Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

SIX “Honest”

SIX

“Honest”

Kyndal Inskeep, The Song House

Natalie

I n a matter of minutes, we’re parked just outside a closed storefront. Easton eases his key out of the ignition and reaches into the small space behind the bench seat producing an army-style faded green jacket. He hands it to me before wordlessly exiting the truck. While packing, I hadn’t at all prepared for Seattle’s spring temperatures versus Texas’s. I blame my lack of sleep caused by the spell I’ve been under since I opened the email chain between our parents. Before I left Austin, I transferred the file to my laptop, and by the time I landed in Seattle, I had read through nearly two and a half years of their relationship—which only drew me further into confusion as to why they split up.

The love between them was so there, so evident, that I found myself tearing up multiple times due to loss alone.

I’ve been so completely immersed in their world that I barely remember checking into my hotel. Without so much as glancing around my room, I dumped my suitcase and stared up at the ceiling before managing to get a few restless hours of sleep. Feeling as insane as the acts I’m committing, I decided after waking I had no choice but to see my emotionally induced, half-baked scheme through. Just as out of sorts now—jet lag kicking in fully—I slide on the offered jacket with a soft “thank you,” meeting Easton at the tailgate of his truck. As we start a silent walk, the material of his jacket blankets me in warmth as an earthy, birchwood scent drifts from the collar. The smell is both divine and comforting.

Allowing Easton to take the lead, I follow him down a small shop-littered street that looks catered to tourists. It’s picturesque, almost romantic in feel as the sun peeks through the flowering blooms, christening the large branches of the towering trees that line both sides of the street.

Easton slows his pace slightly as if taking in the scenery for himself before veering towards a sidewalk leading us past the Mural Amphitheater at Seattle Center, which sits to our left. An extensive view of the Space Needle hovers above the cinema screen-sized mural. Stopping, I take a quick picture with my cell as Easton continues to walk with purpose just ahead of me. It’s then I’m able to fully admire the outline of his build. I guesstimate his height somewhere around six-foot-two, six-foot-three. The cut of his tight jeans outlines both his thick muscular thighs and ample ass. His simple, form-fitting thermal clings to a trim waist, stretching over his muscular back before straining against the width of broad shoulders and bulging biceps.

The man clearly takes care of himself and seems to be in peak condition. If I’m going by looks alone, his genetic makeup will make him an idyllic and mouthwatering front man.

I was momentarily dizzied by the sight of him when he removed his hat at the tavern, and his dark, thick locks fell to rest just below his ears, enhancing his dark lashes and jawline. His presence is more surreal in motion, his chiseled profile and alluring gaze digging into me as he glances my way before I catch up.

After waking and rushing to get ready, I’d only slapped the bare essentials on my face. While he wears the rumpled ‘fresh out of fucks given’ look like he was born to do it, I look like I could use a lesson in self-care, a far, far cry from my put-together, everyday look back home. I can’t exactly hate that I overslept today because I have no doubt if I had arrived at the bar in any sort of business dress, I would have gotten less than the five minutes he originally gave me.

Within a few hurried steps, we’re at the entrance of Chihuly Garden and Glass. Before I have a chance to pull out my card for my ticket, Easton is slipping his wallet back into his jean pocket, two in hand. I mask my confusion as to why we’re here but simply follow him without prompt because I lost control of the day the second I slipped into his truck.

Within minutes, we’re entering a darkened room centered around an illuminated glass work of art. Easton steps out the way of those entering the room behind us, putting a large amount of space between us and those taking photos as he stares at the sea of multicolored blown glass. Standing near the back of the room, I play along during a few uneasy moments of silence before finally speaking up.

“Okay, you’ve made your point. You’re a man of few words,” I whisper. “Why are we here?”

“I haven’t been here since I was a kid,” he says thoughtfully as if he’s speaking first, not answering my question.

“Okay. Why am I here?”

