Notes of the Heart: Book 2 of the Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series

by Charli B. Rose

  My heart hurt knowing he’d gone through some tough things and I hadn’t been there for him when he needed someone. We’d always been there for each other for everything for nearly twenty years. We’d been best friends. Lovers. Everything. But for the last couple of years, we’d been nothing to each other. The weight of nothing was staggering.

  While I was lost in my inner musings, Michael had managed to change the subject away from Dawson. Part of me was grateful, but a large part, which I wished to deny even existed, was vastly disappointed to not be able to glean any more information indirectly about the man who still gripped my heart.

  “So, Beckett, you were Izzy’s doctor while she was sick?” Michael asked.

  Beckett chewed the food he’d just forked into his mouth. After wiping his lips with a napkin, he answered, “I was just one of her doctors. Isabelle had a full team aiding in her treatments and recovery. My mentor was in charge of the experimental treatments. I was just there to help out.”

  “And interpret the data, so the correct adjustments could be made,” Dad chimed in.

  “And explain everything to us in a way we understood,” Mom said.

  “And hold my hand when I was scared,” I added.

  I linked my hand with his beneath the table. The memory of those days during my treatments sobered everyone around the table. Back then, none of us was certain I’d live through my illness or the treatment. It seemed the only way to fight the disease was to nearly kill me in the process. It was touch-and-go there for a while, waiting to see who’d win: the rare illness or me. Some days, I still wasn’t convinced I was the victor.

  He smiled at me and brushed a kiss across my lips. “When you guys put it like that, I guess I was pretty important.”

  Everyone chuckled, happy he’d broken the tension. Dinner continued with trivial topics taking over the conversation. When we were all done, Beckett solidified his spot in my mom’s heart by offering to handle all the cleanup from dinner.

  He stacked the plates and carried them inside. I scooped up an armful of perishable items to put back in the fridge. Beckett heard me enter and turned from where he was filling the sink with dishwater for the items that wouldn’t fit in the dishwasher. Hastily, he moved around the island to take the sauces and potato fixings from me.

  “Sweetheart, I said I’d take care of the cleanup.”

  “You don’t want my help?” I asked with a tiny pout.

  “Nope. I can handle a little kitchen duty. You go back outside and visit with Michael and your parents. With us leaving in the morning, I want you to spend as much time as possible with them. It’s obvious they’ve all missed you greatly.” He wiped his hands on the dishtowel resting on the countertop.

  Standing on my tiptoes and wrapping my arms around his neck, I brought his mouth down to mine. “Thanks,” I mumbled against his lips. I didn’t need to elaborate. There was so much I was thanking him for, and he knew it.

  When I turned to go back outside, he swatted my butt with the dishtowel in his hand. “Hey,” I shrieked and ran to safety with his laughter trailing behind me.

  “Izzy, come sit and talk with me,” Michael beckoned.

  As I sank in the lounge chair next to Michael, Mom and Dad inconspicuously wandered out to the driveway for their evening walk. I’d never known them to take an evening walk before. I laughed internally at them.

  “How are you, really?” Michael asked.

  I opened my mouth to say fine, but he cut me off, “I don’t mean the answer you give everyone else. Or what you think I want to hear. I want the truth.”

  I nodded. “I’m doing OK. Some days I still get tired. Really tired. And I have to take anti-rejection medicine, which means I have to be careful about bumps and bruises. I have to watch what I eat, and sometimes I’m really weak. But it beats being dead,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Well, you look good. Much better than the last time I saw you. How’s your art going?”

  “I’ve been traveling and using those experiences to inspire my art. I’m still painting and drawing a little. My photography skills have grown with my travels. So many things imprinted themselves on my heart and mind, but I couldn’t sketch fast enough. So, my camera became a reliable travel companion, that way, I could snap the moment and create with it later. Some of my work has been showcased in a gallery in Charleston. And of course, I’m still doing portrait and event photography.”

  “That’s wonderful.” The pride on his face was almost as bright as if I was his own kid. It warmed a cold part of me.

  I found myself telling him more. “I even sold a collection of my work I created while I was recovering, inspired by what was going on around me in the hospital.”

  “Wow.” He shook his head as he beamed at me. “Your talent has always been apparent. The emotion you’ve always managed to capture with each work of art makes others feel whatever you were feeling when you created it. I saw it the first time Dawson hung something you drew for him on his wall.”

