Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

TWO “Anytime”

TWO

“Anytime”

Brian McKnight

Natalie

T ossing away my blanket in irritation, I click off the flatscreen as the credits roll on Drive , a screenplay Stella wrote over two decades ago about her start and evolution as a journalist. The movie also includes her husband, Reid’s coinciding journey as the drummer of the Dead Sergeants and the band’s history leading up to the height of their stardom.

While Stella and Reid’s love story played a large part in the movie, my father wasn’t mentioned, and the paper was thoroughly glossed over. Though one thing remains certain—Reid and Stella met around or close to the time Stella started working for Austin Speak.

In fact, it was Stella’s feature in Speak about the Dead Sergeants that drew a Sony executive’s attention, eventually getting them signed. Ironically, just before that twist of fate, Reid left Stella holding the bag of their budding relationship to move home and provide for his alcoholic parents. Thus, portraying him every bit the desperate, starving artist who was giving up on his dreams.

Even as Reid broke her heart, Stella made him promise not to give up. She even went so far as to have an expensive drum kit she won by chance delivered to where he fled to encourage him to keep believing. A few months after their breakup, the Sony exec attended a show, and the Sergeants, Reid included, were signed. Just after, Reid went on tour with the band, which led to years of separation between him and Stella. Years I conclude that she dated my father.

At the end of the movie, Stella and Reid reunite after the most incredible of coincidences in Seattle—half a country away from where their story began here, in Austin. Stella was house hunting—as she’d reported to Dad via email—when she stumbled upon Reid at an open house. Reid just so happened to be accompanying his lead guitar player, Rye Wheeler, who was interested in the now-famous A-frame Stella and Reid became cemented at.

Shortly after the mind-boggling, seemingly fated reunion, Stella and Reid got engaged, and Dad cut all ties with her.

The movie highly romanticizes Stella’s belief in fate and destiny and the part they played in Stella and Reid’s relationship throughout without a single hint of the fallout—my father and his broken heart.

On a mission for more, I grab my phone to start a Google search, and my heart skips a beat when I catch the time displayed in large numbers on my home screen.

11:11

Momentarily stunned by the sight of the time frequently mentioned in the movie—a time where superstitious Stella made wishes within those sixty seconds—I do my best to pass off the strange notion that arises.

Maybe it’s a sign for me .

Perhaps one of encouragement?

“You’re doing a shitty thing, Nat. Own it,” I utter dryly, batting the idiocy off. At this point, I’m grasping at all moral straws in an attempt to keep on with my investigation while combating the guilt.

Standing on the patio of my apartment—just a few streets over from the heavy traffic of Sixth—I decide downtown Austin remains alive and well with the ever-present varied lights and the level of street noise in the distance.

Dipping my gaze, I sweep my quieter road, which is riddled with a few potholes, and even fewer passersby. I imagine Stella three decades ago, nearly three years my junior, as she trekked her way through these very streets. Streets she frequented, determined to forge her future in journalism.

More curious than ever, I Google Stella Emerson Crowne. A list quickly populates of images and articles, many written by her. I take a seat in my lone chair—which takes up the whole of my four cubic feet of balcony—and began sorting through them. She’s given several interviews over the years, most of them in the last decade, due to her success. As I pick through the endless barrage of information, I become more and more frustrated when I don’t find mention of my father, especially in the earlier articles.

Unless Stella is a borderline sociopath who could lie her way through any test, my father meant far more to her than she’s allowed the world to know.

I know, and sadly, I may be one of a very few which leaves an acidic taste lingering on my tongue.

For the past twenty-five years, it seems they’ve both lived their separate lives pretending that the other doesn’t exist, but why?

It has to be purposeful, has to be. And if so, that means she’s buried their relationship history too. They seemed to be on amicable terms when they split.

Why did they break up in the first place? In the film, Stella was already in Seattle when she reunited with Reid.

Even though a lot of pieces are clicking together, I know I’m missing the most vital parts. Too many to feel real satisfaction, especially for someone in my field.

Did she leave my father out of that script to spare him? Was he hurt by it?

Can I let this go?

A resounding no thrums through my psyche as I try to grapple with the fact that everyone has a dating history, including my parents. But it’s the intimacy of the emails I’ve read so far, the underlying love, affection, and devotion between them that keeps me calling ‘bullshit’ on the movie and pacing my apartment until sunrise.

“There’s always an angle, Natalie,” I mutter beneath my breath for the umpteenth time as I set my tray atop the wiry metal table on the patio of the small bistro, which sits only a few blocks from Speak.

