Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

THIRTEEN “Bad Day”

THIRTEEN

“Bad Day”

Fuel

Natalie

I didn’t sleep.

As much as I tried to blame it on the jet lag, I found myself warring with Easton’s admissions and the fact that he seems to know exactly who he is, the questions he posed to me a lot harder for me to answer than I let on.

Last night, as I stared at the low-lit flames burning in the fireplace tucked in the corner of my hotel room, I listened to the music from his playlist and physically felt the weight of the lyrics wrapped inside the expertly created rhythm, amplifying their meaning.

For the first time, I became fully aware of their capabilities as Easton’s prodding questions circled in my head.

As I mulled those questions over for deeper, more meaningful responses, I replayed every song on the rapidly growing soundtrack I’ve compiled in our short time together. I examined the lyrics, wondering which parts of them he personally identifies with before questioning which parts I, myself, could relate to.

The irony that though none of the lyrics were lost on me, I hadn’t really experienced much to coincide with what they entail—which began to eat at me the more I listened.

Words have always been what light me on fire. The stories they create fuel me, and the more I tuned into each song, I realized the art of fusing a story, message, or layered emotions in fewer words to paint a picture is fascinating. Composing lyrics with the right notes is an art form widely recognized and celebrated by billions of people. Though aware of it, I’d spent most of my life idolizing the noteless side of composition.

Which led to an even deeper question—why hadn’t I ever taken notice before?

Music had always been more background noise for me than anything else, and I couldn’t remember a time in my life when it played a central role.

I also couldn’t remember the last time Holly and I did something between our busy schedules, other than lunch, or a recent time where I laughed as hard with her as I did with Easton.

As more sleepless hours ticked by, I calculated how long it’d been since I had sex—or even dated—which only pulled me deeper into my own head.

The conclusion I drew after hours of contemplation—I’ve considered working ‘ living’ for so long that the lines have completely blurred. I gave my parents the excuse that I hadn’t taken a break since I graduated last year, but am living the totality and consequences of that truth at present.

Which led to another forgone conclusion—I’m quickly becoming the living definition of burnt the hell out.

Those realizations—combined with the fact that I found myself going further into Dad and Stella’s emails again—kept me tossing and turning until the early morning hours. The insurmountable guilt continued to pile up to the point that I felt I was suffocating. Thankfully, my mind shut down, granting me a few short hours of reprieve. Seeing the email thread the second I regained consciousness this morning inevitably led to my current, ongoing battle with my conscience.

Nate Butler

Subject: Look at me.

March 31, 2009, 4:22 p.m.

Right girl,

I may be the pompous ass who feels he’s rarely wrong, but if I’m right, then I take it back. I can’t fucking stand the hurt in your eyes or the fact that this day is dragging out, as is your silence.

I’m so sorry I hurt you. I was being honest, but even if I felt I was right, it wasn’t worth it. I love you too much to allow this to drag on.

Please, baby, look at me, or I’m not going to make it through the rest of the day.

Nate Butler

Editor in Chief, Austin Speak

Stella Emerson

Subject: Look at yourself, asshole.

March 31, 2009, 4:53 p.m.

Nate,

I’ll break my silence, but only to tell you that you are, in fact, the pompous asshole who can claim he’s right as much as he desires, but it doesn’t make it so. Case in point, you’re partially colorblind, and you refuse to believe it. Therefore, your green tie doesn’t match your blue suit today. But because you’re such a smug son of a bitch, no one in this newsroom will likely tell you to add to your disillusion. You can critique me all you want. That’s your job inside of this building. Outside, your position doesn’t play a part. You just smiled smugly at me, and now you’re walking toward my desk. Yeah, that infuriating smirk is growing as you approach. You really should have heeded the warning I just gave you with the jerk of my chin. I’m about to embarrass you. By the time you read this email, it will be too late.

In the doghouse, you’ll remain.

Stella Emerson

Entertainment Columnist, Austin Speak

Stella Emerson

Subject: RE: Look at yourself, asshole.

