I hang up. And I already know what I’m going to do.
I’ve always been the grand gesture guy. The one who made romantic speeches with props and playlists.
And this time—it has to be big. So big that Izzy would certainly put it on a veto list if given the opportunity. Not because Izzy needs the flash. But because I need her to know that I mean it. That I love her.
***
The sun’s just starting to rise above the rooftops, casting everything in the bright white of midday. I’m kneeling on the sidewalk outside Izzy’s house, palms stained with pastel chalk and knees sore from three hours of writing on concrete.
Getting Izzy out of the house this morning before I showed up was my biggest concern, but luckily, between the post-wedding brunch and a call to Becca, I’d hoped I’d have enough time to do what I needed to.
Convincing Becca to help me was harder than I thought, though.
When I called her bright and early this morning, her first response was a scoff followed by, “I know Izzy has decided to be understanding about this, but I think you’ve got some goddamn nerve.”
Fair.
I didn’t argue. I let her yell. Let her say everything I’ve been thinking since I left.
About how I shouldn’t have gotten on that plane. About how what I have with Izzy is more important than the songs I’ve already made millions of dollars from.
About how my music sure as shit wouldn’t keep me warm at night.
A solid five-minute monologue about how amazing Izzy is.
It was thorough and true, and, personally, I felt I could’ve spent at least another five minutes listing everything that makes Izzy special.
Becca laid it all out there. Everything I knew but was too scared to admit.
“You don’t get to disappear and then pop back up like some sad cowboy with a guitar and think that makes it okay.”
“I know,” I said. “But I need your help anyway.”
There was a long pause. Then a sigh that sounded more exhausted than angry.
“What do you need?”
So here I am, documenting in chalk every lyric I’ve ever written that was Izzy’s—whether I knew it at the time or not. Words are scrawled across the pavement in front of her house, down the driveway, and stretching halfway down the block. Beneath each is the picture of us that inspired it—poorly drawn stick figures that she may or may not even be able to decipher.
I’m hoping it’s the thought that counts, because I severely overestimated my chalk-drawing skills.
You smile like spring even when it’s snowing.Underneath it, a stick figure Izzy at fifteen, standing in a blizzard in a hoodie, flipping off the camera with frozen fingers and a huge grin.
I left my heart in the middle of nowhere.A snapshot of that summer we tubed the river and missed the spot we were supposed to get out. Her wet hair, her laughter, the way my chest ached, and I didn’t know why.
She burns hotter than the August sun and softer than a sad song.Izzy, drawn in red chalk, sunburned and barefoot, curled up in a hammock with a book.
Lyric by lyric. Memory by memory.
They stretch like a timeline of everything I never saw clearly until now.
I hear the crunch of car tires on the road behind me before I see her.
Becca’s car stops short of the chalk drawings, and Izzy jumps out, a to-go mug of coffee in her hand.
She’s standing dead center in the middle of the street.
Her eyes sweep over the sidewalk, the lyrics, the pictures. She blinks, steps closer. Then again.
