Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

THREE “Runaway Train”

THREE

“Runaway Train”

Soul Asylum

Natalie

T he clock is ticking. That truth continues to bounce through my racing mind as I do my best to psych myself up, still trying to justify the reasoning behind the act I’m about to commit.

So, maybe part of the job of an investigative reporter involves a little bit of calculating as well. No budding journalist worth their salt can skirt the fact that it takes some manipulation—along with a set of brass balls—to get in where you can fit in, at least during the formative years.

Facts are, unless you’ve established a name for yourself as a journalist, few will pay you a bit of attention unless the subject of the story is newsworthy. It’s a dog-eat-dog world in media, always has been, and unfortunately, due to the increasingly cutthroat nature of instant news—as in reporting a full-fledged story within hours before you’re scooped—it appears it always will be. Rosie is confident in her position that no one else has a clue on the line she’s landed on Easton; because of that, I have the luxury of the window that I do.

Typically, Rosie would hit publish on such a worthy headline within hours. She’s holding back due to confidence in her source, and maybe due to her slight obsession with the subject and her need to get it just right—which buys me time. The downside? It also gives me time to go to war with myself morally, and that’s where I’m at.

Before today, I prided myself in not becoming the type of dog to go cannibal. In fact, I want to be just the opposite. Every story I’ve penned so far, I’ve also stamped with a level of integrity I haven’t wavered from. If I do this, if I manipulate this situation out of curiosity, I may not be able to sleep as heavily as I have thus far.

Am I really willing to cross a line I’ve refused to every day of my short career for answers that won’t help my current position? I’m not scooping Rosie, and this isn’t my story. What harm could it do just to dig a little, to get a glimpse of the other side?

“Just fucking do it,” I scold myself. Eyes fixed on the most recent shot of Easton—which Rosie pulled up at lunch—I keep my peripheral vision sharp, mainly on my father as he sits at his desk.

Aside from his open hostility toward the media, the rest of Easton Crowne remains a mystery. There’s so little about him on the web it’s ridiculous, especially in this day and age. It’s absolutely astounding to me that there are literally crumbs and nothing more. Rosie is right. The entire band did everything to protect the identity and privacy of their children, and now that they are all grown, they seem to be keeping it that way by choice. It’s plausible they hired someone or a team of someones to help them with that task over the years—which has proved money well spent.

Even more staggering is that the entire Sergeants’ family seems to have an impenetrable circle of people they trust who haven’t sold them out to the media—until now— which is another astonishing rarity indeed. Rosie has never, nor will ever, reveal a source who wishes to remain anonymous. If I want to know the who, as far as her source is concerned, I’ll have to figure it out on my own.

But that’s not my intention.

What is your intention, Natalie?

The answer is becoming as clear as the line that appeared yesterday—the need to know that’s ingrained in my psyche.

Not just a part of a story but the whole of it. A need that’s been embedded in my bones ever since I was a child.

All I do know at this point—especially after reading a few more emails between Stella and Dad—is that I’m becoming more and more curious about the other side. As I war with myself, I decide to make rules, new rules, and create a new uncrossable line that will allow me to get close enough to the fire to see what it consists of, but remain far enough away not to get burned.

I’ll draw the line at any point to spare my father because of the line I’ve already crossed by invading his privacy. Come what may, I’ll take the heat upon myself to protect him from a single degree of it.

Gazing at the picture while gathering more courage, I surmise that the only thing evident about Easton Crowne is that he’s good-looking. Yet, there’s a bit of depth to his angry stare. His evident aversion to the press is slightly surprising because of his mother’s position as one of the world’s leading music journalists. At the same time, it isn’t surprising he hates the media. Being a child of a celebrity, two celebrities, couldn’t have been easy.

As I study the beautiful byproduct of my father’s heartbreak, a few things become clear.

One, I’ll have to tread lightly with him. Easton is, no doubt, well versed in how to handle the press and does so mainly with blatant hostility.

Two, he’ll probably fall under one of two categories. He’s either an entitled celebutante or mature beyond his years and smug because of it. From his expression, I’m guessing it’s the latter.