  I shrugged my shoulders, not really knowing how to respond to his compliment.

  “I’m so glad you’ve continued to pursue your passion. You and Dawson always had that in common,” he said, patting my knee.

  I swallowed hard and allowed myself to ask what I’d been dying to since hearing Michael was going to be here tonight. “Speaking of, how is he, really?”

  “Now?”

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  “He’s in a good place now. For a time there, I was really worried about him,” he confided in a quiet voice.

  “Me too. But I couldn’t let myself dwell on it too much. I had to focus on getting well,” I admitted for the first time. The few random headlines I’d caught had chronicled an out of control spiral that would lead nowhere good.

  “Of course, you did. He wouldn’t have wanted you worrying about him anyway,” Michael said, attempting to alleviate my concern and guilt.

  “I thought of him. A lot,” my voice was quiet, floating on a breeze.

  “Things were very dark for him for longer than any parent can stand. But he’s moving in the light now. I think he’s feeling better about the direction his life is going.” I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to reassure me or himself of Dawson’s sobriety.

  That answered my unspoken question. He’d moved beyond me. Us. And was happy with his new direction. Not watching his rearview mirror for what he left behind.

  My heart shattered a little more. I didn’t even know how that was possible. I thought he’d broken it into its smallest components already two years ago. I was wrong.

  ♪ Already Over by Red

  UNAWARE of the emotions churning like a raging sea inside me, Michael continued, “You really should talk to him. There are details he should share with you.”

  “I think I already read about those details,” I scoffed defensively.

  “Remember, things aren’t always what they seem. You of all people should know how the media spins things. And what you think you know may only be partially true. You should call him. Or if he ever works up the nerve to call you, then you should pick up the phone,” Michael urged.

  “I’ll think about it,” I hedged, not making any promises or denials.

  “I have to confess something,” he said with a sheepish look on his face.

  “OKkkkk.” Trepidation skittered along my spine.

  “When I talked to him this morning, I let it slip that you’d been sick. I’m sorry. I didn’t really give him any details. I know you didn’t want him to know back when you were going through it. But now you’re better and he’s not on tour, so what harm could it do for him to know?” His eyes begged me for forgiveness and for me to come clean with his son.

  I wasn’t sure what harm it could do. Maybe none. Maybe a lot. But Michael shouldn’t have had to keep my secret. “It’s OK. I never should’ve asked you to keep it from him back then. I’m sorry for putting you in that position,” I said, absolving him of any remorse he f
elt at letting my secret slip out.

  “I’m still sorry. I’m sure he’ll call me in the morning for a full report of how you’re doing. Anything you want me to keep secret for you?” he teased.

  “Nah. Secrets have a way of coming out, and when they do, they often do more harm than keeping them was trying to prevent.”

  CHAPTER 6

  DAWSON

  Dear Universe

  I need your help

  to fix my curse.

  I held the answer

  But in lies I did immerse

  Please somebody

  don't let me make it worse.

  While I waited for my dad to report back to me, my mind melded the two tasks that had kept me up all night last night. The random ramblings of my muse seemed to want to become a lyrical letter. Not to her.

  But to whatever power out there possessed the influence to help me. My heart still demanded I write her a letter, so I wouldn’t screw up all the things I needed to say to her. But that letter would have to wait. My inner muse demanded I follow it on this journey.

  Taking that approach had never steered me wrong when it came to penning a song. I could only pray it wouldn’t when the stakes were much higher than a melody. It had been so long since I’d written a full song. Not since “Last Kiss”, which I’d written on the bus after a month with no word from her. Since then, lyrics had come sporadically and never actually morphed themselves into a song. So, I wasn’t going to fight the process.

  My fingers picked out the keys on the piano as the lyrics rolled around in my mind. It had been a really long time since I’d composed a song at my piano. On the road, it was easier to use my guitar. Sitting on the bench in front of eighty-eight keys, I was certain one of them would unlock the door to the answers I needed.

  I scratched out on my staff paper the last six notes of melody I’d just played. Closing my eyes, I played the song so far from the beginning, adding in the new notes. A frown pulled my lips down. It wasn’t quite right. When my eyes opened, they focused on the drawing of heartbreak Izzy had mailed me. The longer I stared at it, the clearer things became. I needed to write the melody in a relative minor key, rather than the major key. The major key sounded too happy to fit the despair and desperation of the words. I played it through a dozen times with the words I’d written so far. It sounded better. But the rest of the lyrics weren’t coming to me.

