Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

TWENTY-FOUR “Here with Me”

TWENTY-FOUR

“Here with Me”

Susie Suh, Robot Koch

Natalie

One Month Later . . .

“E arth to Natalie.” Holly impatiently snaps her fingers in front of my face and I find myself ripped from another daydream. The budding summer sun burns hot on my shoulders as I lower the fork raised halfway to my mouth.

Mere seconds ago, I was in Easton’s truck, hair whipping around my face just as he glanced over and our eyes locked, resulting in the inevitable jolt. Crashing back into my current reality, I dart my gaze over to Holly, ready with a quick apology. “I’m so sorry. What were you saying?”

“That’s the third time you’ve spaced out on me in fifteen minutes. I’m not rehashing all of that again,” she utters dryly, glowering at me. “What is with you lately?”

Easton called, again, and I didn’t answer, again.

“It’s like every time I talk to you, you space out when I get to the goods.”

“I’m sorry,” I offer weakly. “I told you I’ve been working my ass off. I’m just tired.”

“Yeah, well, you aren’t the only one, or did you forget I just graduated?”

“I know. I was there,” I grin, “and I’m so proud of you.”

Seeming satisfied for the moment, she runs a manicured finger through her glossy dark brown ponytail, her matching eyes imploring.

“We need to have some fun. I don’t start my internship for a few weeks. Want to take off this weekend?”

“I’ve got a lot of work to do. It’s not the best time.”

“You always have a lot of work to do,” she whines. “Come on, if I get Damon in on it, we can hit Nola and get a stupid expensive suite on his dime.”

“Maybe,” I avoid looking at my phone that rests face down on the table. Easton’s called me twice a week for the last two months. Every time I don’t answer, he lets it ring to voicemail. Every time I check it, the message is full of dead air and background noise as if he wants to speak but stops himself.

No texts, just two weekly calls without a message which I consider just punishment since I’m vying to hear any word from him but can’t bring myself to answer.

By the time I touched down in Austin, Easton had released his first single. I’ll never be able to wrap my head around the shock of hearing the news on the ride home before frantically scanning the radio to listen to it playing. It wasn’t just any song, either, but the one we’d made crazy, life-altering love to a few hours before. It felt like he was calling me back to him.

As soon as Easton’s single hit the airwaves, it went viral on every forum and media outlet. Even ESPN made a comment about it during a sportscast.

In the end, no marketing ended up being the best imaginable marketing, gaining him consistent airplay and respectable nods from other artists. Both his music and the news of his sudden and unexpected release spread like wildfire through the media. Rosie was furious she’d been scooped by none other than the man himself. A fact that still brings a secretive smile to my face— daily.

Less than a week later, he published the entirety of his album along with the would-be article I’d typed on the plane and sent via text. He’d rearranged parts of it and managed to turn it into more of a blanket statement-type press release while protecting my anonymity.

The second I saw it, I ran to the bathroom and tossed up my breakfast, tears streaming down my face, phone in hand, wanting nothing more than to call him. That, combined with the fact that I could barely look at my father, had me going home early that day. It was the lone day I allowed myself to wallow in my misery like a lust-crazed teenager and let the ache rule me wholly.

“Okay,” Holly says, her fingers flying over her phone screen. “I just shot a text to our boy to see if he can manage an impromptu trip.”

“He might be our boy, but he’s your man , remember? So, when do you plan on telling him?”

She pauses, pulling sculpted brows together. “How about never. I’m getting over that crush.”

“You think eight years is a crush?”

“It is if I deem it so,” she sasses.

“Do you even know how beautiful you are?” I prop my hand under my chin, eyes gliding over the fit of the slinky halter dress she’s pulling off so effortlessly. She pauses, a fork full of chicken salad halfway to her mouth, her expression bemused.

“He’s a fool, Holly,” I emphasize. “Because I’m not just talking about your appearance. You have the heart he needs.”

“He’s not looking. He’s too busy hustling for his career and fucking for sport.”

The familiar words jolt me back into that hotel restaurant.

“Do you fuck for sport?”

“Women aren’t a game to me, so I fuck because it feels good.”

God, did it ever feel good.

So damned good I’ve had actual wet dreams—which I swore were a myth—good. An image of Easton flitters in, above me, inside me, hazel eyes intent, jaw slack. An image I’ve replayed an embarrassing number of times. Slamming my fork down in irritation, I let out a long exhale, and Holly jerks back.

“What the hell?”