Inhaling a calming breath, I muster the courage to dial the number. My window is closing, and I’ve only got four and a half days to pull this off. Not only that, I’ll have to do it completely off my parents’ radar. Guilt surfaces again as I hang up the phone before the end of the first ring and groan in frustration.

Dad hid the facts from me. Therefore, I’m safe in playing ignorant. But if I’m not careful, I could hurt him. It’s deceptive as hell, but because of Rosie, I’m covered regardless. Summoning my confidence, I dial again and brace myself for the inevitable backlash. Phone to my ear, I kick back in my office, crossing the expensive Choo pumps Mom gifted me for graduation on my desktop.

“’Lo?”

“Hi, Easton, I—”

The line goes silent due to disconnect.

I bark out a laugh, knowing he thinks I’m some groupie who became privy to his personal cell number. Deciding to go all in, I type up and take a screenshot of the beginning of a mock article before shooting it off with an accompanying text.

I’m not a groupie. Feel free to dial me back.

Three minutes later, my phone rattles in my hand, and I can’t help the victorious lift of my lips. Without uttering a word, Easton just confirmed Rosie’s source is legitimate.

“Let’s try this again, shall we? Hi, Easton.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“If you give me a chance to tell you—”

“Cut the shit. How did you get the information?”

“It’s my job.”

“Fucking press.” Though he’s speaking low, his timbre reeks of mildly reserved disgust, like he’s holding himself back from doing real damage to me. “I’m not talking to you unless you tell me who the fuck you are.”

“My name is Natalie Hearst. I work for Austin Speak.”

I’m met by another telltale silence, which only confirms he’s aware his mother used to work here. It’s then I cling to the hope that he may know something that might help me fill in the why of the secrecy. Intuition tells me to follow my gut, just as fresh venom snakes over the line.

“What the hell do you want?”

“My father and your mother used to date. I didn’t know if you were aware of that—”

“If this is some ploy to get to my parents—”

“If I wanted your mother’s audience, I’m pretty sure I could get it considering . . . Look, I’ll be frank since that seems to be your love language, and I’m fluent. I’m only interested in interviewing you on your upcoming debut album.” Lie . “I have to say, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m a huge fan of your mother’s work and the Sergeants.” Truth . “But I’d love to get an exclusive with you before you release.”

“You have no basis—”

“You’ve already confirmed it’s true by calling me back.” I go all in. “Maybe we can even do a sidebar with you and your dad and his involvement in producing it.”

More silence, and it’s damning.

“None of this is public fucking information.”

“Look, I know you don’t want it out, but it’s happening, and it’s my job to fish out the details. Although help from your father isn’t exactly newsworthy, considering it would be expected support. But if you’re so adamant about it, we can leave that part out. Either way, we’re reporting you’re releasing a debut album because apparently, you won’t, and I think it’s only fair that we hear from you, especially regarding your reasoning behind—”

“This is blackmail.”

“Hardly. It’s a chance to get your view in print.”

“It’s fucking blackmail to grant an interview.”

“Tomato, toe-mah-toe.”

“Tell me this, how is an exclusive in a regional fucking paper going to help promote my album?”

“First of all, your mother’s illustrious career started with this regional paper, and it’s about to celebrate thirty years in print, so a modicum of respect would be appreciated. A paper, by the way, which was ad-based and is now owned by a major media company that reports nationally and makes your point even more moot. I’m assuming the reason for your silence is that you don’t want the media’s help, but—”

“Doesn’t seem I have a fucking choice in the matter anymore, does it?” he snaps furiously.

“No. This is going to print with or without your say, so it would probably be in your best interest to put yourself on record with a viewpoint for your reasoning—speaking of which, we have a common goal. While you’re adamant about keeping your own father’s involvement with your career out of the story, I feel the same way. So, if you agree not to breathe a word of this to your parents, I’ll leave your father’s involvement in producing out of it altogether.”

“Pretty ridiculous, considering your fucking name will be on it.”

