True L̶o̶v̶e̶ Story Read online

  By Willow Aster

  * * * *

  True Love Story

  Copyright © 2013 by Willow Aster

  “Saffo o dell’Amore” by Elena Cermaria

  Cover Design by Sarah Hansen

  Formatting: JT Formatting

  www.facebook.com/JTFormatting

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my real life Ian.

  No crossed out love here. I love you. Always.

  - 1 -

  It has been a year, two months, and seventeen days since I last saw him. Two years, ten months, and five days since he broke my heart—well, since I knew that he had broken my heart. Technically, he began breaking my heart the moment I met him, five years, eleven months, and one day ago. I’ve traveled across the country to get away from him, changed my phone number so he couldn’t keep calling, had one botched relationship after another, all in an effort to forget.

  And now I’m 1,600 miles from home, waiting on another flight to head 500 miles further south, and he’s walking toward me in DFW airport.

  Ian Sterling is oblivious to the fact that our lives are going to crash in… five, four, three, two…

  I can’t move as he walks up to my gate and begins talking to the agent. I’ve seen the puddle-jumper we’re about to get on together. There is no escaping him.

  Caving to the inevitable, I take him in. He is perfection, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. The ticket agent looks all aflutter as she gazes up at him and stutters. His thick hair is sticking up in every direction, just the way I like it. He looks sleepy and obscene; I want to slap him and wrap my arms and legs around him and breathe his air—me and every other woman who lays eyes on him. The guitar by his feet is like another appendage; I’ve rarely seen him without it.

  Before I even know what I’m doing, I am on my feet and sprinting through carry-on bags and travelers’ feet. I have to get out of here. If he sees me, I can’t guarantee what will happen. I just don’t think I can risk it. My heart can’t take any more.

  I avoid his general direction and am making progress when I get snagged on a zebra print suitcase with purple trim. The hem of my mini catches on the handle of the bag and one yank doesn’t do the trick. My skirt will not budge. Panic begins to overtake me; my hands are a shaky mess. I am just about to rip a hole in the material so I can keep moving when I hear him.

  His raspy voice cuts through the chatter around us. I’ve missed that voice. “Sparrow?”

  My whole body goes still. Except for the tremors in my hands and knees and guts. I grab my skirt again, and this time it miraculously comes loose. Traitor!

  Ian is clutching the counter in front of him and for a moment, I think he’s going down.

  “Sparrow?” He says again and gives his hair a nervous tug. His eyes swallow me up, and I know I have to sit before I’m the one that goes down.

  I put on my calmest face and give a polite, but cold smile.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” I say.

  He nods and reaches out to touch my face.

  I back up. If he touches me, it’s over. I pretend to not see the hurt in his eyes.

  “Sit with me?” he asks.

  I collapse in the first open seat. So much for getting away.

  Ian sets his guitar in front of me and sits on the higher end: elbows on his knees, knees against mine, his eyes trying to read me. Those eyes have been the death of me many a time. I sink into them far too easily. He has the eyelashes that all women envy and I study them instead, remembering all the times I’ve teased him about being so pretty. He leans in even closer. I cannot burrow any further into my seat than I already have.

  All of a sudden, he backs up and looks around. “Is your mom with you? I knew I should have shaved,” he mutters.

  A surprised laugh pops out. “No, Charlie isn’t here. Settle.”

  “Whew.” He rubs the stubble along his jaw and grins. “I can’t believe you’re here in front of me. You look good, Sparrow. So beautiful.”

  He reaches over and gently pulls one of my curls, watching it boing back into place. He places a hand on each cheek, his eyes studying me until they stop on my lips. He always had a thing for my mouth. And my hair. He used to list what he loved about each of my body parts, going into such detail that my neck would get splotchy. And then he’d tease me about all the splotches, while kissing each one.

  I have to stop my brain.

  “I see this face every night when I close my eyes. All day long, I think I see you, everywhere I go…” His eyes cloud, and he drops his hands. “I’ve dreamed this so many times, I’m not even sure you’re real right now. Are you really here?”

  A thick lump burns in my throat, making it harder and harder to swallow. I know all about seeing his face everywhere. And not sleeping. And how long it took me to even eat again after he tore my heart out and stomped on it with the black combat boots I bought him that hellish Christmas. Shoving the ache down, I take a deep breath and fix my face as a blank slate, void of all feeling. Except the hate I wish I could have for him.

