Beats of the Heart

by B. Rose, Charli

  After the beep, I took a deep breath and started talking, “It’s been a few days, baby. I bet you lost your phone charger. The press found out my number. The nerve of some people. Anyway, just wanted to let you know I love you, and I got a new number so that the reporters can’t harass me too much. I’ll text it to you when I hang up. My old number will only work another few hours. Talk to you soon. And don’t worry, we’ll get through this. A bunch of nosey reporters don’t scare me.”

  I wanted him to know that I wasn’t wavering in my commitment to us even though things were impossibly difficult at the moment.

  I texted him my new number

  Emotions rioted in me. I didn’t know which end was up. I couldn’t even name all the things I was feeling. So, I did what I always did when life got overwhelming. I painted my feelings—bleeding my fears, feelings and worries onto canvas after canvas. I was lost. Without connecting with my anchor, I was floating adrift.

  Desperate to connect with him, I grabbed the jar of tiny paper stars from my nightstand. Twisting the top, I opened the container. With my eyes closed, I reached in and pulled out a star. I ran my fingernail under the tiny edge to free the tucked end. In seconds, I had the strip unfolded and smoothed flat.

  You are the sunshine in my darkened world. I love you.

  I smiled. The message was just what I needed.

  I decided to shoot him a text in case he couldn’t answer his phone wherever he was.

  Me: You’re my sunshine too.

  Me: Did you lose your phone?

  Me: Love you.

  I tried not to keep track of how long it had been since I’d heard his voice or seen his face. We’d survived a few days without talking before.

  His schedule got even more insane after the photos released, and it was already nuts. People who hadn’t shown interest in the band, now suddenly vied for a minute of their time. I tried to be excited for him and supportive.

  After the first TV interview, I stopped watching them. I couldn’t take it. My heart leaped at seeing him, but it quickly crashed when he had to sit there and deny our love. That first interview, he did exactly what the label wanted…

  “Dawson, I know the question on everybody’s mind is are you in fact in a relationship with Isabelle?” the morning show host with the bleached white smile asked.

  Dawson’s body stiffened. “Pat, you’ve interviewed how many young rock stars over the years?”

  “Umm… Maybe a hundred?”

  “And how many young rockers with hot women willing and available in every city are in relationships?”

  Pat mulled it over for a few silent moments. “None that I can recall.”

  “Need I say more? Now how about we talk about what really matters, like the single we’re going to be dropping in a few weeks?”

  My heart still hurt over the memory of his mention of all the women who were ready to jump in his bed. I told him to do what the label recommended. But it still wounded me deeply when he was ambiguous about our relationship. He hoped without his confirmation, the story would die, and the reporters would leave me alone.

  * * *

  I had to do something to get myself out of this funk. Maybe a bubble bath would cheer me up. I moved woodenly to the bathroom and turned on the water, so it would get hot. Then I opened the cabinet under the sink to find my favorite bottle of bubble bath. As I rooted around in there, my gaze landed on something that stopped my heart. I fell to my butt and yanked out the box. With trembling fingers, I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened the calendar. Rapidly, I scrolled backwards, mentally calculating.

  That explained a lot. Fumbling for the faucet, I shut off the water. I pressed the necessary buttons to call Dawson. His voicemail picked up immediately. Guess I was leaving another message.

  “Hey baby. I hope things are OK. I need to talk to you about how to handle something. Call me back. I love you.”

  I opened my internet browser for the first time in a few days. After confirming my suspicions through a Google search, I knew what I had to do.

  I shot a text off to Dawson.

  Me: Whenever you get this, call me right away. It’s important.

  Somehow, I got dressed, tucking my hair up in a beanie, and left my apartment for the first time this week. With my head down, I made my way to the closest store a few blocks away.

  * * *

  As far as I could tell, my twenty minutes outside the sanctuary of my apartment went unnoticed. Back inside, I made my way to the bathroom. Pulling the boxes from my shopping bag, I lined all seven of them up on the counter. The clerk had given me a weird look when I plopped so many on the checkout stand. But there had been too many options. And rather than debating which was the most accurate, I bought them all.

  I sucked in a deep breath and popped open the end of the first box to remove the instructions. I scanned the sheet of paper several times. There was no way that something with the potential for holding life-altering answers should be so simple to take.

  Oh well, that’s why I bought a bunch. In case I messed up.

  Two minutes later, I was pacing my bedroom, cataloging my symptoms, which Google had so graciously provided me. Tiredness. Achiness. Moodiness. Nausea. Dizziness.

  I was scared. But I remembered what Dawson told me during my visit. The words brought comfort as I replayed them in my mind. He would want to be part of this moment.

  I dialed his number again, hoping to get him before I went back in the bathroom. Voicemail again.

  “Dawson, call me as soon as you get this. I’m scared. I think I’m… never mind. Just call me back.”

