Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

SEVEN “Devils Haircut”

SEVEN

“Devils Haircut”

Beck

Easton

E ntering the front door, I hear music drifting throughout as I start the trek across our expansive sunken living room before stepping up into the kitchen. I find Mom dressed in her usual at ease attire—one of Dad’s tour T-shirts, baggy sweats, and a messy bun. Studying her while she dutifully stirs a pot, I can’t help but notice she seems smaller in frame than she used to.

“What are you cooking?”

Mom jumps a foot off the floor before turning to me, eyes wide, one palm flattened to her chest, a partially coated wooden spoon gripped in the other. “What the fucking scary stalker type of an approach was that?” She widens her eyes as I chuckle. “Seriously, son, why didn’t you announce yourself?”

“Because you’re blaring Beck while cooking . . .” I eye the pot and the clock on the stove behind it, “. . . spaghetti at midnight. Seriously, Mom?” Chest heaving, she snatches a remote from the counter and taps a button furiously, lowering the volume.

“I couldn’t sleep. You didn’t text.”

“This again,” I sigh, ripping off my hat and running a hand through my hair. “I’m moving out.”

“Not yet. I have to mentally prepare.”

“You said that six months ago. It’s about four years past time, two at the very least, don’t you think?”

“Says who?”

“Every other self-respecting twenty-two-year-old human with a set of testicles.”

“You’re safe here, and you’ll be on tour soon anyway, so it’s pointless to get a place now that will essentially be a storage unit. Save your money.”

“A tour?” I scoff. “That’s a bit premature.”

“Mark my words, you’ll be on the road by summer,” she says with surety.

“That’s a big if ,” I remind her, knowing there may be some truth to her statement. While music distribution has changed substantially in the last fifteen years, making it far easier to release with the mere push of a button, the road aspect to perk ears to new sound remains the same. Especially if I don’t get the airplay or streaming results I hope for within the first few months. My hopes will most likely be dashed anyway, due to my hesitance to sell myself and my music by placating the media. Much like in my dad’s day—and the days before—if I want my music heard, I’ll have to pay dues by playing clubs and smaller stadiums to get the word out. Playing live still has the potential to have as much impact as it’s always had. It’s also a way to sharpen sound, bring bands closer on a personal level, and is considered by many musicians as a rite of passage.

Her prediction is still farfetched, considering I don’t exactly have a band— yet .

“Either way, you live here until we know. Deal?”

For my mother, it’s all about security, and I can’t say it hasn’t been needed over the years. A few months after I was born, a crazed fan broke into the infamous A-frame house my parents reunited at while we were home. Dad managed to get the disturbed woman outside until the police arrived. In an effort to protect me, they moved us into the security guarded, gated community where I’ve grown up. It was a wise decision on their part. My mother still remains bitter about the fact we had to move out of a house that meant so much to them both. I’ve heard the story dozens of times over the years of how their chance meeting at that open house solidified them together for good. To this day, each time my mother tells it, her eyes cloud with sentiment.

“Elliot Easton Crowne,” my mother prompts, breaking up my inner musings. “You will stay here until your tour is over, right?”

“This is not full name serious,” I taunt.

“To you,” she digs in, ready for this fight.

“Fine,” I concede, running my hands through my hair in frustration, but wanting no part of the oncoming rant if she doesn’t get her way on this. Mom tends to get emotional more often than not, forever wearing her heart on her sleeve. She’s always felt things on a deeper level than most people do.

It’s one of the character traits I love most about her and identify with, which is why I’m well equipped to handle her because I have them myself at times.

A smile threatens at the memory of Natalie having her own moment hovering above me in the bar parking lot. Her long, strawberry hair whipping around her face, sticking to her lips. Even in the midst of her wardrobe crisis, she looked like a beautifully wrapped disaster, emotions warring, cheeks pinkening with embarrassment as her eyes battered mine with a plea to keep my company. She won that battle far too easily, and I let her because I would have been hard-pressed to leave her there looking as lost as she seemed. She reminded me of Mom a little then—and myself, too, her emotions prickling just beneath her skin. The exchange only sparked my interest.