“That’s my cross to bear and my issue to deal with after the fact. However, this is my offer, and it expires in exactly one minute.”

This is where it gets tricky. If Easton disagrees, the lead ends here because if Dad catches wind, I’ll have to explain to him I was fact-checking for Rosie—after I found the emails. He won’t be happy, but he’ll be far less furious with me. I eye Dad over my monitor, hating myself briefly for the deception before pushing all my chips in.

“Easton, I really don’t want—”

Easton’s resigned sigh cuts me off before I can get any assuring sentiment out. “How soon can you get to Seattle?”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Don’t expect a fucking warm reception.”

My victorious smile is only dimmed by the pit growing in my stomach.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll text you once I lan—”

The line goes dead as I kick back in my seat, listing and mentally ticking off all the ways this can go horribly wrong.

If my father figures out that I am using his paper’s credibility or his past relationship with Stella to gain a false interview, he could very well fire me. Not to mention the damage it will cause to our relationship. My only cover for this is Rosie and will remain Rosie. But my advantage with Easton is I’m the only one who knows it.

But is it worth it?

Easton could be and probably is just as clueless about our parents’ past relationship as I am. The pregnant pause when I mentioned the paper tells me he may know enough to lead me to a missing piece. Do I really want to go this far for it?

Why can’t I just let it go?

Fed up with questions I could already have answers to, I do the unforgivable thing I shouldn’t. I open the emails and again begin to read.

“Explain this to me again,” Dad says as he thrusts a wooden bowl of my mother’s pasta salad toward me in offering as she lines my plate with garlic Texas Toast. Tonight, Mom has laid out a spread of my favorites on the large oak patio table on the back deck of our expansive ranch home. The patio borders endless acres of perfectly manicured grass. Though I moved out my second year attending UT, I dine with them twice a week. My gaze flicks past my doting parents, who continually fill my plate as I eye the stable full of our horses we never neglect to ride. Though Dad opts out most days, Mom and I share a deep bond in all things equestrian. Nostalgia kicks in as I scan the grounds with appreciation.

When I was young, I knew I was lucky to have the wide-open space in which I acted out my imagination. An imagination that kept me company until my diapers-to-adult best friends Holly and Damon came along, becoming staples in our family. My parents worked long hours to create their combined empire. The tradeoff was that their collective best friends gave me the siblings they didn’t provide. While Mom was born into inheriting her media company from my grandparents, my father worked his way in from the ground up with Austin Speak, becoming editor in chief at only twenty-six. After marrying, they collectively came together and became a reckoning force. Even with the resources, Dad has always kept the paper on a smaller scale. As I stated to Easton, it’s become a nationally recognized news source.

“Earth to Natalie,” Mom muses, drawing me back to them both.

“I’ll only be gone for three, four days tops,” I reiterate, pulling my attention back to and between them. Guilt and a lingering ache in my chest combine, taking my appetite as I push my food around. I’ve already come this far, so I decide to lay out more of my rehearsed excuses.

“I’ve already hit my deadlines,” I report to Dad as he studies me closely, “and honestly, I’m in need of a little R & R. I’m thinking I’ll take a little road trip.”

“Holly can’t go with you?” Mom asks as I sip my beer and shake my head.

“No, she’s got finals coming up.” Truth . But I didn’t ask her. This is a secret I plan to take to my grave. As close as Holly and I are, there’s not a chance in hell she’ll understand why I’m going. Truth be known, I don’t really understand it myself.

“Alone,” Dad repeats, his suspicion and concern dueling.

“Journalists do it all the time,” I admonish.

“For work ,” he drags out as he calls bullshit. “Does this have anything to do with our conversation yesterday?”

“What conversation?” Mom asks, looking between us just as warily.

Shit .

“I think our daughter is seeing someone,” Dad speculates.

Thank God.

“No, I’m not,” I correct defensively, which sadly only makes me look more guilty. “I’m just steps ahead of everything at the office right now, and I want some me time. I haven’t taken any off since graduating,” I point out.

“True,” Mom says.