  It was time to employ one of my tried and true methods of teasing the song from my mind and heart—playing other songs that incited the same feelings I was trying to express. I emptied my mind of my own melody, took a few deep breaths and played the opening chords of Harry Nilsson’s “Without You”. The lyrics were simple but so honest. My heart twinged on the last chorus because I was certain I hadn’t been living the past two years without her.

  ♪ Without You by Harry Nilsson

  Existing?

  Yes.

  But living?

  No.

  My fingers transitioned to a song I’d secretly loved ever since my mom played it for me when I was a little boy. At the time I didn’t understand the lyrics at all, but I was mesmerized by Whitney Houston’s powerful voice. I understood the words now. The ride was worth the fall, but I wished we could’ve avoided it. Loving her had made my life worth living. I didn’t have the voice to belt out the words like the queen did, but that didn’t stop me from singing “Didn’t We Almost Have It All” through twice. My stubborn heart refused to accept that we almost had it all. It still believed we could have it all.

  ♪ Didn’t We Almost Have It All by Whitney Houston

  Playing that song made my fingers play another Whitney favorite. I’d never admit to the guys that I played Whitney in the privacy of my own home. But her voice and lyrics were soothing to my hurting heart. “Where Do Broken Hearts Go” asked a question I needed the answer to. Over the past two years, my broken heart had tried freezing into a holding pattern. When that didn’t work, it tried alcohol, drugs and random women. Everything was a poor substitute. I learned I needed her desperately. And only her. The million-dollar question was, if she loved me then, would she always love me? And would looking in her eyes give me the answer?

  ♪ Where Do Broken Hearts Go by Whitney Houston

  I NEEDED TO SEE HER. There was no way around it. Even if her eyes said she didn’t care for me anymore, I had to know, otherwise, I would stay in this holding pattern until I knew for sure. Her eyes had never been able to lie, even when her mouth tried to. I always called her on it when we were kids.

  Tears flowed freely down my face as my hands worked through several more songs of heartbreak.

  My growling stomach rescued me from myself. I pushed myself up from the bench and stretched, then I made my way to the kitchen and pulled out one of the small frozen containers of homemade lasagna my mom had filled my freezer with a while back. It had been in the freezer for a while. Hopefully, it was still good. A glance at the time on my phone revealed it was late enough to expect Dad back home. It was ten in South Carolina. After I followed the reheating instructions Mom had written on the lasagna container, I dialed my dad. It rang through to voicemail.

  “Hey, Dad. Just sitting down to dinner and figured you’d be done at the Clark’s house by now. Call me back when you get this.”

  The microwave beeped, announcing my dinner was done. I carried my plate and a bottle of water to the living room. The silence was deafening. I no longer wanted to be alone with my thoughts, so I turned on some mindless reality TV show. Watching the contestants race around a series of cities, gathering clues, was enough to distract me for a little while. Before long, my belly was full. Using my fork, I scraped the last bits of cheesy goodness from the plate. Mom’s lasagna was good, not as good as Sue’s, but still award-winning. It had been so long since I’d eaten something that wasn’t from a restaurant. It was a welcome change. Touring didn’t always lead to healthy eating. When Izzy had been on the bus with us, she always cooked and made us help her. When she left, we slipped back into our old easy habits.

  During the commercial break, I carried my dish to the kitchen and plopped it into the dishwasher. By the time I got back, Embrace the Chase was back on. I found myself cheering as the couple that grated on my nerves fell for one of the tricks and slipped into last place. And I groaned as the couple I was rooting for got passed. It was nice to lose myself in a show and forget all the crap going on in my life. At least getting wrapped up in the show kept me from watching the clock and wondering why my dad hadn’t called yet. It surprised me when my phone rang beside me as the current episode neared its end.

  With the push of a button, I paused the TV. Man, I loved technology.

  “Hey, Dad.” I leaned back into the welcoming softness of the couch.

  “Hey, Dawson. I left my phone at home, so I just got your message,” he explained.

  “You just getting home from dinner next door?” I tried to tamp down the curiosity coursing through me.

  “Yeah, we hung out for a while after supper. Just talking and catching up.” He wasn’t offering a lot of details.

  “Don’t make me beg, Dad. How is she?” my tone was on the verge of whiny.

  “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?”