Summer of '65 (Bishop Family Book 1)

by Brooke St. James

  "I do. I love her."

  Jacob smiled. "I was at her house yesterday, and I just kept having this feeling like you were the only one who would be able to get through to her. I'm so glad I came over here. And I'm glad my dad didn't have anything to do with this."

  Michael shrugged. "He still probably doesn't want me with his daughter," he said.

  "I'm sure he'd rather see her with you than those people we saw at her house yesterday."

  "What people?"

  "I told you. She had a whole bunch of people at her house when we first got over there. It was ten in the morning, and they were just laid out all over the place like they had been up all night."

  "Guys? Were there guys?"

  Jacob nodded, and Michael felt his blood pressure begin to rise. He clenched his fists and instantly began thinking of all the things he needed to pack to get on the road. He could not get on the road soon enough.

  "Do you think you'll try go see her?" Jacob called, as Michael started to walk away.

  "I'm leaving now," Michael said from over his shoulder.

  Chapter 16

  I had only been working as a full-time musician for about a year, but in that short time, I had played over a hundred gigs in towns as far away as Chicago and New Orleans, and been a part of over sixty studio sessions.

  Those numbers might not sound like a lot, but by the time you do all the practicing, and planning, and rubbing of elbows, and keeping up appearances that goes with it, it's easy to feel like you're working all of the time. I was making real money, so I didn't complain.

  Up until now, my studio experience had been playing and singing backup on other peoples records but not my own. I did have plans in the works for my own record, though, and hoped to get working on it soon.

  I had always been drawn to the blues, but there was something about having my heart ripped out of my chest and smashed into a thousand pieces that that made me able to sing the blues in a real, raw way that people really understood.

  I played and sang the blues, and people responded. My music was sad, and I was great at it because I was sad. The passion with which I sang was directly correlated with the heartache I felt.

  So, in that way, maybe I should thank Michael Bishop. Maybe I should shake his hand for helping me get in touch with the singer people seemed to love so much.

  But you know what? No. I didn't feel thankful. I would take it all back if I could. I would, in a heartbeat, trade all of the money, fans, and records for one single day with Michael. If I could have the same Michael I knew in the summer of 65, I would trade it all for one day with him. In my mind, if I had him for a day, I could talk him into loving me again. I could talk him into never leaving me.

  I thought about him as I stared blankly at the people in my backyard. I hated being alone and almost always had someone else at my house. I didn't like the idea of coming home to an empty house after a late night gig. I was the one who paid for the house, but I had two other roommates (friends from college) who I let live with me for free just because I liked their company.

  I always had people around, but I never mentioned Michael to any of them. They didn't even know he existed. I was surrounded by people all the time, and they weren't even aware of the one thing that was on my mind the most.

  I was surrounded by people and still alone. I drank, and sometimes I took prescription pills, but honestly I didn't see myself as having a problem or even think I was doing it as a way to cope. I thought I was just doing it for fun. That stuff was just part of the scene when you're a musician, and nobody thought of it as doing anything wrong.

  I wasn't trying to make excuses or anything. I knew I was probably giving a bad name to all preachers' kids by using drugs and alcohol, but those were the choices I was making at the time.

  My parents didn't care, anyway. I had barely spoken to them in months. I was convinced that my dad had something to do with my breakup with Michael, and I just couldn't understand how somebody who loved me could do something like that.

  They had financially cut me off long ago, and I normally didn't call them for anything, but that Tuesday night, I had an attack of nerves, and I wound up calling my mom to ask her and Dad to pray for me.

  They came over the following day (which was yesterday) to check on me. Their visit was a surprise, and I could tell the number of people in my house took them and Jacob off guard. It wasn't my fault. It was ten o'clock in the morning, and I had no idea they were coming over. I had no time to prepare.

  They stayed for most of the day, and I tried my best to interact with them, but it was a little weird. It was impossible for me to fully forgive my dad for the heartache I had experienced. I told them they could stay at my house so that they didn't have to make the trip twice in one day, but they insisted that they needed to get back.

  Jacob didn't want to leave. I could tell he was worried about me, and I did my best to assure him I was fine. I told him that I thought Dad had interfered with my life, and I was mad at him for it, but that this happened to families sometimes, and I was sure I would get over it soon. He had smiled at me and assured me everything would be all right.

  Currently, I had my roommates and some other friends over, and all of us were sitting outside while a few of the guys grilled hamburgers. There were about ten of us in all. The house I rented wasn't outrageous, but it did come with a small pool, and I had my feet in it as I watched some of the others clown around in the backyard.

  There was music playing. I had on fashionable clothing and an oversized hat with a pair of designer sunglasses. I wore a big smile. To look at me from the outside, one would think I had everything figured out and didn't have a care in the world. I hoped to do a good job of making it continue to appear that way.

  It was a beautiful Thursday evening, and I didn't have to work. I was on my fifth or sixth drink, and we hadn't eaten dinner, so I felt that swimmy sensation even earlier than I normally would.

  I was staring blankly into the reflected light of the pool, thinking maybe I should slow down a little bit or eat something, when I heard one of my friends yell my name.

