“Yeah, sure,” I croaked, my throat still tender from the breathing tube. Wincing and I shifted, I scooted up a little in bed.
“Let me help you.” Mom rushed in and helped me ease into a sitting position. She wedged a couple of pillows behind me. “There.” Mom had felt pretty helpless during my whole ordeal. She seemed relieved to be able to do anything to help me now. “I’m going to go get you a snack, so you can take your medicine,” she said as she left.
“Izzy, hi,” a voice said from the open doorway.
Startled at the blast from the past, I said, “Mr. Anderson, I mean Michael, hi. How are you?”
“I should be asking you that. How are you?” He frowned as he took in my pale form.
“I’m alive. But I’ve been better,” I teased and gave him a half-hearted smile.
“You really gave us all quite the scare. Your parents have been beside themselves with worry.” He dragged my desk chair over next to my bed.
“I know. And I hate that I put them through that.” The guilt ate at me deeply.
“Nonsense. It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask for this. And worrying goes with the territory of being a parent. You’ll see.” He squeezed my hand gently.
“Maybe one day…” I couldn’t stop the wistful direction of the thoughts running through my mind. There was a time not so long ago when being a mother to Dawson’s children had been one of my dreams. But things changed. Everything had changed.
“So… have you talked to Dawson lately?” he asked awkwardly, as if my thoughts of him had forced his presence into our conversation.
“No. I tried to call him several times when I first started feeling bad a few weeks after I came back from visiting him in Amsterdam. But I wasn’t able to get through to him. After a month or so, I kind of got distracted by all that was going on with my illness, and… well… anyway, we lost touch.”
I didn’t want to badmouth Dawson to his own father. I couldn’t very well tell him it seemed once I was out of sight, I was out of mind, and Dawson started hooking up and was photographed with a bunch of different girls.
He frowned at me. “Did you try his new number?”
“I didn’t know there was a new number.” My brow furrowed. As long as he’d had a cell phone, Dawson’s number had always been the same.
Mom bustled into the room with a tray of cookies and lemonade and overheard the end of our exchange. “Oh no. We forgot to give you the new number. Things were so crazy around that time. And it just slipped my mind. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. And apologize to Dawson for me.” She wrung her hands together in distress.
“It’s fine, Mom. No one blames you for being distracted and forgetting to give me a message,” I soothed.
“I’ll call Dawson and explain everything. I’ll let him know you haven’t been avoiding him all this time. That you’ve been really sick. Once he hears everything, I’m sure things will be fine. It may be just the bit of news he needs. I’ve been very worried about him. Whenever I do manage to get in touch with him, he always sounds… off. And he’s always at a party. If he could turn his attention to you and what you’re going through, it might snap him out of this… whatever it is,” Michael said in a hopeful rush.
“Please don’t tell him. I still don’t want him to know about my illness or surgery. I don’t want to distract him from performing and pursuing his dream. He’s finally made the big time. He’ll need all the success he can get in order to launch his own label,” I pleaded.
“But—” Michael started, but I held up my hand to stop him.
“Besides, it seems as if he’s doing just fine. I’ve seen the photos. He seems to have moved on without me. Nothing good could come from dragging him back,” I reasoned.
Reluctantly, he said, “OK, I’ll keep quiet about things. For now. But I don’t think it’s the best idea for you or Dawson. And I’m telling you right now, if at any point it looks like you’re not going to beat this thing, I’m getting Dawson on a plane.”
“I understand. It won’t come to that. I’ll beat this thing,” I vowed. I had a new reason to fight. For his dream. The one that used to include me.
♪ Just Give Me a Reason by Pink
“Yes, you will, honey.” Mom handed me my pills and urged me to take them.
Before long, I drifted off into oblivion. A place where sickness and heartache couldn’t touch me.
FINGERS BRUSHED my hair from my cheek. I nuzzled into the touch without opening my eyes. Gentle lines stroked down my cheeks.