Upon first meeting her, I assumed the conclusions I’d drawn about her since her threatening call were right. That she was privileged and ruthlessly abusive because of it. Turns out, she’s the opposite of what I expected, showing clear remorse for that call by apologizing more than once. Mom speaks up while stirring her sauce again, and I shoot up a silent prayer that she’s planning on dining alone. “What did you do today?”

“I cruised around and went to the Chihuly Garden.”

She tosses an inquisitive glance over her shoulder. “Alone?”

I nod, refusing to add words to my lie, but for now, respecting Natalie’s request that our parents remain out of it. I could easily relay anything to either one of them. As furious as they would be about how she cornered me, they wouldn’t interfere if I asked them to stay out of it, but I allow the white lie anyway.

Mom opens a box of pasta and dumps it into boiling water as Natalie’s confession about our parents’ dating comes to mind. Her back-pedaling today and request to forget she mentioned it has me curious.

“Hey, Mom? Did you ever seriously date anyone other than Dad?”

She turns to me, her brows furrowing. “What?”

“You heard me. Did you?”

“Yeah, I did. We didn’t get back together and marry until I was on the downside of my twenties, so of course I did,” she replies easily enough, her eyes going a little distant before focusing back on me. “Why?”

“Just curious . . .”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Oh, shit.”

She does the sign of the cross, and I snort. “Mom, you’re not religious.”

“I am religious, more so now if you met a girl. Did you meet a girl? Please lie if it’s serious, especially since you’re about to hit stardust.” She sighs dramatically, placing her palms on the island between us as if to draw strength. “Look, no matter which way JR, ” she dips her chin to insinuate I call my junk JR, “is directing you right now, walk away from the light.”

When I give no reply to the utter ridiculousness of her statement, she mutters a curse before pulling the fridge open to check the egg carton for a count. Realizing what she’s up to, I quickly speak up.

“Mom, chill. No open eggs under my bed, or white sage, or whatever superstitious voodoo shit you’re conjuring up in that crazy brain. You don’t even really believe it.”

“Eggs are for bad dreams anyway. I think I’m supposed to clean your bedroom door and then bury the rag or something. I’ll check with your grandmother.” Mom is half Latina and practices the superstitious rituals her aunts in Mexico instilled in her—which Dad finds hilarious. I did too, until middle school when she chaperoned a field trip near Cedar Lake for a picnic. The second I set foot in the river, she placed her hand on my head and screamed my name three times, explaining if she hadn’t, the river spirits would take me away. The kids around us immediately fled the water, some crying. It embarrassed the shit out of me, and I still haven’t forgiven her. Even as I inwardly roll my eyes at her rituals, she pinches and disperses oregano into the bubbling saucepan in a cross formation.

“Do you really believe in that shit?”

“You know I do. Your father and I have had some really insane crap happen over the years, mostly in a good way. I believe in fate, karma, and things that work together for the greater good. If a little practiced superstition helps negate the bad, what’s the harm?”

“Well, don’t call Grandma or bust out the Hocus Pocus handbook just yet. I’m not getting married.”

“Ever?” She deflates. “Look, I know your generation doesn’t really believe in marriage anymore, but there are perks.”

“Not saying never.”

“Oh, thank God. I want grandkids.”

“Those I can deliver in spades,” I wink. “Married or not.”

She points her weapon of choice—a wooden spoon she used to threaten me with—at me, “That’s not even remotely fucking funny.”

“I disagree,” Dad says, walking in half-asleep in nothing but sweats. “What in the hell are you up to, Grenade?” He circles her with his arms and presses a kiss to her temple. “Or should I say burning?”

“Sorry, did I wake you with the music?”

“No, you woke me up by not being in bed,” he eyes the pots behind her. “But it seems I woke to a living nightmare.”

“You both want on my shit list today?” Mom snaps, wriggling free of him and looking between us. “Seriously? What have I ever done but love and adore the two of you?”