“It’s just . . .” I’m losing my focus over the gorgeous, budding rock star I slept with two months ago, and I would like my sanity back. “I’m . . . just . . . tell the man you love him already.”

“He’s not ready to couple up, and I don’t want the “I’ll text you” version of Damon. I’m better than that. I’m worth more than that. Sure, we flirt a lot and have come close to crossing that line, but I’m not willing to risk his judgment when it comes to us. It would ruin twenty-one years of friendship—so, yeah, I’ll pass. If this ship sails before he’s ready to board, then it sails.” She flips through her phone, though I know she’s completely tuned into this conversation. “Why are you so worried about this all of a sudden?”

“Because. I’m . . .,” wishing on a shooting star every night, every time I ride Percy toward a sunset, and every time I close my damned eyes. “I just want you to have who you want.” Because I can’t. “I’m sorry I’m being pushy, it’s your decision. I just know you both would fit so perfectly, and the fact that you can be together and are both being idiots about it, irks me sometimes.”

She lowers her fork, eyes cast down. “I’m sorry if I’ve talked about him too much over the years,” she withdraws slightly.

Cloudy head clearing immediately in response to her rapidly dimming expression, I grip both her hands tightly, including the one still holding her fork, and her eyes bulge at the crazy I’m showing. “Never, don’t you ever think that. You can talk about my other best friend all you want; do you hear me? Tell me you hear me.”

She grins at me as I release her.

“What?”

“You love me,” she declares, “like a crazy person.”

“Hell yeah, I do, and I love Damon just as much. I just wish you two would finally get together, that’s all.”

“Maybe someday,” she sighs, “but you’re forgetting one important thing.”

“What’s that?”

“He never talks to you about me .”

“He does.” I pull on my iced tea.

“Not the way I do, and I know it, so let’s drop it, ’K?” She picks her phone back up and begins scrolling and typing, her embarrassment clear. I hate that I did it. What I hate more is that the next time she wants to talk to me about Damon, she might hesitate, or worse, not tell me at all. The whole thing is ironic because all I want to do is confide to her at the top of my lungs . . . finally confess the secret that’s been bleeding out of my pores for eight straight weeks. Instead, I need her drama—or any drama for that matter—to distract me.

While it may be true that Damon doesn’t talk about her in that context, he’s been looking at her differently more and more over the years, and I want to box his ears for not paying attention to his growing feelings. I don’t relay that to Holly because Damon truly is a wild card. He’s also one of the most lusted after men I’ve ever known, coming a close second to my last lover, who’s currently being worshiped by an increasing number of women on the daily. As I suspected, Easton’s refusal to engage with the media has only made him more alluring to the masses, women especially.

And he’s calling me .

The facts are, I haven’t gone more than a full hour without thinking of him since I left him in that studio.

No matter how much I want to shelve those days we spent together in their respective place, I can’t. Even if I could, he’s

everywhere . Videos of his first few concerts on the tour he kicked off weeks ago are not only being spread like wildfire on social media, but his performances are making headlines. So far, the world has done nothing short of worship him since he dropped False Image . A title I find perfectly fitting with the album’s message—defaming fame.

The critics have done nothing but give massive props to the prodigy, who’s broken up the monotony and splashed onto the music scene like a ‘modern-day Elvis,’ Wall Street Journal’s words, not mine.

He’s calling me , and I’m not answering.

The idea that one day he’ll stop is a heavy weight in my gut, but the idea of being anything significant to him while fighting said masses for his attention is beyond comprehension to me.

“Thank God I don’t have to deal with that,” I say aloud.

“Well, aren’t you an asshole.”

I recover quickly. “I mean dating. Does he like me? Does he not like me? Does he have more than one sexual position in his arsenal? Is he worth the price of admission?”

Holly laughs as I roll my eyes exaggeratedly.

“If anyone needs to get back on a horse other than Percy , missionary or not, it’s you. It’s been, what, over a year since you broke up with Carson?”

“Who?” I taunt.

She glowers at me. “Exactly, but still.”

“I’m in no hurry. I’m not saying this shop is closed, but I’m definitely not going to spread myself thin trying to find a decent date.”

“As if you would have to. Girl, do you know how pretty you are? Your summer body is on point this year, bae. Look at you, all ripped and tan.”

True to my nature, I’ve been using the ache in the weeks that have followed Seattle to fuel me and have been hitting the gym harder than ever.

“Forget men,” I declare, gripping her hand and squeezing. “Forget sex, and let’s just date each other.”

“That’s called friendship,” she says. “Sorry, but I need the sex. Are you going to eat this garlic toast?”

