble. I’m just glad to be able to make it for you again.” She waved off my concern over the aggravation of adjusting the recipe to accommodate the new me.
“Me too, Mom.”
DINNER with my parents was a pleasant affair. I hadn’t indulged in anything so rich since my recovery. It was heaven. Beckett even raved about it and scooped up a second helping, which was way out of character for my health-conscious boyfriend.
Beckett was eager to learn about the girl I was before I got sick. And my parents were only too happy to regale him with stories of my childhood—telling him about my dog, my dance lessons, my art that went from hobby to obsession and of course my best friend.
“Isabelle and Dawson were always so inseparable growing up. Finished each other’s sentences. Left each other notes all the time. Always looked out for each other. None of us parents ever worried when we knew they were together,” Dad said after Mom had shared a couple of our backyard escapades.
“Do you remember that time you fell out of the tree trying to sneak into Dawson’s window?” Mom asked me.
My face heated at my foolishness and at having gotten caught all those years ago. “Yeah, I broke my arm. Dawson jumped out of the window in his hurry to get to me and nearly broke his own arm.”
“Thank God he didn’t since he had to do all your writing for you for six weeks while your arm healed,” Dad chimed in with a chuckle.
“I thought I’d go crazy being unable to draw for six weeks. Dawson tried to draw what I described, but it just wasn’t the same as bringing an image to life myself.” I smiled at the memory. His artistic talent definitely didn’t reside in visual arts.
“So, could Dawson always sing?” Beckett asked, his voice full of curiosity.
“Oh, gosh, yes. After he moved away, he used to mail Izzy CDs of songs he recorded for her. Do you remember that, honey?” She turned to me.
“Of course, I remember, Mom.” How could I forget? I had a box filled with tracks.
“You have old recordings of Dawson Anderson?” The amazement in Beckett’s voice was undeniable.
“She has tons. He sang songs from the radio, silly songs he made up, sweet songs. That boy just loved to sing and play. Once he discovered music, that boy blossomed,” Mom shared.
I blushed as I recalled some of the songs he’d sung for me. Thank goodness my parents weren’t fans of popular music, so they didn’t want to listen to the CDs after the first one arrived. I didn’t know how I would’ve ever explained his cover of “I Touch Myself”. My cheeks got even hotter as I rem
embered those words in his voice, crooning in my ears at night underneath my covers. The things his tone and lyrics made me do… Oh my.
♪ I Touch Myself by Divinyls
“IT’S SO surreal to me that you all knew Dawson Anderson before he was Dawson Anderson,” Beckett gushed with barely controlled awe in his tone.
“He’s always been Dawson Anderson. He just has a lot more fans now than he did when he was writing songs in my treehouse, and I was his only one.” I didn’t recognize the defensive edge in my voice. Hopefully, no one else noticed it.
I forced my temper down. “Anyway, that was a long time ago,” I said with finality in my tone, hoping to change the direction of the conversation.
Thank goodness my dad picked up on my need. "So, Beckett, do you golf?" he asked.
"Have you ever heard of a doctor who doesn't?" he asked with a laugh.
"I'm going golfing with a couple of friends tomorrow. If you don't have plans, would you like to be our fourth?" Dad pushed his plate to the center of the table for a new helping, having scraped it clean of his last serving.
Beckett turned to me and said, "Do we have anything specific on the agenda for tomorrow?"
"Not at all. Just hanging around. So, go golf and have fun," I encouraged him. If he was out with my dad, I wouldn’t have to keep up my I’m-fine-with-being-here façade.
"Then Andrew, I'd love to go golfing with you tomorrow." Beckett grinned.
"Isabelle, that'll give us some time to go shopping and catch up," my mom offered excitedly.
"Sounds great, Mom."
"Maybe you and your mom could look for a dress for you to wear to the foundation's charity ball in a couple of months," Beckett suggested.
"Ooooo. It'll be just like prom dress shopping. We had so much fun that day," Mom’s voice took on that excited edge that only a woman who was going to look at fancy dresses and shoes could get.
The mention of prom, one of the happiest days of my life, sent a sharp pain through my heart straight to my soul.
I swallowed hard. "Yeah, we did," I answered, hoping the agony wasn’t evident in my tone.
Conversation continued on around me, as it seemed everyone was oblivious to my inner turmoil. Once dinner was officially over, Dad convinced Beckett to sit on the back deck while I helped Mom clean up the kitchen. When we were done, we went outside. Beckett was in a lounge chair, looking out over the yard. When the door slid open, he looked over his shoulder at me. His whole face lit up with his smile. Despite the storm of emotions churning in my heart, I couldn't help but return his grin.
