Page 52 of Saving Ian Pope

I sat back down withmydate for the night—my laptop—and did a search for Ian. Holding my breath, I scanned the results, releasing it slowly when I saw that most of the new articles showcased his upcoming music and not any drunken antics. I’d peeked at his social media, which focused on his new album and the first single scheduled from that album, “Muse.”

I snarled at the computer. “Ha, surprised he hadn’t changed the name of that song yet to ‘Betrayed’ or ‘Sucker Punched.’”

“Talking to yourself now?” Chole twirled around the living room in a pair of black, leather pants, a black corset top, and my gold sandals.

Tilting my head to the side, I said, “You look hot. Does Cryptobro deserve all this effort?”

“I guess I’ll find out.” Chloe hovered over my shoulder. “Spying on Ian again? I can already tell you he hasn’t been up to any shenanigans. Never posts anything personal on his socials. His fans went nuts for his first post after about seven months. He didn’t address his rehab at all and just made a series of professional posts about his music.”

I cranked my head around to stare at my roommate. “You’ve been stalking him online?”

“Yeah, I’ve been keeping an eye on him. The Duke Hammer controversy reversed course and worked to his advantage.” Chloe shrugged her bare shoulders. “He’s a de facto clientandmy messy bestie’s loverboy. I’m gonna follow up on him.”

“Thanks, Chloe.” I sniffled. “Am I going to have to prepare for an overnight guest?”

“We’ll see how things work out.” She widened her icy blue eyes, the black eyeliner enhancing their drama. “You’re not complaining, are you? Not after you met a guy at a book festival and proceeded to install him in your bed for the next two weeks.”

“Just want to make sure you’re not inviting any Night Stalkers, Hillside Stranglers, or Golden State Killers into our home.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have an unhealthy fascination with serial killers?”

“It’s research.” I pinged my laptop with my finger. “Seriously, leave me this guy’s name and his socials before you go—just in case I never hear from you again.”

“You really are a buzzkill, lately.” She patted my head. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll text you all that stuff and let you know whether to expect me...or us, later.”

Once Chloe left for her date, the silence in the house overwhelmed me and beat me down, so I scrolled through my phone and blasted some frothy pop music. I usually couldn’t write with music playing, but who was I kidding? I hadn’t gotten any good writing done for days—maybe weeks, maybe thirty-two days, eight hours—I glanced at the time on my computer—fifty-two minutes, and a smattering of seconds.

By the time I decided to turn in, I’d listened to probably all 40 of today’s top 40 hits, with a few Five2Go songs thrown in there just to torture myself. I tucked my laptop under my arm and turned out all the lights. Chloe had already texted me with the news that she was spending the night with Ryan and had even sent a pin to the location of his apartment in downtown LA—suitably trendy for a cryptobro.

I brushed my teeth, undressed, and pulled Ian’s dirty T-shirt over my head. I inhaled his scent, still distinguishable but fading fast. If I washed the shirt, I feared I’d lose him forever. If I didn’t wash it, I’d probably start growing a bacterial fungus on my skin.

As I passed the squishy barrel chair on my way to the bed, I patted the belly of the stuffed koala bear Ian had bought me during our visit to the LA Zoo. The bear sported Ian’s LA Dodger cap—the one I’d bought him. The one he’d left behind. I’d already sniffed the inside of the cap for a trace of Ian, but figured if I started wearing that to bed, Chloe would have me committed.

Slipping between the sheets, I propped up my Ian Pope pillow behind me as a backrest and settled my computer on my lap to watch a podcast on YouTube. I must’ve dozed off because the ringing of my phone, charging on the nightstand beside me, startled me awake.

I felt for the phone and held it in front of my blurry eyes. The UK number on the display shot a stream of adrenaline to my bloodstream, and I jerked my head up, fully revived. It wasn’t Ian’s number, and that knowledge caused my heart to pound even more furiously. “Hello?”

“Ivy? It’s Jack Davies. We met in LA. Ian’s manager.”

The blood roared in my ears, and I could barely hear my own frantic response. “Is it Ian? Is he okay? Did something happen to him?”

“Ian’s okay.” Jack coughed. “He’s not fine, but he’s okay.”

Jack’s words had done nothing to calm the thoughts racing around my brain. “What does that mean? Is he hurt? In the hospital?”

“What? No. Nothing like that. He’s not injured, but he’s not doing great right now. He misses you.”

Relief coursed through my body, and my head dropped back and banged against the wall. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath through my nose, but Ian wasn’t out of the woods, yet. “What’s going on, Jack? How do you know he misses me?”

“He’s starting to spiral.”

“How? Did he relapse?” I chewed the inside of my mouth until I tasted the metallic tang of blood on my tongue.

“I’m not sure, but if he hasn’t, he’s close.”

I put a hand to my throat. “How’s the music going?”

“So far, so good. He’s laid down four tracks already, and they’re stellar. His vocals are out-of-this-world brilliant, so much depth and emotion. He’s wowing everyone in the studio.”

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