“It’s been a while,” Rosie, our gossip columnist prods as I take a sip of my lemonade, and she takes the seat across from me.

Per usual, she’s a cheap lunch date—her lithe figure taking precedence over hunger. Her plate is covered in mixed greens topped with a teaspoon of dressing—rabbit food. “What’s new, or should I say news?” I ask before taking a hearty bite of my brisket sandwich.

“Not a lot,” she says, glancing around the patio. A habit she no doubt formed back in L.A. where she stemmed from.

The sun collectively starts to beat down on us as she exaggeratedly pats her forehead with a napkin. I grin behind my sandwich in anticipation of what’s coming.

“I can’t believe I gave up California temperatures for this .”

Early spring in Texas is a toss-up in weather, though it’s mildly comfortable today—at least for me, which gave me the perfect excuse to get Rosie out of the office so our conversation didn’t drift into the wrong ears.

What Rosie Knows is one of the most celebrated and most-read columns at Austin Speak. With her connections in entertainment and media and her expertise in unearthing celebrity gossip, we got a considerable circulation boost when she started at the paper. She has a penchant, if not a God-given talent, for sniffing out news before any other source. She’s rarely, if ever, scooped.

In college, I followed her gossip blog and podcast like religion and brought her talent up to Dad on multiple occasions in an attempt to get her to Austin. So, when Dad finally made the call to recruit her, we sweetened the deal by offering to sponsor her podcast nationally through my mother’s media company.

Even with that bait, it surprised the hell out of us both when she accepted and traded in California weather for the sweltering Texas sun six months out of the year.

A perk of when she’s here is that she’s one less testosterone-driven man to take up Austin Speak office space, for which I’m thankful. Because of my admiration for her work—and our closeness in age—we took up easily together as friends, so my lunch invitation isn’t out of the ordinary. However, my motive for extending the invite is far from innocent.

“What are you working on?” she asks, forking a bite with a manicured hand, her blonde locks pulled into a high ponytail. Though she’s got a little of that California-bred Barbie look going on, she’s down-to-earth and can quickly shift to a split-tongued devil when provoked. These traits made her an instant ally. She can drive the most ego-driven man to his knees on any given day of her choosing. Another reason to love Rosie today is that she’s prompting me with the right questions out of the gate. Bless her.

I shrug nonchalantly. “Just going through the archives and pulling old columns for the thirtieth edition. We’re going to highlight the headlines that got the paper where it is today. I just finished year one.”

“Damn, that’s a task.”

“I’m up for it and have months to prepare, so I’m determined to do it justice.” I sip my lemonade and decide it’s go time. “I’m sorting through some of Stella’s old articles now.”

Rosie’s eyes widen, letting me know she’s already on the hook. Despite her age and the fact that she’s brushed elbows with countless A-list celebrities, she is a die-hard fan of all things Crowne family.

“Oh,” she jumps in her seat as if in afterthought. “Speaking of,” she palms her forehead dramatically as I hold in my chuckle. “I totally forgot. I just got a line on something big .”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask, keeping my tone even and proud of my acting skills for the moment. “What’s that?”

“Well, according to my source,” she starts as we share a smile, “young Crowne is releasing a debut album very soon.”

“Young Crowne? You mean—”

“Elliot Easton Crowne.” She fans herself as I try to conceal my victory smile behind my sandwich. Here we go.

“Did you know Easton was named after The Cars guitarist; you know, the band who wrote the song—”

“Drive,” I finish for her, clear hearts flashing in her eyes.

“Technically, a man named Ben wrote that song and sang it, but Ben was obviously taken because Ben First is the Sergeants’ lead singer. He and Lexi made Benji, who is fire hot as fuck now, by the way.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah, at least the last time he was pictured. I’m guessing Easton’s namesake was Stella’s idea, and she didn’t like Rick.”

“Rick?”

“The lead singer of The Cars.”

“Ah.”

“So, I’m assuming they grabbed Easton’s name because you know Stella believes in all that cosmic stuff,” she waves her hand around animatedly, “and that song helped bring them back together, so no doubt that’s where he got his namesake.”

Recalling the movie, I place the part where Stella walked into a club she used to frequent with Reid and discovered him singing her favorite song as if willing her back to him. I’d teared up watching it as she sobbed at the edge of the stage while Reid sang, oblivious that she was standing there. That scene took place just before the end of the movie, a few scenes before they found each other in Seattle.

