Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Izzy
“Izzy!” Becca calls from the kitchen. “Your date is here.”
I look in the mirror one final time. I’ve got on my cutest pair of jeans, the ones with buttons instead of a zipper, and a dark red top that barely hits the top of my high-waisted jeans.
The back of the shirt is made of two overlapping pieces of fabric instead of one, so my spine peeks out when I lean forward.
It’s…well, the best I can do. I don’t have date clothes.
“Coming!” I yell back before slipping my feet into the nice sandals I usually reserve for summer weddings.
“Well, as per usual, this is as good as it’s going to get,” I say to my reflection, wishing my Anne Hathaway impression would somehow call into existence a Julie Andrews to help me look just a little more put together.
Why, in the name of all things holy, did I never learn how to appropriately apply more makeup than just mascara and some lip gloss?
I walk out of my room and immediately find Jaxon Steele in his date-night finest. And by that, I mean the dark jeans, white button-down, and black boots he likely wears every day back in Nashville—at least when it’s not a million degrees outside.
Unfortunately for my poor, deprived lady parts, it’s a good fucking look.
“Hey,” I say, forcing out a cough when my voice comes out squeakier than usual.
“Hey, Iz,” he says, his eyes softening as his smile unfurls across his face. “You look great.”
I glance at my outfit, not sure what about it he thinks is “great,” but decide he’s likely just being polite.
“Izzy,” I remind him. “I wasn’t sure what one wears on a date that isn’t a date but that needs to get people thinking it could be a date, so when we’re dating in a few weeks, people are like, well, that makes sense since they went on that date a few weeks ago,” I ramble as I grab the magnet wallet for the back of my phone and my lip gloss.
Jaxon laughs. “Yeah, I also super overthought my outfit.”
Becca laughs from her spectator spot next to the sink, and I stick my tongue out at them both.
“Well, let’s get this over with, then,” I say, pulling open the door.
“Ah, just what every man wants to hear on a first date,” Jaxon teases. “I’m not sure my ego can handle the boost.”
“Is that why it was so hard to get through the door?” I ask, reaching out to poke the air about two feet to the right of Jaxon’s head. “I thought I’d suddenly reached the end of the alternate universe I somehow ended up in.”
“Rude,” Jaxon says playfully, reaching out to poke my side.
I laugh at just the wrong moment, causing his finger to catch the edge of my shirt before running along my ribs. I shiver as if his finger is sending out waves of ice rather than the overwhelming heat it is. And then refuse to think about why my body would respond like that to his touch.
This is a fake date.
***
“Do we hold hands?” Jaxon asks as we make our way toward the open bar seats at Wild Crusts after getting the “all clear” from Jaxon’s security team. It’s the perfect place to be seen without it being clear whether this is a date or not.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“I don’t think that aggressive of a headshake was necessary. I like holding hands. Think it could really sell it.”
The pizza place isn’t too busy tonight, with just a couple of tables and a few seats taken at the bar. There’s a back patio that people occasionally use, but it’s too hot tonight for that. And I can’t imagine how terrible the flies would be between the heat and the food.
Instead, we opt for seats at the bar and are able to quickly order a beer.
We seem to be on the same page about needing a little bit of liquid courage to help us through the night but aren’t risking letting our drunk sides make any decisions.
Or maybe that’s just me, and he just likes beer with his pizza.
Once the bartender moves to help another customer, I say, “Remember, we’re not trying to sell dating right now. We’re trying to sell me not hating you.”
“I think people already know that based on the number of coffees I’ve ordered for you.”
I raise a skeptical eyebrow at him.
He chuckles as he says, “Okay, but it did work. You did forgive me.”
“Eh,” I say noncommittally, trying not to notice the way the gold flecks in his eyes glints when he’s amused.
I take a sip of my beer, letting the liquid cool the small flame of attraction I can’t seem to put out. I’m not attracted to him, but my body refuses to agree with that.
“So, tell me about your job,” I say, trying my hardest to pretend this is a real first date.