"Come sit with me, sweetheart," he said, swinging his legs down and patting the space he created on the chair between his thighs. We'd snuggled together countless times in the months since our relationship began. So, there was no reason for my hesitation. Except that this was in front of my parents and we were in my childhood backyard, which was filled with memories and hopes. Forcing those thoughts away, I settled gracefully into the space bracketed by his legs and sank back into the ring of his warm embrace. I sighed at the instant comfort his touch brought me. It might not set butterflies into flight, but it calmed and reassured me.
"Comfy?" his deep voice rumbled in my ear.
"Mmmhmm."
My eyes skipped over all the familiar features of the yard—barely taking in the pool, the fence, the huge tree with the treehouse—and finally settled on the star-studded sky. The night sky had always been a source of wonder and inspiration to me. It was ever-changing, yet steady and reliable. A constant no matter what was going on in my life. Whenever my problems seemed too big or even my blessings seemed immeasurable, I used to lie in the soft grass and try to count all the twinkling pinpoints. I imagined a wish or prayer had been made on at least every single one. So, the sheer number of them reminded me that my problems would seem small to some and my blessings would seem big to others. It always helped me keep things in perspective. And perspective was something I desperately needed at the moment.
♪ Waiting for a Star to Fall by Boy Meets Girl
"Your dad told me you spent more hours in that treehouse over there than you did in your own house," Beckett's voice sounded in my ear again.
With a chuckle, I said, "Yeah, I guess I did. I slept up there too many nights to count." My dad built me the treehouse when I was five. Sadie, a girl down the street, had a playhouse, and she wouldn't let me play in it. I wanted something better. So, Dad came up with the treehouse. It had served as my refuge over the years. And when I was six, it became our place.
"You want to show it to me?" Beckett's words danced across the skin of my neck as he uncoiled one of his arms from the entwined wrap of mine and skated it down my inner thigh. A hardness pressed against my backside as he pulled me tighter into his embrace.
My blood ran cold at the suggestion of taking him up there to our sanctuary and doing anything he was suggesting with his body language.
"Not in the dark. I haven't been up there in years. I don't know if it's even safe anymore," I rambled.
I cast my eyes over to where my parents had been sitting to find that at some point they’d abandoned us. "Let's go see where Mom and Dad went," I said as I scrambled up from the chair like my butt was on fire.
“OK.”
Those two tiny syllables still managed to express his confusion at my lack of response to him. I hadn’t ever spurned his advances before. Not that we’d been intimate much in our time together. We’d only consistently been dating for about five months, though we’d gone out a few times before making things official. Living more than three hours apart meant time together was in short supply, especially with his long doctor hours. We managed to see each other about once a month. And our time together was usually spent out sightseeing and exploring, rather than ripping each other’s clothes off. I figured the comfortable warmth of our relationship was actually normal and healthy, as opposed to the raging fire and aching need I’d experienced with Dawson.
Hopefully, Beckett would think I just didn’t want to fool around in my parents’ home. Back inside, we settled on the couch to watch TV with my parents for a while. It was nice not to have to carry on a conversation, just to get lost in mindless TV. I couldn’t tell if the tension I felt between me and Beckett as we sat there with my parents was real or imagined.
Regardless, the blame for it lay solely on me. And I hated that. Beckett deserved better.
At some point, the stiffness between us evaporated as the laughter at the sitcom swirled around us. When Beckett draped his arm around me, I knew he’d forgiven me for earlier. I welcomed his warmth and snuggled into his side, eventually drifting off to sleep.
In sleep, my world shifted to its perfect state. I was happy and healthy. Traveling the world in a tour bus. Greeting each sunrise over a new piece of scenery. Drawing and painting the sights by day. Listening to music come to life every evening. And making love by night. Soul-encompassing love.
Afterwards, strong arms held me tightly. Lips pressed gently to my forehead. “Sweetheart,” whispered in my ear.
“Daw…” escaped on a sigh.
“Sweetheart, let’s get you to bed,” Beckett’s tender voice woke me from my slumber.
I wiped my eyes and glanced around, startled. “Did I fall asleep before the end?”
He chuckled. “Yes, you did. And you took a nap today on the way here. Are you feeling OK?” concern filled his voice.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. I was up late every night painting this week. Guess my body is trying to catch up.” Actually, not painting. More like staring at a blank canvas while the paints dried on my palette.
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 i
n, 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.
Notes of the Heart: Book 2 of the Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series Page 4