Something was wrong. The fingers were soft and smooth, not calloused on the tips. My eyes fluttered open.
“There she is,” Beckett whispered.
“Hi,” I mumbled.
“Hi,” he said as he pushed the short strands of hair from my face and tucked them behind my ears. “Your mom sent me to wake you up. Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes. Are you feeling OK? You’ve napped a lot the past couple of days,” he had on his concerned doctor voice.
I sat up abruptly, sending my blanket to my lap. My hands scrubbed my eyes. “I’m fine. I guess I better get ready. Did Mom need my help?”
His palm cupped my cheek as he looked deeply into my eyes. Like he was looking for some flare up or a sign that my drug regimen needed tweaking again. “Nope, she just didn’t want you to have to go straight down to the table, so she thought I should come wake you up.”
“Thanks.” I gave him a smile and swung my legs over the edge of the bed.
Beckett sucked in a hard breath as he took in my bare legs. With one finger, he traced a line up my thigh to my hip bone. Goosebumps erupted across my skin. But that was the only response I had to his touch. No heat. No raging desire. No need. He leaned forward, pressing against me. His lips landed on mine. His kiss was nice and made me warm inside, but I wanted to feel more. I needed to feel more.
“Your mom did send me here to wake you up. I have a great idea how I can do that.” He waggled his brows at me.
“Oh yeah?” I asked with a smirk.
“We have time to try out your bed before we go down for dinner,” he said against my lips, pressing his hands against the mattress to bounce me up and down.
I pulled back. “With my parents downstairs?” I asked in horror.
“You never wanted to live dangerously as a teenager? Have sex in your bedroom under their noses? We could check it off your bucket list.” The mention of a bucket list chilled the tiny bit of warmth rushing in my veins.
“I couldn’t possibly enjoy it with the stress of knowing my parents are just a few rooms away.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that particular item had been checked off my bucket list years ago. There was no need for both of us to be hurting.
“OK, I understand.” He put some space between us. “Get dressed, and I’ll see you down there, OK?”
He turned to go, but I stopped him by tugging on his arm as I jumped up from the bed.
He didn’t spin around to face me, so I walked in front of him. Peering up into warm, dark brown eyes filled with affection, I said, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK. Really, it is.” His face held a look of understanding tempered with a little disappointment.
I wrapped my arms around him, tilted my face up and pressed my lips to his, pouring all the tenderness I had for him in my kiss. It was probably the most intense kiss we’d shared in weeks. His hands rested on my hips, gripping hard. He deserved so much more than even this.
Beckett pulled back and rested his forehead on mine, panting. “I think I need to take a cold shower before I go down for dinner.”
In a calm, even voice, totally unaffected by our kiss, I said, “You’ve probably got twenty minutes to make that happen.” I patted him on the chest with a grin.
He chuckled and stepped away from me. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he groaned before he walked out into the hallway.
After the door clicked shut, I yanked my jeans back on and went to my bathroom to brush my hair. As I
gazed in the mirror, I examined the girl staring back at me. A practice I’d developed sometime over the past two years. Her eyes were green, but without passion and sparkle. Her cheeks were sleep-lined, but without the flush of desire. No one at the table would think I’d been fooling around with my boyfriend in my room.
In no time, I was making my way to the kitchen. Mom’s acute hearing hadn’t faded over the years. She turned as I darkened the threshold without making a sound.
“There you are.” Her smile lit up her face. “Do you feel better after your nap?”
I nodded. “Thanks for letting me off the hook with kitchen duty.”
“Nonsense. You’ve lost your shopping legs being so far away from home. You couldn’t possibly expect to keep up with me all day,” she retorted with a wink.
“You’re definitely right about that. I can’t remember the last time I spent a whole day shopping.”