“I can think of a few hundred headaches,” he chides. Her eyes narrow, and he lifts his palms in surrender. “Easy, baby,” Dad says, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before grabbing a water from the fridge and eyeing the clock on the stove. “Why are you attempting to cook for the first time in a decade at midnight?”

“I’m hungry, and I cook,” she defends weakly.

Dad and I collectively bite our lips.

“I do cook. Sometimes. Occasionally. Okay, never ,” she turns back to the sauce and stirs. “I’m just a little restless,” she adds with a shrug.

Dad’s lips quirk as he studies Mom carefully. I see it the second he pegs the reason for her unease.

“Babe, we talked about this. You have to be patient.”

He runs a reassuring hand down her back, her shoulders slumping forward as she softly dips her chin in response. Dad looks over at me, and I frown, unsure of what’s happening. “What?”

He gives me the pointed look that reads, ‘see what you’re doing to her?’ just as it dawns on me.

“Mom—” I start as she speaks up.

“It’s fine,” she lifts her tone in an attempt to try and hide her disappointment, her back to me to keep me from seeing it. “I understand. I didn’t let anyone read my articles early on.” She glances back at me, hurt clearly visible though she’s trying her best to hide it.

“It’s not that I don’t want you to hear it—”

“I’m a critic.”

“No, Mom, you’re The critic,” I add, and the one that matters most to me . But I don’t voice that, opting for a different part of the truth.

“I don’t want you to feel torn between your bias for me and the truth of how you really feel about it.”

“So, you want to release it to the rest of the world first ?”

I give the firm dip of my chin as she studies me. “I know that hurts you, but I promise all I’m trying to do is protect us both.”

She’s never going to write about my music. We agreed on that when I decided to entertain releasing it. Even though she wrote about the Sergeants early on, that was a different lifetime ago before they became synonymous with the greats like The Rolling Stones, U2, and other classic rock bands that have a place in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. The Dead Sergeants were inducted a year and a half ago, and it was a surreal experience seeing my father and his band honored and revered that way, though they’ve been bestowed so much already.

Natalie is right, I have a legacy to live up to, and I fucking hate that aspect of it. When I sat down to record years ago, I didn’t take that into account. I just wanted to make music. So I did, with no real intent to release it. Now that I’m about to expose myself in this way, all of the bullshit I kept out of it is coming into play. My mind drifts again to the beauty who rode in my truck, seeming as confused as I was today. The longer we rode together in comfortable silence, the longer I drove, nowhere near as anxious to leave her as I was back at the bar.

Though she cornered me in the worst imaginable fucking way, nothing about her confession at the garden seemed contrived. She was far too vulnerable to have made any of that up. Though I swore to myself I would never give a single interview—no matter how well my music did—I find myself wanting to trust her with the insight as to why I won’t.

“Mom, if there’s anyone in the world I want to hear it, it’s you.”

“I understand, I do. I’ll deal,” Mom assures me as the water boils over and the tell-tale fizzling sound goes off behind her. Oblivious and intent on our conversation, she ignores it. Dad snaps into motion, turning off the heat fueling both burners before smoothly sliding the saucepan to safety, his chuckle rumbling through the kitchen.

“Babe, you’re not going to turn into Gordon Ramsay tonight. Let’s spare your pride.”

She keeps her gaze fixed on me. “No matter what, I’m proud of you. I know how unbelievably talented you are, no matter what, okay?”

I can’t help my grin. “Thanks, Mom my .”

Dad gives me his signature scowl, but Mom smiles, her watery eyes gleaming with pride. “That natural shift to smartass is

all me ,” she declares proudly to Dad.

“Let’s not exaggerate by taking all the credit,” Dad quips back, opening a drawer full of take-out menus and tossing them on the counter. “I’m sure something’s still open.”

“It’s spaghetti,” Mom defends, scowling at Dad’s profile. “Jarred tomatoes, meat, spice, and noodles, not rocket science.”

“Tell that to your finished product,” Dad grumbles, the smell of burnt sauce starting to permeate the air. Mom gets a whiff of it, and her expression falls. “You were distracting me.”