  Crap. In my anxiousness I forgot to tell him I loved him. I pressed the screen again. I listened to the voice I loved again, then waited for the beep. “Forgot to say, I love you.”

  I’d have to look at the results without him. Straightening my spine, I marched into the bathroom, fully prepared for two pink lines.

  When I picked up the stick and peeked in the window, only one line stared back at me. Frowning, I put it back down and double checked the instructions. The test said negative. I must have done something wrong.

  Going to the kitchen, I grabbed a bottle of water and downed it quickly. I forced my brain to think about water and rain and waterfalls and waves, anything to generate the urge to pee.

  This time I peed in a cup. Then I dipped an applicator from each box into the cup. And waited.

  And waited.

  And waited some more. I’d decided to give them an extra minute for good measure.

  When the time was up, I carefully examined all six of them. Negative, negative, negative, N pregnant, negative, negative.

  Maybe they were false negatives. Time for more Google.

  The helpful entity that the search engine was, informed me that first urine was best. So, I needed to pee on them first thing in the morning. I’d need to survive the next ten hours without confirmation.

  I stood in front of the mirror on my closet door and ran my hand across my abdomen, imagining a perfect combination of me and Dawson already safely growing inside of me.

  As scared as I was, the thought filled my heart with joy and love that I hadn’t expected.

  With a happier heart, I opened my email, deciding to try that mode of communication.

  To: Daw

  Subject: Love You

  Dawson, I left you a voicemail, but I know you forget to charge your phone all the time when you’re on tour. I hope you’re checking your email. Something’s wrong. We weren’t exactly careful when I came out to visit. You know with me forgetting to take a few pills because of the time differences and excitement. So, I’m not blaming you or anything. I took a few tests, and they’re all negative. But all the symptoms fit. And so, does the timing. It explains my exhaustion. I’m going to make an appointment to see a Dr. in a few days. Just wanted you to know what’s going on. Call me as soon as you get this. We can figure things out together. I need you. Please call me or write or text. Don’t forget I
changed my number. I love you.

  I’d call my doctor’s office in the morning. I’d continued to take my birth control pills this whole time. So, I needed to make sure everything was OK with the baby IF I was pregnant.

  Chapter 12

  Izzy

  Next day…

  Me: I know you’re OK. I saw an interview you did this morning. Why aren’t you calling me back?

  Hours later…

  Me: Did I do something wrong?

  Chapter 13

  Izzy

  Next day…

  Me: Did the label tell you to distance yourself from me?

  Chapter 14

  Izzy

  Next day…

  When my text messages still went unanswered, I tried to call him again.

  “Since you aren’t answering your phone or text messages, I’ll try to email you again.”

  Chapter 15

  Izzy

  Next day…

  After I got home from the doctor’s office, I walked around in a daze. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the possibilities. I was so scared. There was only one thing I could do. I picked up the phone.

  “Dawson, I need you. Please call me back.” I tried so hard to make my voice sound strong. To force it not to crack. He promised he’d always be here for me. I’d never needed him more.

  ♪ “More Than Words Can Say” by Alias

  Chapter 16

  Izzy

  Three days later…

  I was on my own. The sooner I faced it, the better off I’d be.

  Me: I’m going to back off. I’ve got other things I need to focus on. I love you.

  Shattered bulbs can’t give off light. A broken clock can’t measure time. A shattered mirror can’t reflect the truth. A broken car can’t get from point A to point B.

  How does a broken, shattered heart still beat? Why is it still expected to keep us alive?

  Chapter 17

  Izzy

  Two days later…

  To: Dawson

  Subject: OK

  Dawson, I never heard back from you. I guess you’re too busy. Just wanted to say I miss you, and if you still want to check in that’s OK, but if you don’t, I’ll be fine. Everything is sorting itself out. Love you.

  Chapter 18

  Izzy

  A week later…

  My beautiful roses had finally given up their color and drive for life. Maybe it was time for me to give up too. I pulled one of the dry, drooping blooms from the vase and tucked it into a bud vase. I threw the rest of the bouquet out.

  Flipping through the pages of my sketchbook, I found the beautiful vibrant bloom I’d drawn a few weeks ago when I’d come home with a heart full of love and happiness. I set the bud vase on my desk in a shaft of sunlight. Then I propped the sketchpad up next to it. My mind worked, merging the two into one vision. I prepared my palette and sat in front of a blank canvas. As tears coursed unchecked down my cheeks, I painted a rose—drooped over, crying the colors from its petals into a puddle surrounding the vase.

  I spent all day at my easel. When I was done, I stepped back and admired the symbol of eighteen years of love now faded and brittle. I took out my phone and tapped out a text message.

  Me: Guess you decided that a relationship wasn’t what you wanted after all. I wasn’t what you wanted. Goodbye Dawson. Have a nice life.