Jaxon huffs out a breath, then throws his head back and laughs. My eyes follow the line of his throat like it’s the edge of a cliff—dangerous, magnetic, and impossible to look away from.
Focus, Izzy.
Jaxon has a great laugh when he decides to let it go like that, and I can feel my cheeks start to burn with the attention it garnered from everyone in the restaurant.
“You know,” Jaxon says when he finally stops laughing, “I think you’re the first person who has ever said that to me.”
“Okay, well, sorry for trying to have a normal conversation with you,” I say, tracing the condensation on the outside of my beer bottle with one finger.
“Don’t be sorry,” Jaxon says, reaching over and placing a hand on my leg.
My stupid heart is beating so hard at the contact I can barely hear when he says, “People never treat me like I’m normal. I appreciate it.”
“That’s kind of sad.”
He takes a long pull from his drink, and I studiously avert my eyes, unwilling to be sucked in by the vortex his long, strong throat creates. “It’s pretty hard to complain when I’m selling out concerts every night around the globe.”
“Maybe for you,” I say. “I, on the other hand, am fantastic at complaining. Complaining about being a rock star seems pretty easy. Long hours. Way too late of nights. Why can’t concerts start at two in the afternoon? Fans who try to steal your pubic hair...”
“Come on, don’t remind me of that!”
“I’m just saying, it seems worthy of at least a bit of complaining.”
Jaxon nods. “You might be right.”
We sit in companionable silence for a few seconds before Jaxon asks, “Is a country music star the same thing as a rock star? I always make sure I say I’m a musician since it seems pretty conceded to go around saying I’m a rock star.”
I consider it. “While I think there may technically be a difference—rock music versus country music and all—I’m going to go with no. You’re still a musician who plays huge concerts and has groupies. It’s the same.”
The corners of his eyes crease as he smiles. “You’re being awfully nice to me tonight, Iz.”
“Izzy,” I say automatically. “And I promise I’m not actively trying to.”
“So what you’re saying is you’re just a nice person?”
I tilt my head from side to side, considering. “I think so.”
Jaxon laughs yet again. “Why do you sound so disgusted by it?”
“Nice is so bland. So…vanilla.” As soon as I say the word, I know it’s true. It turns out, I might be the one to blame for all my past relationships lacking a certain, let’s call it…explosiveness.
“Not true at all,” Jaxon says, leaning toward me, just slightly. “Nice is the first sip of coffee after a shitty night’s sleep. It’s the hardest thing to be in a world where everything is a point of contention, and no one cares to get to know you on a personal level.”
As he finishes his sentence, Jaxon’s eyes come alight, and I know that look. So, I hand him a couple of napkins as he takes his pen out of the pocket before quickly jotting words down.
A lot of words.
Four napkins’ worth of words, in fact.
Luckily, the server drops our food off during napkin two, so I at least have something to do while he writes.
I have zero regrets about ordering a Hawaiian pizza, as the mixture of warm pineapple and Canadian bacon mix in my mouth. My sisters both hate it, so I almost never get it. Luckily, Jaxon is the only other person I know who is at least willing to get it with me.
“Fuck, Iz,” Jaxon says when he finally stops writing. “I think you might really be my good luck charm.”
“Izzy.” I roll my eyes. “And yes, yes, we’ve been over this. I’m sure it’s me.”
He looks at me, argument flaring in his dark chestnut eyes, but instead of continuing the conversation about if I’m his lucky charm or not, he says, “Just to be clear, I think your niceness makes you interesting, not at all boring.”
I consider arguing with him, telling him he’s confusing nice with kind—which is very different. Or at the very least making sure he knows I definitely am boring, but it seems like he’ll understand that firsthand soon enough. No need to speed up that process.
Instead, I reply, “Well, thank you.” I nod toward his napkin pile. “Are those for the Lupus Foundation thing?”
“No, unfortunately. The chorus of that song is still illuding me. That was…something new,” he says, casually reaching out and flipping the stack over.
“Ah, well, that’s okay,” I say. “Wait, isn’t your song for the benefit due super soon?”