“I watched the movie last night,” I declare, knowing it will earn me points.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I mean, I’ve been reading her articles, so I got curious.”

Rosie sighs dreamily. “It’s still my favorite.”

As subtly as I can, I lead her back to the point. “So, Easton’s releasing a debut album? I didn’t even know he was a musician.”

“Honey, have you seen a recent picture of Easton Crowne?” She admonishes, pulling up her phone and tapping furiously.

While I do genuinely love Rosie and her company, this behavior is precisely why I dragged her out of the office to dig around. If there’s any dirt—good or bad—on the Crownes, she’s the one to go to. Reid and Stella’s story is one she considers a modern-day Elvis and Priscilla. Though it’s old news, it happens to be her favorite news, especially since King and Queen Crowne had a prince. A prince that’s rarely ever mentioned in the media.

I must admit, as much as my father’s relationship with Stella intrigues me, so does the other half of the story. Stella’s half. Maybe if I get closer to that half, I’ll find some of the answers I seek.

I’m just not sure what the questions are . . . yet.

It’s when Rosie lifts the phone that I’m struck by just how much of the other side exists. Hazel eyes glare back at me—or rather at the camera—as I take her phone and study the picture, cupping shade over it with my hand.

“Yeah, honey, take your time and drink that man in. Mm Mm Mm.”

Grinning due to her reaction, I do. From the top of his six-plus frame lays thick unruly, jet-black hair which juts out beneath a beanie. In this particular shot, he’s dressed in a form-fitting, faded grey thermal, dark, snug-fitting jeans, a plastic bag of takeout in one hand, the other grips the handle of an ancient, black box Chevy Truck. His posture next to it insinuates protection as if the truck has sentimental value while he scowls at the pap taking the picture. Everything in his demeanor screams, ‘fuck off.’

“It’s clear he hates the camera,” I note.

“That’s why he’s releasing it without promoting it.”

“What?”

“Yes, girl, no PR, no press announcement, no warning at all, and from what I was told, he’s not planning on granting a single interview. Which is crazy considering—”

“Stella is a journalist,” I interject.

“Exactly, Easton Crowne either doesn’t give a shit if it sells a single copy, or he hates the media so much he’s not willing to help himself get the word out. If the photos are any indication—”

“It’s definitely the latter,” I finish for her.

“Right. He’s been almost impossible to photograph over the years—along with all the Sergeants’ other kids—which has, of course, made his photos worth a shitload and the paps more relentless.” She finally bites into her salad, but that doesn’t stop her gushing. “The whole damned band has done a good job keeping their kids out of the spotlight over the years to the point they’re hardly recognizable now. But daaaaammmmn, just look at him.” She sighs. “I’m willing to bet his father is helping him produce, and he doesn’t want that out.”

And that’s your in, Natalie.

I jump on it. “Keep that out of it. We don’t want legal breathing down our necks.”

“Sure?” she asks. “It’s just speculation.”

“Even so, as protective as they are, we don’t need the headache. Trust me. The fact that he’s releasing an album will be enough.”

“Agreed,” she says quickly when I hand the phone back, and she again admires the picture. “Damn, he’s gorgeous.”

“And a raging asshole from the looks of it,” I say through a mouthful.

“Hard to believe Stella worked at Speak and then went on to marry a rock star,” she sighs wistfully.

“She helped make him a rock star,” I remind her. And my father helped make her . That part I leave out as the movie replays in my head, and the underlying resentment again begins to simmer.

“I think that might be why I took the job at Speak,” she says, swatting a fly away from her lettuce. “Damn sure isn’t the weather here.”

I nod, my thoughts beginning to wander back to the emails.

“Lucky bitch,” Rosie adds. “Can you even imagine what it’s like to have the attention of a man like that?”

I shake my head as her eyes light, and dread courses through me as I anticipate Rosie’s next words. She again delivers.

“You know, maybe you could contact her. Stella is down to earth, seems like a remember your roots and pay homage type of gal. I bet she would give you a quote or a few paragraphs about her time during the startup of the paper. It could really boost circulation.”

“Not a bad idea.” I lie, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “I’ll bring it up with Dad.”

Never.

Never will I ever bring up Stella in front of my father again. “When are you planning on publishing the article about Easton?”

“I’m still digging around,” she says, “but I’ll have it up by Monday.”

It’s Wednesday, and if I decide to use this angle, I’ll have to work fast.

Casually, I pick up my lemonade as my head swims with possible scenarios. “So, what else is going on?”