“This is your first time in Seattle.” Not a question and something he shouldn’t know but a fact that I made easy to gather. Right now, I’m a sleep-deprived, directionless, emotional mess due to the revelation of my dad’s past life and my deception. Even so, I’m determined to try and take some control back. As the thought occurs to me to do better, I feel my energy waning further.

“Are we going to the Space Needle too? How about Pike’s Market?” I quip, well aware of the city’s most frequented tourist stops.

He nods toward the glass. “You don’t think seeing this is worth the price of admission?” His eyes are lit with appreciation as he darts them over to me.

“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t pay for it. Thank you for that, by the way . . . and it’s beautiful, but—”

“But?”

“But I’m not writing a puff piece, Easton.”

“You’re not writing anything at the moment, are you?”

I dart my gaze away.

His eyes remain on my profile as I bite my lip and stuff my hands in his jacket pockets. Amongst the contents, I feel a lighter, a safety pin, and pull a package out to see a dual pack of condoms—LELO-HEX-XL. My eyes fly to his, his expression not changing a fraction as I quickly stuff the package back into my pocket.

“Congratulations,” I mutter dryly with an eyeroll before darting my gaze back to the brightly lit piece.

We stand in silence for another few seconds before I speak again.

“You’ve never given an interview,” I whisper.

“No.”

“So why wouldn’t I want to be the first?”

He shakes his head ironically, a clear call of bullshit. He’s sensing an ulterior motive for my visit, and with every passing minute I remain vague, I’m giving him every reason to suspect me. Fleeing his evasive stare, I leave Easton’s side and walk to the edge of the installation. Bright red cornstalk-shaped lightning rods surround a small patch of yellow glass resembling lily pads. Just beyond, green spikes surround and accentuate a portion of the fixture before similar stalks in indigo blue sit in a cluster around a large, red-based, twisted pile of glass, the top of it colored neon yellow. It’s as if the whole installation is developing, reaching for something higher. The more I take in, the more my appreciation grows for the imagination and thought put into the work and the symphony of colors situated in an array of mind-boggling patterns. All of which are fused together in a way that shouldn’t flow but do so effortlessly.

Sensing Easton at my back, I feel a faint tug on the tips of my hair before my whole body erupts in chills.

Did he just touch my hair?

Feeling surrounded by him, I tilt my head toward the collar of his jacket and gather another hit of his scent. It’s intoxicating, knowing he’s at my back, and maybe, he’s just as curious about me as I am about him.

I blow out a breath, feeling a sort of intimate shift between us, the need to explain myself a little more pushing front and center. Hopefully, in doing so, I’ll be able to lower an inch of his seemingly impenetrable guard. His love language seems to consist of honesty, and if I want to grasp any of the insight to the other side I’m seeking, I’m going to have to keep it real with him. Already feeling exposed and in such a short amount of time, owing to his keen perception and invasive gaze, I decide to go in with a personal truth.

“There’s a famous picture,” I rasp out, “called “The Vulture and the Little Girl.” It was taken by a photojournalist named Kevin Carter,” I glance back at Easton, who’s now standing beside me. I see his gaze gliding along my profile, his own dimly lit by the spotlight on the sculpture. “Do you know of it?”

He gently shakes his head as I flit my focus back to the installation.

“In this picture, a Sudanese girl is starving to death.” The image I stared at for endless days appears in my mind with little prompt. “The way she’s postured, on her knees, hunched over, it’s as if she’s in the midst of desperate prayer.” I draw upon the memory of the image, and the details become clearer. “She’s got nothing but a necklace on, her outline skin and bones, clearly on the verge of death. She looks so small, so tiny, so helpless, and it’s easy to conclude her time is running out. And, Jesus,” I say, unable to help the tremble in my voice as Easton inches toward me. “Just behind her sits a vulture who’s close to the size of her. His presence is menacing because you know it’s just waiting for the chance to pick her apart.” I swallow, trying desperately to reel my emotion in.