  Chapter 19

  Izzy

  A week later…

  The paparazzi had given up on me, so I could leave my house without constantly glancing over my shoulder. Last week was the first time Dawson wasn’t the primary headline on the major websites. I could finally go online without his face taunting me, cracking my heart further.

  Feeling safe, I opened a web browser. I needed to email a client the proofs of her session. When Yahoo finally opened, the face that had been haunting my dreams was front and center. Well not his full face. Most of it was blocked by some dark-haired girl sucking face with Dawson on the couch of his bus. Tears filled my eyes as I clutched my stomach.

  The headline screamed LO Frontman definitely back on the market, or maybe was never off it.

  The rest of the article blurred in the haze of my tears.

  I clicked the email icon. Rage and fury and agony overruled all my good sense. Angrily, I stabbed the keys.

  To: Dawson

  Subject: WTH

  What the hell is this article talking about? Maybe that’s the answer you’ve been trying to tell me with your silence. A picture’s worth a thousand words, especially when the words are lies. You said so yourself.

  I’m sorry I didn’t get the message sooner. I won’t bother you anymore. Good luck with everything.

  ~Izzy

  Then I attached the article and hit send.

  ♪ “Broken” by Lifehouse

  I moved to my sanctuary, the spare bedroom set up as my art studio. I sank down at my desk and found a blank page in my sketch pad.

  With tears blurring my vision, I began sketching what was in my heart. Sure strokes with my colored pencils created the face I’d loved for as long as I understood what love was. A face that now brought me unbelievable heartache. I had to get him out of my system the only way I knew how. I moved to the right side of the page and drew my own face, gazing at him with all the love one heart could hold. Our expressions were serious, loving, broken.

  Tears shimmered in both our eyes. Then I added our hands, gently cupping each other’s cheeks. They could’ve been holding on or letting go. It was unclear in the sketch.

  Without marring the life-like detail, I drew a jagged line—a symbolic rip—right down the middle, separating us on paper much like we were now forever separated in reality.

  Drawing a deep breath, I leaned back to examine my work. It was beautiful. It was heartbreaking. It was perfect. Just what I needed to do for myself.

  On a pink Post-It, I scribbled: One final memory to add to your sketchbook.

  I stuck it to the top of the sketch. Stared at the colors, the lines, the technique. Tried to detach myself from the subject. To view it critically. I couldn’t. It hurt too much.

  This image would complete our story. Stamp “the end” on it in the sketchbook I’d given him back when he moved away after sixth grade. I’d been adding to it over the years, illustrating the story of us. All stories had an ending. This was ours.

  I opened the bottom drawer and pulled out two pieces of thick cardboard. Using them, I sandwiched the sketch safely between them. Carefully, I slipped the protected sketch into a padded envelope. I wrote the address of Dawson’s apartment in LA on it.

  I’d mail it tomorrow. I was too tired now.

  Treading down the hall with heavy steps, I went in my room. One look at the bed I’d shared so many moments with Dawson on, laughing, loving, talking, sharing, living—in person and virtually—and I began to tremble with the effort to hold back my wails. I couldn’t sleep in there.

  I snatched my pillow off my bed and tugged a blanket out of the closet. I sank onto the couch and prayed for sleep to come quickly.

  Chapter 20

  Izzy

  I woke on the couch. My eyes ached, my neck was stiff, my heart hurt. As I tossed and turned on the couch last night, waiting for slumber to claim me, I figured out a plan of action. It was what I had to do in order to close the Dawson chapters of my life.

  Systematically, I moved around my apartment, taking down photos and mementos, emptying drawers of band T-shirts and boxing up all the tokens of our relationship. The Sunflowers reprint came off the wall. The jar of wishing stars removed from my nightstand. Marching to the kitchen, I pried the magnets from our bucket list stops off the refrigerator door. Then I grabbed a large trash bag. I couldn’t dwell on this anymore. I had more important things that needed to occupy my mind. There was no room for heartache. Not now.

  Holding the bag open with one hand, I picked up the box of photos, scrapbooks and songs. The box hovered in my grasp over the gaping hole of the trash bag.

>   But I couldn’t let it go. Weeping, I carried the items into my closet. I climbed up on the stepstool and shoved everything into the far, dark corner. I could throw it out later. When I was stronger.

  I collapsed on the bed sobbing uncontrollably. My phone chimed with an alert.

  The sender was unknown. I should’ve ignored it. But no one had my new number. Curiosity always killed the cat.

  Unknown: You get to see the first cut.

  A video attachment followed. I opened it. The opening strains of “Love Rocked” blared through the tiny speaker. The new music video. They must have shot it early. Without me.

  The camera zoomed in on Dawson as he sang the opening lines. As it panned back out, a girl with dark, curly hair started dancing around him, trailing her hands across his body and his guitar. I paused it, staring at the girl. It looked like the girl he was photographed with. I deleted the message without watching the rest of the video.