  In our stupor, I think we’ve missed a few of the boarding calls because the ticket agent looks pointedly in our direction as she loudly makes the FINAL CALL TO BOARD. All the other passengers are sitting and waiting on us when we get on the plane. I sense some hostility. I don’t want to make a Texan mad at me.

  “Well, what do you know, our seats are next to each other,” he smirks.

  “I’m sure it helps that we’re the last ones on,” I snap out of the side of my mouth. I sit down and yank the neckline of my shirt up higher when I see his eyes wandering.

  He sits down and laughs. “Come on, baby, I have you for one hour. Let me look at you.” The way he says have you makes me feel feverish.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Let me see your ticket.” He grabs it before I can say no. “4B.” He holds his up so I can see 4A. “I cou
ldn’t have planned this any better myself…”

  I lean my head back on the seat and close my eyes. It’s not even two minutes before we’re rolling and taking off. Now I know why there is a general glare in our direction from the other passengers—we held up the flight.

  The air is thick with sorrow and desire. I have always known the minute he is in a room. It didn’t matter if it was a room of a hundred people or across thousands, I could spot his inky black hair and swagger from a mile away. Being in such close proximity after so long apart is threatening to make me sick. Ian is watching me, his head leaning on the seat and his whole body shifted toward mine.

  A flash of color catches my eye—no, surely those things aren’t still in circulation.

  “Tell me you’re not still wearing the elephant socks.”

  His grin takes over his entire face, stopping my heart in the process.

  “They’re a little holey now.”

  I snort. It’s a good thing my mom isn’t here, she’d be mortified. “Yeah, I bet.”

  “I’ve never stopped loving you, Sparrow Fisher.”

  I focus on breathing and not losing my coffee and muffin all over him. That would serve him right.

  “I’ve never loved anyone but you.” He goes on, seemingly unfazed by my silence.

  I turn my head and the look on my face seems to scare him. His eyes widen.

  “It doesn’t matter, Ian. Love … it means nothing, at this point. And I’m the only one in this non-relationship who can truly say that I’ve never loved anyone but YOU. So don’t even give me that nonsense about only loving me. That’s a load of crack.” I huff and look out the tiny window, trying to forget he’s there.

  He chuckles and I whip my face around to see what could possibly make him laugh.

  “You still love me,” Ian whispers, stroking my cheek. “And you said, crack.” He smiles sadly at me; his eyes searching mine, pulling me in … deep.

  “We don’t say Crap; we say Crack.” I recite.

  “We don’t say Shi—” I clamp his mouth shut before he can say the rest. “We say Shoot,” he finishes, muffled. He kisses my hand and I am sinking, sinking fast. My stomach is back on the ground, and my heart is in my throat. I’m not sure how long his mouth mesmerizes me. His tongue flicks around my middle finger, and I’m jarred awake. I rip my hand away.

  “Oh, Spar…” he begins.

  “You know what? We’re stuck on this flight together. I don’t want to talk this way anymore. We can talk about other things. Like—what’s new with you? Or, what’s happening with your career? How is your mom? Things like that … the rest, I just do not even want to hear come out of your mouth. Got it? And if you can’t keep your end of the bargain, I can ignore you the rest of the flight. Deal?”

  His eyes are dancing, and I want to smother him with the airsickness bag. Yeah, I can’t say barf bag either, okay? I have this thing about words. Sometimes it feels like a disease; other times, it feels close to a gift when I’m writing and come up with meaningful words instead of slang drivel. Disease or not, my editor appreciates it.

  “Deal,” he says and he reaches out to shake on it. His rough hands feel like home, laying claim on me all over again.

  I gradually thaw just enough to carry on a conversation. I figure for all the times I’ve wanted to know where he was, what he was doing … this is my chance. I can pick up the hurt again later. The rest of the flight breezes by in fast-forward. We talk about the details of his career, although I’d kept track of a lot of it online. Ian’s a professional musician and has spent time in both L.A. and New York playing on any and everyone’s projects. He’s considered the best guitar player out there; guitar companies vie for him because Ian Sterling playing their guitar one time will increase their sales by insane percentages. But even more than that, his songs … he can write a song like no other. And then there’s his voice; it’s raspy and intimate, unique. He tells me about his new friendship with J. Elliot, his lifelong idol.

  “Working with Elliot has been a dream. He’s really pushed me to do a solo project with the songs I’ve written over the last few years.” He does his anxious hair tug thing and looks at me, watching for a reaction.