“Some might call it just over a week,” Jaxon says, running his hand through his hair. His fingers leave grooves where they’ve been, making a piece stick up right in the middle.
I resist the urge to fix it for him, and instead ask, “Want to talk about it? It might help.”
Jaxon shakes his head. “That’s not really part of my process.”
“And your process is working so well right now?”
Jaxon laughs. “I see your point.”
I shove the final bite of pizza into my mouth, taking my time chewing as I consider what to ask. I can only assume he got connected to the foundation because of his mom, but I guess maybe I should start with the basics. Ease him into it.
“So, when did you start working with the Lupus Foundation?” I ask.
We order another round of beers and a small chocolate chip cookie pizza for dessert as Jaxon tells me about being twenty-two and on the verge of greatness. How it finally felt like he was becoming who he’d always wanted to be.
“But it felt hollow, you know?” he asks after telling me about playing as the opening act for his first sold-out concert—a rodeo in Wyoming.
I chew my cookie thoughtfully. I don’t really know. I could’ve known…had he told me he’d be playing just a few hours from me, but in the spirit of forgiving and forgetting, I let that thought pass like a tumbleweed on a windy day.
Instead, I ask, “Why do you think you felt that way?”
We’re leaning close together now, our shoulders practically brushing as we angle toward each other. My knee has whacked into Jaxon’s twice now, an unwelcome burst of heat settling in my chest each time.
“Just between us?” Jaxon asks, and I try not to be hurt at the insinuation that I might tell someone else. I kept all Jaxon’s secrets, from the fact that he was keeping a frog in his room at the age of four to his plans for the most epic prom proposal our junior year.
“Of course.”
“It’s so lonely being a musician, especially an opening act.
I wasn’t making enough money to bring my team with me as we toured, and at the time, I didn’t have a backup band I worked with like I do now.
So, I’d perform every night and then load up in the tour bus with the main act’s backup band, a group that had been together for years.
They were all nice enough, but I wasn’t friends with any of them.
I was literally never alone, but I’d never felt so disconnected from the rest of humanity in my life. ”
Part of me wants to make a joke about how hard it is to be a superstar, but the truth is, that does sound hard.
A level of isolation that I’ve never experienced.
Even when Jaxon left, and then I left for college, I still had my family constantly coming to visit or calling me.
I had friends at college that I still keep in touch with today.
“I’m sorry, Jaxon,” I say. “I can’t imagine how lonely that would feel.”
He shrugs, taking a drink of his beer. “Anyway, I’d always been a very moderate drinker, rarely went to parties, and one night, instead of turning the band down when they asked me if I wanted to partake in whatever upper they were doing that night, I considered it.
I just felt kind of out of my body already, you know?
And I could almost see the path that was going to take me down; the afterparties, the women, the drugs and alcohol consumption that every movie shows rock stars imbibing in.
It was exactly the kind of man my dad thought I’d turn into if I pursued my music.
So, I said no. And then I went and donated basically everything I had in my bank account to the Lupus Foundation. ”
“And that made you feel better?” I ask.
“Not necessarily better. But more connected to my mom. And it still does. At the end of each year, I work with my accountant and the foundation to determine what a good amount to donate will be that year, and how the foundation can use it to leverage other funds. I always feel closer to her during that time of year.”
“Your mom would be really proud of you,” I say, reaching out to place a hand on Jaxon’s arm. Ignoring just how solid his bicep is, I continue, “There aren’t a lot of people who, when offered partying and women, would choose to donate to a charity instead.”
“I know the lifestyle is a huge part of it for a lot of artists, but that’s never been a draw for me.
One of the few memories I have of my mom is her singing a lullaby to me.
It’s barely even a memory: just her voice softly singing a few lines.
Maybe she was putting me to bed or something?
I don’t know. But her voice was beautiful.
I have no doubt my musical abilities came from her, and I’ve always known I wanted to use the gift she gave me to do something more.
I thought being a musician would be enough, but when it wasn’t, I realized there was more I could do. ”
“I wish we’d gotten to know her more,” I say.
Jaxon nods, reaching out to write some lyric or another on a new napkin. “I do too.”