  "Ivy!" he said.

  I turned to find my roommate's boyfriend standing in the opening of the sliding glass door, waving at me.

  "Ivy!" he repeated. "Somebody's at the door to see you."

  "Who?" I asked.

  "He said his name's Michael," he said.

  I stared and the direction of the doorway, but everything became blurry when my eyes filled with tears.

  Alcohol makes you do funny things, because even as I said the next words, I knew I didn't mean them. I knew it wasn't what I was in my heart, yet it was what came out of my mouth.

  "I don't know anyone named Michael," I yelled nonchalantly.

  My heart felt as if it might explode. It was aching and beating at about four times the speed than it had been only seconds before.

  I numbly turned around, staring into the pool again and wondering what in the world was wrong with me.

  It was less than two minutes later when I felt Eddie, my roommate's boyfriend, kneel down beside me and put his hand on my shoulder.

  I glanced at him from over my sunglasses and under my hat, and he regarded me with a cautious expression.

  "I told this guy you don't know any Michael, and he didn't take that too well," he said. "He seems to think you do know him. He said he's not going anywhere until you go out there and talk to him."

  "Where is he?"

  "Out front," Eddie said. "He's getting upset. Do you know him?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, he's out there," Eddie said. "Waiting."

  "What did he say?"

  "He just asked for you, and when I said you don't know any Michael, he said for me to ask you again, otherwise he was coming in with or without my permission. I wish you would just go out there and talk to him. And if not, I don't want to be the one to tell him you not coming."

  My heart pounded. I felt brave and scared at the same time.
I let out a shaky sigh. "Help me up," I said.

  Eddie offered a hand to help me to my feet. I stood so swiftly that I felt lightheaded. I lost my balance and almost fell into the pool.

  "You okay?" Eddie asked.

  "Yeah, I just stood up too fast," I said.

  "I'll take that," he said gesturing to the glass I had in my hand. It was empty except for two small pieces of half-melted ice, and I threw my head back, taking them into my mouth before handing Eddie my glass.

  "Thank you," I said.

  We walked into the house together, and Eddie went into the kitchen as I crossed to the front door. The shades were drawn in the front of the house, so I didn't set eyes on Michael until I opened the door.

  There he was.

  Just the same as I remembered him.

  Michael Bishop, standing right there on my front porch. There was a glass door separating us, and we had only met eyes for a second or two before he reached out, opening it and stepping around it in one motion.

  He didn't ask how I felt about it or if I wanted him to; he just closed the distance between us and took me into his arms, taking my hat off in the process. My face squinted with tears, and I buried it in his chest. He held me tightly, and I cried with relief and anger and about a hundred other emotions.

  Between the tears, I leaned into him, smelling him, and feeling his heartbeat. I felt him breathing as his chest moved under my face, and I realized that I was never so alive as I was when I was touching this man.

  "Ivy, I’m sorry," I heard him whisper after a minute.

  I think it was the word sorry that did it.

  I thought about all the nights I cried over him, and a combination of those memories combined with alcohol made me utterly snap.

  It was a bad evening.

  My new "perfect" world was intersecting the world I really wanted deep down but had left behind. I didn't take it too well. I should have taken the time to eat something—that would have probably helped a little bit, but as it stood, I ended up letting the alcohol give voice to all the anger, hurt, and embarrassment I had felt during the last year.

  I fought with Michael.

  It seemed like he was trying to be reasonable, but I didn't feel reasonable when I looked at him. To look at Michael, was to want him. I felt the uncontrollable urge to send myself flying into his arms. I knew I would end up giving my heart back to him if he asked for it, and I was sincerely terrified of doing that.

  So, I fought with him.

  I wasn't even sure what all I said.

  The timing was bad. I had definitely had too much to drink when he got there.

  My friends came in the house several times during the evening to check on me, and every time, I told them to leave Michael and me alone—that I had some stuff from my past to deal with.

  It was a bad night.

  I could see that Michael was being patient with me, and yet I just stood there and said bad things to him. I said hurtful things—things that I hoped would make him leave—things that I hoped would protect me from another broken heart.

  I asked my friends to leave after they ate their burgers. They were reluctant to do it because of my emotional state, but I assure them I would be fine.

  Michael stayed with me that night even though I'm pretty sure I asked him more than a few times to leave. I remember him tucking me into bed and saying he would see me in the morning.

  I woke up at 8am the following morning with a pounding headache and an extremely dry mouth. I had a nightmare that Michael Bishop had come to my house and I had done nothing but fight with him and tell him I wanted him to leave.

  I blinked and stared at the alarm clock, having vivid memories of my dream and experiencing pain in my heart at the thought of Michael. I felt extremely nauseated, and there was a stinging sensation in my jaw. My stomach clinched and my mouth filled with spit.

  I barely had time to make it to the bathroom before I threw up. I almost never threw up, and I hated to do it, but apparently, it was the first thing on my body's list of things to do that morning.

