Page 63 of Saving Ian Pope

He jerked his head up. “Why do you ask that? Who told you that?”

Oh shit. Jack had told me, but I didn’t want Ian to know I was talking to Jack about him behind his back. That might lead to other discoveries. “You sort of told me. I mean, you didn’t say you’d fallen off the wagon over it, but I could tell you were bummed about her connection with Shana’s husband, Jasper.”

“Yeah, fuck me.” He sank his head in his hands. “I was over there, and Thea called JasperDaddyright in front of me. Wrecked me.”

My heart ached for him, and I rubbed a circle on his back. “I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to have kids or even a family, for that matter, but I’m sure that’s not uncommon with stepparents. And it’s better that Thea have a stepdad like Jasper than some total asshole, right? You want her surrounded by loving people.”

“Of course, yeah. I’m just being selfish.”

“That’s not selfishness. That’s human. And you are one of those, despite all your many talents. Just think, we can now celebrate your two-month sobriety together, and we can celebrate your however many days sobriety right now.” I crawled into his lap, discarding my towel and straddling his hips because, well, sex made everything better, right?

***

On the eighty-minute drive into the city, Ian talked about his music and the album. His infectious enthusiasm practically bubbled out of him, and I prayed so hard that the record would exceed all his expectations. He needed this so badly—more than he needed me. He just didn’t know it.

When we got to the recording studio, the charged atmosphere settled my fears about the fate of the album. The guys in the studio had the swagger of pros who knew they had something special.

While Ian talked to Ronnie about a few issues and the plan for the afternoon, I picked Hamza’s brain about what he did as a sound engineer. Ian kept sliding glances at Hamza until he said, “Just blink twice, Hamza, if you need to be rescued.”

I stuck my tongue out at Ian, and Hamza answered, “No, mate, really. Never had no one so interested in my job before. Ivy makes me feel like a right legend.”

“Thing is, she really wants to know.” Ian winked at me.

I smiled back, but I had a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. Ian treated me so well, better than anyone had ever treated me before. I felt so safe in that man’s arms, and he took his care of me very seriously. He couldn’t even lie to me about his relapse, and I know it had pained him to tell me about it. And what was I doing to him? How could I keep this deception going any longer?

But the lie was keeping me safe, too. Keeping both of us safe.

Ronnie pulled out a chair next to his, facing a board of lights and controls that looked as if it belonged to a spacecraft. “Sit here, Ivy. You can ask me as many questions as you like. My job is much more important than Hamza’s.”

“Bro.” Hamza threw a balled-up, greasy paper napkin at Ronnie. “We’ll ask her at the end of the session.”

“Do not put me on the spot.” I wrapped my arms around Ian from the back, poking my chin between his shoulder blades. “What are you going to sing, baby?”

“I’m going to record ‘Lost and Found’ again. I’ll play the piano, and we’re just waiting for Dennis and his guitar.”

On cue, a tall guy with scraggly blond hair and a wispy goatee, tats clawing their way up his neck, burst into the room. “Sorry I’m late, lads. Bit of a sesh last night.”

Ian’s back grew rigid beneath my touch, and I figured Dennis’s sesh included copious amounts of booze. Must be difficult for any addict to navigate the perilous temptations of the music world.

But when Ian turned around, a smile stretched across his face. “No problem, mate. We’re gonna record ‘Lost and Found’ again. I’ll be on piano, since Giles isn’t here, and I’m not calling him. This is just a one-off I’m doing for my girl. This is Ivy. Ivy, Dennis.”

Dennis’s long fingers wrapped around my hand. “Oh, nice to meet the missus. We been hearing nothing but Ivy this, Ivy that.”

“I hope followed by good things.” I disentangled my hand from Dennis’s.

“Nothing but good. It’s quite sickening, actually.” Dennis nudged Ian in a way I didn’t like. I hoped the guy could at least play guitar.

“Are we ready?” Ian smacked Dennis on the back. “Let me just get some water.”

As Ian went to the back of the room to get a bottle of water, I settled beside Ronnie, excitement fizzing in my veins. Ian placed some water in front of me on his way to the recording booth where Dennis had already taken a chair with his guitar. Ian sat in front of the piano and ran his fingers across the keys.

Ronnie gave them some directions, and then Ian started to play the opening chords of the song, which I hadn’t heard before. When he began singing, his rich baritone voice gave me chills, and the personal lyrics cut me like a razorblade on the wrist. By the second verse of the song, his usually smooth, liquid tone roughened around the edges, and the emotion in his voice carved a hollow in my heart.

His feelings kaleidoscoped across his face, and he squeezed his eyes closed as if to reach deeper into his soul. When he hit the achingly beautiful high notes in the chorus, it was like he peeled open his chest to expose his heart, and the pulse in my throat throbbed in response.

The air in the studio had stilled, the performance hypnotizing all of us. Without realizing it, I had pushed back my chair, my body inclining toward the recording booth where Ian sang not only his life, but mine, too. His words evoked feelings in me that I’d successfully buried for years.

I stepped off the dais and floated toward the glass separating the booth from the studio, as if in a dream. I flattened my hands against the window, whether in an attempt to make him stop or to drown myself in the sensations, I didn’t know. Tears rolled down my face, unabated, and dripped off my chin.

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