My mind backtracked searching for when. It was about three years ago. While visiting Dawson on tour. We shopped all day because the airline lost my luggage, and I was staying with him for three weeks. We had a blast going in and out of stores. Especially the lingerie stores. My cheeks flushed as the image of the two of us crammed inside a dressing room flashed through my mind. Keeping our hands off each other for hours had finally reached the limit of our resistance. It was one of the hottest experiences of my life, surrounded by mirrors, clad in next to nothing. I shook off the memory.
“Anyway, do you need any help now?” I asked to distract her from following up her curious expression with any vocal expressions of her inquisitiveness.
“Sure, you can carry the platter of potatoes out to the patio. We’re going to eat outside since it’s such a clear night.” She turned back to the fridge to get out more necessities.
I picked up a platter piled with baked potatoes and stepped to the door. Using my hip, I eased the door open.
“Here, let me help you with that,” Michael Anderson rushed to my aid. As he relieved me of my burden of spuds, he said, “Izzy, it’s so good to see you.” He stepped over to the long cast-iron table and settled the mountain of baked potatoes in the middle.
“Mr. Anderson, it’s really good to see you too.” It really was. Painful but good.
“Are we really back to that formality after all these years?” He stepped back to my side and pulled me into a hug. I sank into his embrace. His arms felt almost like home.
“Sorry, Michael,” I mumbled against his chest.
When he released me, his eyes searched my face. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good,” I gave him the patented response I’d perfected over the past couple years. Sometimes I said it so convincingly, I almost believed it myself.
“Oddly enough, I talked to Dawson this afternoon,” he mused out loud.
My heart stuttered. Words escaped me. The air inside me quietly whooshed out.
“He wanted me to tell you he hopes you’re doing well.” Michael smiled brightly at me. His amber eyes so much like his son’s.
“You can tell him I am,” I answered in a voice far steadier than it should’ve been given the turmoil roiling within me.
“He also said to tell you he misses you,” his voice was cautious this time.
My breath hitched. My eyes blinked rapidly, and my nose burned as I fought to keep the tears under wraps. When I finally could see clearly again, I said, “I miss him too.” My voice only trembled a smidge.
A million questions swirled in his eyes. To keep him from asking any of them, I said, “I need to go finish helping Mom. I look forward to catching up with you though.”
And that was the truth. No matter how much I knew learning about his life, and potentially Dawson’s over the past couple years would hurt, I was still desperate to fortify that connection with my past. With what was supposed to be my present and my forever.
It didn’t take long for us to have the table filled with food. Beckett settled in the seat next to me, while Michael sat across from me. Mom moved around the table, filling our glasses with the rich, red wine Michael had brought as a gift. I didn’t often indulge in alcohol. But when Mom asked if I wanted any, I decided it might help ease my nerves. I’d only have one glass. As I held my glass up for her to pour in the elixir for my ailment, Beckett frowned at me. He worried too much. We could talk about it later. For now, I needed all the help I could get in order to get through this dinner without falling to pieces.
♪ In My Blood by Black Stone Cherry
Lifting the glass to my nose, I inhaled the cinnamon, raspberry and vanilla aromas. Beckett speared a steak cooked medium rare and dropped it on my plate. Then he added a helping of salad and a baked potato. He’d learned a lot about what I liked over the course of my treatments and the few official months of our relationship. As a doctor and researcher, he’d been trained to be observant. Always. He never turned it off. It was annoying sometimes. He saw too much. Asked too much.
While I cut my steak and potato, he fixed his own plate. Then he passed me everything I needed to doctor my food to my liking without one word or request from me. As I grabbed the bar-b-que sauce from him, Michael quirked a brow at me.
“Still like bar-q-sauce on everything?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Yes, she does. It was one of the first things I noticed about her once she was well enough to eat. She sauced her fries, sandwiches, chicken nuggets, burgers, you name it, and she sauced it,” Beckett hurried to answer Michael’s question.
“I can’t help it. I love bar-b-que sauce,” I defended myself. Bringing my glass to my lips, I took a sip of my wine. Ah, sweet fortification.