“Anyway, the photo appeared in the New York Times, and Carter won a Pulitzer for it. But the only question I had after seeing it was what action he took to protect her after he snapped that photo.” Anger surfaces at my initial reaction and the mixed reports I read on the web just after. “And I wasn’t the only one. Soon after, the paper and Kevin were put under fire regarding the fate of the girl and what Kevin did personally for her after he snapped the photo. You see, by industry standards, Kevin did his job. He reported the truth of the situation with a powerful image bringing awareness about the famine. Still, the fact that his actions after were put into question is another thing entirely.”

The image again flits through my mind, forever burned in my brain. “In my eyes, there should never have been a muddled story behind what happened after he took that photo. One report stated he was standing near a waiting plane and used a long lens to take the shot and had no way of helping.” I shake my head. “An excuse I found inexcusable. How could any human being walk away from a dying child who was about to be picked apart by a bird?” I close my eyes in disgust. “Not only that, it was a separate team of people altogether who investigated what happened to that starving girl—who turned out to be a boy— after the photo was taken. Initially, there were so many conflicting reports, facts seemed impossible to come by.”

Silence stretches for a few seconds before Easton speaks up. “What happened to him?”

“He didn’t die that day, and according to Kevin’s recount, he chased the bird away, and the “girl” managed to make it to camp where they were unloading food. What still infuriated me is that Kevin received the greatest of honors for the shot but never once investigated her fate for himself. It was the concern of others and the criticism he received for not knowing after taking that shot that became a defining moment for me. Then and there, I decided exactly what type of truth-seeker and journalist I wanted to be and that I would never aspire to be Kevin Carter.”

I look over to Easton. “And I won’t be the vulture, either.” His eyes bore into mine. “Nor will I be the one to feed them. If you don’t understand or care to know anything else, please know that about me.”

I look back at the sculpture. “But that’s the thing about perception. I initially hated Kevin for his lack of action and the vague reports about the after and fed into the negative beliefs about his judgment and character . . . until I found out he committed suicide months later due to depression. Clearly, his work was affecting him on a massive scale. His empathy for having witnessed far too much in his career had taken a significant toll on his mental health.

“In his suicide note, he stated he couldn’t handle the amount of pain in the world. I assume the backlash he took from having shot that picture added to that. Even though it was taken almost two decades before I was born, I was just as guilty, so quick to condemn him like everyone else. Maybe he did lie to save face, or perhaps he’d already become so ill from what he’d witnessed that he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to step in because he was too busy trying to find reasons to continue his own life. Maybe he saw himself in that little girl, and in turn, those who judged him became the vultures. That’s when I became obsessed with getting the whole story, gathering all the facts before I put out any human-interest piece. Sadly, his suicide isn’t even mentioned in some of the articles, and I have no doubt it’s because people are so quick to villainize someone and keep negative perceptions prominent in the world we live in. The day I read about Kevin’s suicide was the day I realized the true power of the media and what damage an incomplete or biased story is capable of causing. Even now, I don’t think we’ll ever know the facts or complete truth of that story.” I shrug, “Maybe my theory is wrong.”

With the slight tilt of his head, Easton weighs my words.

“Easton, tell me why you’re so hesitant to give an interview for something you’re signing up for.”

He focuses back on the installation as bated silence ensues but surprises me when he finally speaks up. “The most I have to give to anyone is my music. That’s personal enough.”

“But it discredits you as a human being.”

“I don’t want to be human, not for them, because I’ll be crucified no matter what, and you can’t convince me otherwise. I want to—strike that—I have to keep a piece of myself for me and those close to me.”

“But what if your music inspires people so much they can relate and want to know more about you?”

“Then it’s the music they relate to, my feelings, my experiences, maybe my politics or beliefs at the time I was feeling them when I wrote it. I don’t want to be held to some inhuman standard. I want to be able to make mistakes and evolve, just like everyone else. So, no, I’m not signing up for anything. I’m sharing my music. That’s it. I don’t want anything else from it.”