“I’m already narrowing down my articles for the thirtieth anniversary,” I turn to Dad as he mulls over my words.

“You seem confident.”

“It’s inherited.” That remark earns me a dazzling grin from him. “Besides, I’ve been reading Speak since I was five. Memory alone has served me well in picking out the majority of articles to highlight already, and we still have months before it goes to print.”

“Something’s up,” Mom weighs in, aiding Dad’s suspicions as I make peace with the fact there’s no chance of an acting career in my future. I’ll have to up my game tomorrow when I come face-to-face with Easton, or I’ll be screwed.

“Nothing is up. I’m just a little burnt out. I need . . . something .” Dumping more pasta onto my plate to keep my hands busy, I let a little fake annoyance through. “I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“All right, baby, if that’s what you need,” Dad acquiesces as he and Mom do that freaky silent communication thing and collectively decide to drop it.

Considering my emotions are all over the place from the latest emails I inhaled before I arrived, I decide I’m doing an okay job because inwardly, I’m freaking out. I’m set to board a red-eye halfway across the country in a few hours and feel relieved they haven’t grilled me so much on the where but mainly on the why. Thankful I pay my own AmEx bill, I look over to my father as he pops a beer and reaffirms my decision that he’ll never know. Even if I have been granted the first and only interview with Easton Crowne—which would no doubt boost circulation—I’ll never use a word of it. That’s the only way I’ll ever live with myself for doing something so deceptive.

With a raw heart and hellfire gnawing my conscience, I drain my beer and look between my parents, only to catch more of their conspiratorial expressions. Though they’re still in silent communication mode, there’s a pride in their eyes as they both turn to look back at me.

“What?” I roll my eyes. “It’s freaky when you do that, you know.”

“What?” Dad asks, his grin growing.

“Talk without speaking.”

Dad gives Mom a smug smirk. “When you’re married to someone nearly a quarter of a century—or the right person—it comes naturally, trust me.”

My parents have always been considered the ‘it’ couple amongst their friends, not that they care. Mom was right in saying I knew the details of how they met—a media conference in Chicago. The way Mom tells it, she took one look at my dad and lost the sense God gave her.

Mom always jokingly calls him her longest one-night stand.

Dad calls her the one that will never get away.

Sadly, I get that part of it now and no longer find it romantic.

After a whirlwind romance, they married just shy of a year of dating, and neither looked back.

Or have they?

There’s been maybe one month of my life where I wasn’t sure if I’d become another statistic of divorce. I was seven. During that time, Mom took me to stay with my grandparents for a week. When we got home, something had changed. They put on a good front for me, but more weeks passed before things truly got back to normal. There was a second shift, and they’ve been fine ever since. I’ve never spent much time thinking about it, but now I’m curious as to why.

“Where is your head tonight, daughter of mine?” Mom asks, a grin on her face as she glances back at my dad with bulging quizzical eyes. With the lift of a shoulder, he pops the top of another beer before reaching down to scratch the ears of our ancient basset hound, Sparky. Forcing myself back into the moment, I scrutinize the two of them.

“Who made the first move?” I ask, tipping my own beer to start a dangerous line of questioning.

They each point their bottles at the other with a smile, like it’s some inside joke.

“Seriously,” I ask. “Who started it?” Inside I pray for satisfaction. Everything inside me wants it to be my father. Much to my dismay, he points the neck of his bottle toward Mom.

“The hell I did, Butler. I couldn’t get away from you fast enough,” she sasses with an exaggerated eyeroll. “Smug, arrogant,” she ticks off before turning to me, “your father was a true jackass.”

“We didn’t like each other much,” Dad adds, “at first , but I damn sure liked what I saw at that party.”

“Until I shot him down,” Mom quips, tabling her empty beer and snatching his for a sip.

“We went toe to toe for weeks until I shut her up,” Dad continues.

Mom smiles in reply. “Not a bad way to be silenced.”

“This stays PG-13,” I remind them both through a forced grin.

“Let’s just say Nate didn’t like answering to me .”

My smile grows authentic as I grin between them. “So, Daddy, you didn’t know she was your new boss when you met at the party?”