Michael laughed. “Oh, how I remember. Dawson made Maggie and me stock it in our refrigerator for whenever you were at our house for a meal.”
“Hey, I eventually drew him to the dark side. It took a while, but once I ever got him to actually taste it with eggs, he was hooked.” I couldn’t stop the smile that crept onto my face.
“You’re right.” Michael winked at me.
“I’m still having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that Dawson Anderson lived next door to you as a kid,” Beckett enthused.
“Don’t worry. Sometimes I still have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that the man on TV, on stage and on all the magazine covers is my son,” Michael said with a laugh.
“I’m sure that would be hard. It’s hard for me to think of him before his mega success. I’m a huge fan. I started following LO on YouTube before they dropped their first album. But I thought those guys were out of Ohio or somewhere that way.” Beckett pursed his lips in thought.
“When Maggie and I separated, she and Dawson moved back to Ohio, where we’d grown up. I stayed here. Dawson was just starting to learn to play guitar around that time. It wasn’t long before he managed to round up some other kids who liked to jam too. And as they say, the rest is history.” Michael tilted his glass in salute to his son.
Beckett turned to me. “And you got to hear him as he learned how to play guitar?”
I nodded. “And as he learned to write songs.”
“Wow,” he said in quiet awe. “And as he learned to sing?”
“Oh no. Dawson didn’t have to learn to sing. That boy had the voice of an angel. I first heard him when he was six years old in the backyard with Isabelle,” my mom chimed in, eager to be part of the conversation. “Though he had to be coaxed many times over the years. Boy was shy about his sweet voice.”
“I never thought I’d meet anyone who knew my idol before he was rock god material. He always seems so hip and put together in interviews. Like he’d be so cool to hang out with,” Beckett said as he stabbed a bite of steak with his fork.
“He is. Or at least he was,” I chimed in, eating a bit of my lightly dressed salad. I sighed around the mouthful. There was barely enough of a drip of French dressing on it to taste.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Beckett asked curiously.
“It’s been two
years now,” I quietly offered. Two long years. Technically one year, eleven months, eighteen days, four hours and five minutes. Yet it still felt like yesterday.
“We haven’t seen him either. We’ve missed having him around,” Dad added.
“Oh,” Beckett said, with something akin to disappointment in his tone, like he expected him to pop his head over the fence at any moment. “Do you talk to him at least?”
“Not really since I got sick, and he’s been overseas.” I kept my eyes glued to my plate as I answered.
“That makes sense. He’s been kind of busy with nonstop touring the past few years. But I think I read that their tour was finishing up this week. It was supposed to end back in the summer of 2017, but they had to extend their tour because of the cancelled shows,” Beckett said.
“Wow, you really are a big fan, aren’t you?” Michael asked, surprise evident in his tone.
“Yes, I am.” He took another bite of his dinner.
“Dawson actually just got home from tour last night. I talked to him this morning,” Michael informed him.
“Was he happy to be home, or is he going to miss performing?” Beckett asked, leaning forward anxiously.
“He’s definitely going to miss perform—” I said at the same time Michael said, “He’s so happy to be home.”
Shock covered my expression as I looked at Michael. “Really?” I asked in disbelief. “Dawson lives for performing. He’s so at home on the stage. I can’t imagine he’d be happy for any lengthy period of time away from it.”
Michael looked uncomfortable, and his gaze shifted from mine. “Dawson’s views have shifted a bit. The past few years he went through… some things.”
I was dying to know what he’d gone through, but I refused to unchain my tongue and ask. Thankfully, Beckett didn’t believe in biting his, or so it seemed.
“What things?” he asked.
“It’s not really my story to share. But after talking to him this morning, I’m confident he’s thankful for a break. He needs it. For a time, he wasn’t in a good place. He was adrift without any sort of anchor. But he’s better now,” Michael’s tone turned hopeful.
Notes of the Heart: Book 2 of the Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series Page 7