He looks over to me, his voice grave.

“I wasn’t made for this, Natalie. Creating and playing may be the only thing that comes naturally to me—and might be construed as talent—but the fame aspect is not something I’ve ever wanted, and I was born into it. It makes me feel less than human. I feel trapped, imprisoned by it, and for that, yeah, I’m just fucking unappreciative. As selfish as it may seem, I don’t want to be responsible for people that way. If I play, it will be for entertainment. I’m no one’s messiah and don’t strive to be. Kind of like your Kevin Carter. I know exactly what I want and what I don’t. I want my music heard. I want to play it for those who enjoy it. That’s it. I don’t want you to print any of this to paint a picture of another fucking ungrateful rock star’s kid, who already feels trapped by fame before he even releases. It’s my worst nightmare. Pick a different angle, any fucking angle.”

“It’s the truth.”

“It’s part of the truth,” he insists, not giving me anything else.

“We don’t have to be friends, Easton, and I may grill you for the truth, but I can promise you that I won’t sacrifice any part of you for them .”

He remains silent, his jade gaze magnetic as we stare off.

“I know I haven’t given you a single reason to trust me, and I may seem a little out of . . .” my fucking mind , “sorts, but I assure you I am capable of writing an honest story full of whatever your truth may be. If you decide to grant me an interview.”

He nods, unrelenting in his observation of me as more silence ensues.

“Will you at least tell me what you’re thinking right now?”

“I think you’re beautiful,” he rasps out, “and I feel sorry for you.”

I can’t help the bark of a laugh that bursts from me as my pride takes another solid hit. “ Screw you, Crowne. ”

His lips lift slightly in another almost smile before he extends an open hand toward me. “Come on.”

Frowning, I stare at his outstretched hand as he extends it further, urging me to take it. Hesitantly I grasp it, and he encases it in his warm palm before leading me into the next room.

We don’t exchange a single word as we go through the rest of the property. Still, he remains close, our arms brushing as he glances over at me every couple of minutes—strangely in silent support and apparently ready to listen.

He probably thinks I’m a little crazy or cracking up.

Currently, I fear he might not be wrong.

Once we leave the garden, he drives around the outskirts of the city. The music blaring as the whipping wind circulates through the ancient Chevy, and the heater blows at our feet. Every so often, I glance over at him as he drives, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. I have no doubt those thoughts are keeping him in better company because, for the umpteenth time since I got to Seattle, I’m questioning why I’m here. All I do know is right now, I feel incapable of taking the lead. The self-assured, confident, steadfast, focused woman I was before I opened those emails is nowhere in the vicinity.

Sadly, but truthfully, I’m thankful for the distance between myself and the people that know me best—especially my father. But even that tiny relief brings its own type of guilt.

After endless miles of relaxed silence with music continually flowing, Easton finally asks me where I’m staying. Not long after, he pulls up to the circular entrance of The Edgewater Hotel. The sliding doors are to our right, and a fire roars in the large stone column on the left. The heavy repeat of the engine amplifies to an obnoxious level when he puts the truck in park and turns to me.

“As odd as the day was, thank you,” I say, too exhausted to be embarrassed.

He dips his chin, his gaze dancing along my windblown hair before his eyes snap back to mine.

“Um . . . look, I fly home on Sunday, so if you are still willing to do an interview, I guess . . . well, you have my number.”

Another subtle dip of his chin gives me no inclination either way as I drink in his features. Knowing what the odds are, I’ll probably never see him again. In all honesty, I wouldn’t have blamed him if he dumped me roadside hours ago.

“It’s been . . .,” a laugh bursts from me, and his lips lift slightly in response. Something inside me mourns the fact I’ll never see Easton Crowne smile.

“Bye,” I whisper, shutting his truck door before walking through the lobby doors, fighting not to look back. I don’t hear his truck engine rev until I’m well past the reception desk.