  I know what this means, but don’t acknowledge it. I’ve known it would come to this. The songs he wrote for me a couple years ago will be playing every time I go to the mall, every time I turn on the car radio and probably in a cute romantic comedy that I need to avoid. Ian Sterling has been successful for years, but with Elliot behind this project, he will explode. And I’ll be the roped up ball of sadness. That’s what my future holds right there. Little prickly threads of devastation hanging out of my gnarly, ransacked heart.

  “You deserve all the royalties. Every single song is about you.” He leans over and rests his forehead on mine. “God, I want to kiss you.”

  My eyes close and for a moment, I just inhale him. How many times have I dreamed of being this close to him? I feel the pull he’s always had on me and am tempted to give in one more time. Sanity fortunately returns. I shove him off, and he holds up his hands as I stare him down. “Fine, fine! I’ll behave!”

  Relentless. I’m torn between throwing up and making out with him in this tiny airplane.

  “What are you doing in New Orleans? Besides being by my side day and night?” He smiles as my eyes narrow. “What?” he asks with a shrug. “It’s a reasonable question.”

  “Tessa’s getting married on Saturday. I’m the maid of honor. There’s a lot to do in the next five days.”

  “Ah, Tess. I’ve missed her.”

  “Me too.”

  I lean my head back on the seat again. Ian is staring me down and I’m exhausted.

  “Sparrow, we don’t have much time left on this flight.” He presses his eyes with his fingers and takes a deep breath. “Give me your number. Please. I promise I won’t … well, I can’t really promise that. Just say you’ll see me again while you’re here.”

  “It’s not a good idea.” I shake my head, as much to myself as to him.

  “Well, my number is the same. I will never change it. You know, hoping one day you’ll call and say you’re taking me back,” he says earnestly.

  “You’re impossible.”

  “You’re delectable.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “You’re edible.”

  I sigh, frustrated and turned on.

  “You know it’s true.” He inches closer.

  “No, I can’t really say that I do.”

  “Well, I can.”

  “Ian!”

  His eyes are distraught when he looks at me.

  “Sparrow, I know you’ve already heard me say I’m sorry, about a thousand times … but if you can’t hear anything else, hear this … you changed me. Please let me…”

  I hold my hand up and look straight ahead. It helps to not see his face. “Don’t. Just … don’t.”

  His face crumbles and I think I see his hand tremble as he runs his fingers through his hair. His eyes fill and for a moment, he doesn’t look nineteen. He doesn’t look thirty. I see what he will look like at sixty and it torments me.

  The plane is already beginning its descent. I look out and see the lights of the city and think about how I’d give anything to get lost in Ian’s words. It’s a powerful feeling, to know this magnetic, dangerous, quirky, beautiful, sexy … man wants me. Agony is almost worth it if I could just be with him.

  It’s as if no time has passed at all. I see with sickened clarity that I will never be over Ian Sterling. Never.

  He’s watching me, waiting for me to say something. Just one word to give him hope and we will be back in our own little world of love and lust and banter.

  I turn to face him and he looks at me with expectancy, willing me to let him back in. Willing me to say yes…

  I shake my head and the cobwebs clear. I remember. I remember it all. I want him to hurt.

  “How’s Laila?”

  - 2 -

&
nbsp; 5+ years ago

  The Meeting

  It’s hard being a pastor’s kid. My dad pastors the largest non-denominational church in San Jose, CA, and even though I’ve always been proud of my parents, the pressure can be overwhelming at times. If you want to know the job of a pastor’s kid, it’s this: be perfect.

  My parents are wonderful, loving people … just a little on the strict side with their only daughter. They adore me though, and unfortunately, they love to show me off. Charlie, my mother, is a force to be reckoned with—I think my dad is the only one who has ever been able to tell her what to do—and rarely at that. Otherwise, she rules with a pearl fist: smooth and white on the outside, but if you bite it, you just might wind up with a broken tooth. She knows how to get things done.

  I’m pretty sure if Charlie has her way, there will be a wedding before I’m twenty.

  I’m not blind; I know I’m not bad looking. I’ve had a few boyfriends in my short time of dating, but to my parents, I am absolutely gorgeous, unbelievably smart, the most talented girl EVER, and they want me to marry another equally gorgeous, smart, talented PREACHER.

  I do not see preacher’s wife in my future.

  People have been telling me I look older than I really am for the last four years. I’d like to think it’s because I act so mature, but something tells me that’s not it. At thirteen, I reached 5’ 9” and have hovered around there, add an inch or two, ever since. Dressing like an old woman might have also had something to do with it. All right, old woman might be a stretch—let’s just say, I dress about a decade older than most girls my age.