March 31, 2009, 5:14 p.m.

What you just did was sketchy and absolutely unfair. I will never look at you again . . . until you stoop to that level again . . . and again. And again.

I have work to do. Stop looking at me like that.

Stella Emerson

Entertainment Columnist, Austin Speak

Nate Butler

Subject: RE: Look at yourself, asshole.

March 31, 2009, 5:22 p.m.

I love you so much it hurts.

Nate Butler

Editor in Chief, Austin Speak

Stella Emerson

Subject: RE: Look at yourself, asshole.

March 31, 2009, 5:23 p.m.

Good.

Stella Emerson

Entertainment Columnist, Austin Speak

Nate Butler

Subject: You

October 5, 2009, 3:00 p.m.

What’s wrong? And don’t lie to me and tell me it’s nothing. I know we’re okay because I know when we’re not okay, and this doesn’t have anything to do with us. Talk to me.

Nate Butler

Editor in Chief, Austin Speak

Stella Emerson

Subject: RE: You

October 5, 2009, 3:04 p.m.

I’m just tired. Really, please don’t read too much into it. But can we skip our dinner plans with your mother tonight? I don’t want her to think I don’t want to be there because I won’t. Please don’t be mad I’m asking. While I love you for encouraging me to earn my masters, school is kicking my ass, and I really need to buckle down on my studies.

Stella Emerson

Entertainment Columnist, Austin Speak

Nate Butler

Subject: Re: You

October 5, 2009, 3:09 p.m.

I’ve got you, baby. I just texted her and cancelled. Sometimes I forget I’m in love with a college student. Forgive me. We’ll cram in a study session tonight while we stuff our faces. I’ll make you come before I tuck you in.

Nate Butler

Editor in Chief, Austin Speak

Stella Emerson

Subject: RE: You

October 5, 2009, 3:11 p.m.

Sounds like a dream. I love you so fucking much Nate Butler.

Stella Emerson

Entertainment Columnist, Austin Speak

Nate Butler

Subject: Re: You

October 5, 2009, 3:12 p.m.

Feeling is mutual, Right Girl. Now, get to work. I’m not paying you to ogle me.

Nate Butler

Editor in Chief, Austin Speak

Nate Butler

Subject: The When and the Where

January 12, 2010, 8:03 a.m.

Just got off the phone with your sister. Please don’t let Paige bully you into a venue choice. This is about us. Her crazy makes yours seem sane, which is no easy feat. Regardless, I’m siding with my Right Girl and always will. By the way, I can’t fucking wait to marry you.

I love you, Stella.

Nate Butler

Editor in Chief, Austin Speak

Sent via Blackberry

They were engaged .

The revelation shook me to my core when I read it last night and is no less debilitating now as I ready myself for another stolen day with my father’s ex-fiancée’s son.

Feeling all kinds of fucked up, the reason in black and white feet away, I slam my laptop closed as I plaster on concealer. As I apply my makeup, I contemplate sending Easton a message to cancel our day, just as he texts he’s on his way to collect me.

The thought of getting lost again with Easton currently outweighs my need to flee, which is only further proof of just how far I’ve taken this moral hiatus. My fear now is how much I will continue to play into this lie, especially now that I feel my attraction building for Easton the more time we spend together. Even worse, I’m catching myself becoming more drawn to him in every way that matters—and I’m thinking I’m not the only one.

This pull can’t be one-sided, not with the type of energy passing between us.

Or maybe Easton’s just this intense with all the people in his life. He doesn’t seem to have an off switch for it, though he clearly knows how to relax and enjoy himself. Something, until recently, I had no idea was a serious issue for me.

Maybe sleep deprivation has me reading too much into everything.

I’ve never had insomnia and it appears to be a slow thief, robbing me daily—by chipping away at my confidence, my sense of purpose, my moral compass, and everything that’s made me feel like a respectable human being—until this week.