“Babe, face it, you’ll never be a cook.”

“Only if you face the fact that you’ll never be a mechanic and get that piece of shit out of our garage.”

“It’s coming along,” he defends.

“It’s been eight months,” she chides. “You still haven’t turned the engine over, and I’ll make sure it never does. You’re not riding a fucking motorcycle. That phase of your life is over. Window closed.”

Dad remains mute, his version of ‘we’ll see’ covering his expression, and I can’t help but observe the two of them as my thoughts again drift back to Natalie.

Something shifted between us today from our hostile meeting to the time I dropped her off. Despite us being complete strangers, I felt just as exposed and raw watching her. Even as she tried to defend her integrity to me, I sensed some sort of break inside her beneath the surface and glimpsed it in bits and pieces. Oddly, I found myself wanting to show her the beauty in them and help her try and make sense of it, whatever it may be. One thing I’m growing more suspicious and sure of, is that she’s not here for an article, even if she’s refusing to admit it. The second thing is that she wasn’t expecting to be attracted to me, at all.

That surprise was mutual.

It unexpectedly took me hostage in much the same way it seemed to grab her. I got swept up in it, and it was fucking intense. Every second that ticked by after her confession felt like an invitation I didn’t take.

The weight of my cell phone increases where it rests in my jeans pocket as I debate whether or not to use it. Does the reason she’s here have more to do with our parents’ involvement? If so, why? What could the draw of that possibly be after all this time? It’s definitely not newsworthy at this point.

For the first time in a long time, I examine my parents closely, their body language, their knowing glances and effortless exchange as Dad jerks back in fear while Mom raises a spoon of burnt sauce to his lips.

“Not a fucking chance, baby,” Dad says, his grin fading when he turns to me. Before I know it, they’re both looking at me quizzically, studying me back just as carefully.

Opting out of the inquiry sure to come, I turn abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”

“You okay?” Mom asks, a fair level of concern in her tone as I stride across the living room.

“Yeah, I’m just wiped. Night.”

Before she can pry any further, I take the winding staircase up to my room. An hour later, I lay in my briefs, buds anchored in my ears, cell in hand, staring at the Pulitzer Prize-winning picture of “The Vulture and the Little Girl.” At first sight, I felt the same sting anyone with a conscience who’s viewed it must have felt, terrified this is still a reality for some, fighting daily simply to exist.

Studying it, I recall Natalie’s admission of how the picture changed her and how her researching the story behind it shifted her perception more drastically. Part of her confession had the hairs on my neck standing on end. If she only knew how close she’d gotten to verbalizing my fears, which were fucking eerily similar to her own, the difference being me on the opposite side of the pen.

It’s as if she knew exactly what to say to me. If I still believed her capable, I would have considered her story a ploy to get what she wanted. But no matter how closely I watched her for any sign of manipulation, I couldn’t find it. Instead, I felt the vulnerability rattling from her, which put me at ease. There’s no way she would have that type of insight into me anyway, especially when my own confession came after hers. My music is the most personal thing I have and ever will have, and my parents understand that about me. For some reason—though I shouldn’t have any—I find myself wanting to make her understand it. Or maybe I just want to be in her space again to figure out why she seems so fucking . . . lost.

Clearing the screen of the picture I can no longer stomach. I pull up my messages and shoot off a text.

Hey, you still up?

I can’t help my grin as dots immediately begin to roll along the screen.

I was just about to text you and let you know I’ll leave your jacket at the reception desk.

Keep it for now. It’s clear you didn’t pack nearly enough clothes.

I program her in, waiting on her response.

Natalie: Hilarious. Eye-roll emoji.

Want to go somewhere with me tomorrow?

More bubbles appear, her response time drawing out in ridiculous length before she gives me a one-word reply.

This woman.

Natalie: Where?

Not telling. Be ready at 6.

Natalie: Okay.

AM.

Natalie: Wtf, that’s like five hours from now!

And this is strictly off the record.

Natalie: Seriously?

Yeah. What’s your room number?

The bubbles start and stop for a full five minutes before the room number appears.