“When he hit on me at the party,” Mom corrects. “Only to get shot down and shown up by his new boss the next day.”

“You knew?” I ask Mom.

“Oh yeah, once he introduced himself. So, I just let him run his game.”

“Let’s get this straight,” Dad spouts, taking his beer back, “you were never my boss. You only had me by the balls because the ad company you purchased bankrolled the controlling interest in my paper at that time .”

“Either way, you were completely misogynistic.” Mom widens her eyes at me. “Yep, baby. Hate to break it to you, but your father was a pig .”

“Horseshit,” he grins. “I just loved seeing you riled up. Especially in that red dress—which you only wore twice in two weeks because you saw my eyes dropping inappropriately when you did.”

“So, it was hate to love?” I ask between them.

“Not at first,” Mom says softly. “I had just jumped out of fresh hell with an ex, and your father had just endured the same not long before we met.”

Whipping my attention back and forth, I do my best to gauge their expressions for any bitterness, lingering sadness, or resentment—especially in my father’s eyes. Thankfully, I come up empty.

Be satisfied, Natalie. Be satisfied . Cancel your trip and move on with your life.

“So, you didn’t like each other, and then?”

“Then we did,” Mom says, her eyes meeting Dad’s for a loaded pause.

“Who broke first?”

“Baby, you’re rather inquisitive tonight,” Mom says, her brows drawing as she breaks her stare off with Dad. “Why such an interest?”

“You were getting to the sex part, weren’t you?” I divert, palming my forehead.

“Well, you weren’t immaculately conceived,” Dad delivers bluntly.

“No shit,” I say as Mom narrows her eyes. She doesn’t like me cursing but allows it because my father has the foulest of mouths. Not that I didn’t taste my fair share of soap or get grounded for PMS-induced emotional lash-outs by both.

“When did you know, Daddy? That it was Mom?”

He tilts his head, studying my mother, who stares back at him unabashedly. The answer settled somewhere in her chest. She knows it, and I’m the only clueless one. Dad grips my mother’s left hand, her large diamond glittering due to the candle burning at the center of the table as he slides his thumb along the back of it.

“I can’t wait until you get to figure that out for yourself,” Dad replies softly before turning to me, his blue eyes glowing with sentiment, “because it’s one of the best parts of living.”

“You aren’t going to tell me?”

“No,” Mom answers in reply, getting lost in the moment with my father.

They love each other, still, and it’s clear. They’ve spent my entire existence loving each other, so why am I so determined to dig into my father’s past?

Be satisfied, Natalie!

But I can’t, especially after living the first year of Dad’s old relationship—line by line—until I was forced away from my desk by Mom’s summons to dinner. I spent the entire ride to my childhood home in stunned silence, the truth evident. My father might have been madly in love with Stella Emerson, but Stella Emerson reciprocated that love fully, in black and white.

Even so, I’ve already gone too far.

This has to stop here.

One day I’ll summon the courage to ask, but for now, I need to let it go. If I back out of my half-baked plan now, good karma might give me a break for warning Easton that his secret was coming out. At least now he can prepare himself for the media shitstorm the announcement is sure to toss his way. I’ll just shoot him a text and cancel, assuring him of my word to keep Reid out of it, which will buy his silence.

Just as I reach for my cell to shoot him a text and refund my ticket, my phone lights up with an incoming text . . . from Easton.

EC: 415 Cedar Street @3

Guilt batters me as my parents begin to clear the table, their eyes lingering a bit longer on the other, no doubt from the reminiscence I drew out of them both with my prompting. Hands full of plates, Dad pauses behind Mom as she opens the sliding door. He leans in and kisses her shoulder, the look in his eye when he withdraws clearly not meant for me to see. Feeling sick, I avert my attention back to the Texas sun just as it dips below the horizon, coloring the sky a violent red.

What the hell are you doing, Natalie?

Just as I bring the question up, my phone lights up with a gate change announcement for my flight leaving for Washington in a few hours, and I’m not sure I’ll be on it.