“It’s just a bad week,” I snap, closing my compact, and palming off the bed when a heavy knock sounds from the other side of my hotel door.

Music blaring from my cellphone, I snatch it up and immediately turn it down, embarrassment threatening that Easton might hear it until a light and unintrusive “housekeeping” announcement is bellowed. In my haze last night, I’d forgotten to put the digital Do Not Disturb on the lock.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I call out as I dart into the bathroom to stare at my reflection. Even after layering thick paste beneath my eyes, it’s aided poorly in concealing the darkening circles. Opting not to wash my hair, I spray it with some dry shampoo, and luck is on my side when my curls bounce back with a kick. Taking the small victory, I wrangle them up with a hair tie. Somewhat appeased by my appearance—though thrown together—I war with going through another day of deceit.

Part of my solution is clear. At some point, I need to come clean with Easton, if only to ease his worries about what I will do with his confessions. He’s taken special care of me in my time here, and because of that, it’s my biggest hurdle. My fear is, once I confess, he’ll tuck and run. If I’m holding off the truth, it’s one hundred percent because I want his company and am now starting to crave his warmth.

Humming along with “Honest” by Kyndal Inskeep—a fitting song for my mood and one of my favorites on my rapidly accumulating playlist—I lightly mist my thickest sweater with my favorite Black Orchid perfume. Upon exiting the bathroom, my eyes catch on Easton’s jacket, which is draped over the side of my bed. Selfishly, I decide not to pull it on in an effort to keep it just a bit longer. Unable to help myself, I sniff the collar, his scent enveloping me as my phone buzzes in my hand with an incoming text.

EC: Be there in five.

The butterflies I’m trying to deny wake me up far more effectively than the cold coffee I toss back before setting the cup next to my uneaten breakfast. Grabbing my tiny travel purse, I take in my appearance one last time and discard the tray of food outside my door. In the elevator, I give myself a good sound lashing.

“You will be the professional journalist you were trained to be today, Natalie Butler,” I command as the doors open. Determined to take charge of the situation—despite my consistent deterioration in simple, everyday functioning—I find myself rattling in anticipation for the roar of Easton’s truck motor just before it sounds and he appears.

Sliding onto the seat, I slam the door and turn to greet him with a low “Hi,” before I’m hit by the sight of him. His clean scent circulates through the cabin as I drink him in.

His presentation today—fucking edible. He’s got a solid black hat on, the bill of it turned backward, covering his damp onyx hair, its ends curling naturally around his ears. He’s dressed from head to toe in black—a thermal layered with a V-neck jersey, jeans, and high-top Vans. His lips lift in greeting, a low “Hey,” in reply to mine as he puts the truck into gear, a frown pulling at his features as he weighs my expression. “You okay?”

It’s then I feel the surge of threatening emotion as guilt consumes me.

“I don’t have a favorite song, and I work too fucking much,” I admit, blowing all redeeming expectations I demanded of myself within seconds.

He laughs, full-on laughs at me, as I avert my gaze and buckle in. I feel his eyes on me as I battle to keep my guilty tears in, my confessions threatening to roll off my tongue.

Easton puts the truck back into park, and grips my chin gently, turning my head, his eyes lingering on the circles beneath.

“Is that what kept you up all night?”

“It’s part of it,” I admit. “I don’t know if I’ll be very good company today.”

“That’s assuming you’re capable of improving it?”

I narrow my eyes as he lets out another infuriating chuckle. Releasing his grip on me, he leans forward and peers through his windshield at the clear blue sky. “Pretty sure it isn’t going to fall today, so you’re okay.” He glances over at me. “Trust me?”

I nod because I’m too close to letting my emotions overrule me, and the only thing I’m sure of is that I don’t want to cut our time short, so I rein it in.

“I’ve got you, Natalie,” he assures softly before gassing the truck. A minute later, a light melody drifts through the speakers, the lyrics wrapping around my heart in solace. Even as he keeps his eyes on the road, I feel his gentle, soothing caress from feet away.