  I was in the middle of getting sick when I felt someone come up behind me. The person grabbed my hair, keeping it out of the way, putting a hand on my back while I finished. My body knew it was Michael before my brain did. I felt a reaction to his touch before I even realized who it was.

  By the time I was finished getting sick, I remembered that my nightmarish encounter with Michael was not a dream but had actually happened.

  It was Michael.

  He was still at my house.

  Michael Bishop was standing behind me, helping me hold my hair back while I did the most disgusting thing I could possibly do.

  I hated myself.

  Physically, I felt much better when I finished. I knew I had freaked out on Michael the night before, and I felt wretched about that, but at least I now felt more in control of my body.

  I gave Michael a regretful smile without making eye contact. I needed to look at him—I just wasn't able to. I felt his presence and could see him out of my periphery, but I found it impossible to meet his gaze.

  "Are you okay?" he asked, touching my shoulder. He was so sweet and concerned. It seemed as if he wasn't mad about the things I said to him the night before, which was inconceivable to me since I remembered some of it, and it was horrifying.

  "I'm fine," I said sheepishly. "I actually feel better now." I sighed guiltily as I stood up, still not looking at him. "I think I should probably take a shower."

  Chapter 17

  I cried in the shower.

  I got out a good cry while I took a hot shower and washed my hair, and then I stayed in there, letting cool water hit my face for about five minutes before I got out. It was hardly noticeable that I'd been crying by the time I blasted myself with cool water.

  I cried because I hated myself for the way I acted the night before. Michael had shown up on my doorstep, and instead of embracing him like I should have done, I messed everything up. I cried because I remembered some of the hurtful things I said to him, and I wished so desperately I could take them back.

  I had looked into his eyes and told him straight to his face that he had lost his chance with me forever when he ended things last summer. I asked him to leave and told him I didn't want to see him anymore. I had been a drunken emotional wreck, and now there was nothing I could do to take back all of the things I said in the heat of the moment. I was plagued with regret and dreaded going back into the living room to face Michael or find him gone.

  I put one foot in front of the other and went through the motions of getting dressed. I towel dried and combed my hair before changing. I started to wear pants and a blouse, but it was still early, and I just didn't feel like getting dressed.

  I wore a nice set of polka-dot pajamas—a pair of matching cotton pedal pushers and a short-sleeve button-down top. I headed into the living room, feeling terrified that Michael would be there waiting for me and even more terrified that he'd be gone.

  "Hello?" I called softly as I came down the hall.

  "Hey."

  I heard his voice come from the living room, and I breathed a huge sigh of relief. My shoulders visibly slumped when I heard it. I straightened before I rounded the corner. I was still reeling a little bit, but I felt clean and somewhat more comfortable after a long shower and two thorough teeth-brushings.

  Michael was sitting on the edge of the couch.

  There he was—the man of my dreams.

  He was the one.

  It was no wonder I'd been so lost without him.

  I thought he might get up, but instead, he stayed on the couch regarding me as if wondering what I was going to do or say.

  He was barefoot with his jeans rolled up. The night before, he had on a collared shirt, but now he just had on his undershirt—a fitted white t-shirt.

  I made eye contact with him. His blue eyes were full of care and concern as he watched me walk toward him slowly. I wanted so badly to make things right with him. I want
ed to erase last night. I wanted to erase the last year.

  I couldn't bring myself to fall into his arms the way I wanted, so instead, I crossed the room and sat at his feet. I didn't ask his permission or tell him what I was doing; I just walked over and sat on the floor next to him. His feet were separated because of the way he was sitting on the edge of the couch, so I sat close to his right leg. I slid in beside him, holding onto his leg like it was a teddy bear. I rested my face on his thigh, looking away from him.

  Michael put his hand on my head, letting his fingers gently trace my hairline. I held on to his leg. I was too overwhelmed with regret to think of what to say. I didn't even know where to begin.

  "I'm sorry," I said. I figured it was just as good a place as any to start.

  He was quiet for a few seconds before rubbing his hand over the back of my head. I had a headache, but his touch still sent a thrill through me.

  Neither of us said anything for a minute. Michael rubbed my head gently, and we just sat there, not talking.

  "I made you some coffee," Michael said finally. He gestured toward a mug that was on the nearby coffee table.

  "Thank you," I said. "I thought that was yours." (There was a pause.) "I'm sorry," I added again.

  "Ivy, I’m the one who should be sorry," Michael said. "None of this would have ever happened if I wouldn't have…" He trailed off. He was using a cautious tone that made me feel like he was still a little bit wary after our ordeal the night before. "I'm the one who should be sorry," he repeated, still touching my head.

  I got onto my knees and reached for the mug that was on the other side of the coffee table. The caffeine would, no doubt, help my headache, so I planned on drinking it quickly. Michael knew how I took my coffee, and it had cooled to a perfect temperature while I was in the shower. I drank it down in a few short sips. I sat the empty mug on the table before climbing onto the couch next to Michael.

  He had been sitting on the edge, but he readjusted when I sat next to him, turning to face me. He looked at me. His gorgeous blue eyes were full of cautious hope.