“Nope.”

“No bread till September?”

“Yep,” I confirm with a chin dip.

She confiscates my toast, eyeing the clock on her phone. “Shit. Damon says raincheck. Between you two workaholics, I’ll never get a weekend away. I need new friends.”

“Good luck finding better,” I taunt.

“True. I have to run.” She stands before bending to kiss my cheek, smacking her lips exaggeratedly. Feigning disgust, I wipe it with my napkin as she exits the patio and power walks towards her Audi, giving me her signature diva farewell wave. “Don’t make any plans for tomorrow. I’ll dig around and see if I can find something for us to get into.”

“’K. Love you.”

“You too.”

Sipping the last of my tea, I watch her pull away. Holly is by far one of the biggest blessings in my life. We’ve been through it all, from diapers to every part of puberty-driven awkward adolescence and so forth. Even though she’s the perfect ride or die—and I know I can trust her with anything—I’ve kept my time with Easton completely to myself. Because of that, I’ve painstakingly fought through the ache and lingering desire alone.

I did not, at all, make it out of Seattle unscathed.

It was apparent when I got behind the wheel after my flight and saw my tear-splotched reflection in the rearview.

For the first week, it felt like I was hiding a breakup from everyone—especially my parents, which was the hardest task. Even though said task seemed impossible, I went to their house nearly every night and rode Percy until my legs went numb. Sadly, after having the most romantic interlude of my life, I was left talking to my four-legged best friend, who couldn’t produce a word of advice. But riding Percy calmed me, as it so often does. After the first few guilt-riddled days and avoiding non-work-related conversations with my father, I decided I could ride out the guilt until it subsided as long as I kept my secret.

It was when the first call came from EC after week one that I regressed. It took everything in me to keep from answering.

The thing is, I will his calls to continue and can’t bring myself to text him to stop. Even though, deep down, I know it’s only prolonging the inevitable.

Sadly, the workaholic repetition I sought escape from when I went to Seattle—and identified as one of my issues—I resumed with ferocity. Easton told me point blank if I did nothing about it, that I would be responsible from then on.

I know he would be disappointed to find I let myself down.

My temporary cure?

After a grueling day at the paper, I spend my nights recalling the spontaneity in Seattle. It’s been blissful getting lost in those memories, even if I have to walk through hellfire while fighting my pillow after.

Dad was pleasantly surprised when I went into overdrive and says the time away had done wonders for me.

But it wasn’t time. It was a who and a culmination of things about him that inspired me—his honesty, his observations, our jam sessions, and getting lost together. In getting lost with Easton, I discovered new parts of myself—parts that are grossly unsatisfied with the way I’m currently living.

I spent the first few days with his earbuds in, immersed in sensory overload. I finally had to tuck them away in my desk, having decided anyone who listens to music while emotionally compromised is a masochist. It’s utter agony knowing my mind now associates certain songs with a man forever trapped in a place and time I don’t want to outlive.

It’s hard for me to rationalize my feelings or even romanticize any part of them. Every time I play a song from his playlist, I feel every emotion I felt during that time and still manage to summon images of us during certain lyrics.

It’s in the after that I fully realized the truth about the power of music Easton spoke so emphatically about.

Last night, at the feed store getting food for Percy, I heard an old ’80s ballad and nearly lost my shit mid-aisle.

Crazily enough, no matter what I try, I’ve been grieving the loss of Easton like I am going through a full-fledged breakup. Which. Is. Insane.

I didn’t even mourn Carson this long, and we damned near lived together for a year. But the fact that I’m having such a hard time letting go makes my embarrassing reaction as I left Seattle a bit more bearable.

It might have been a flash of days, hours, and minutes, but they remain with me. Easton remains with me, and it’s bittersweet.

Easton properly kissed me, fucked me, and I’m certain—if we gave each other a chance—he might have been the one to properly love me.

Pulling up my phone, I see another missed call notification and blink in surprise. Two calls today. He’s about to give up. It’s only a matter of time before he does. Appetite gone, I toss my fork and pull down my sunglasses, the elation of his call cut short when his name evaporates from my screen.

Inside my car, AC blasting, tapping my thumbs on the wheel, I eye my phone where it rests just outside the lip of my purse as it relights with the missed call notification from EC . Just after, a text from Dad comes through with praise for my latest article.

Daddy: Great job. I’ve got a few notes. We’ll go over them when you get back from lunch.

Guilt wins again.

Tucking my phone back into my purse with a sigh, I shift my focus—the paper, my father, my goals, our joint plans—I press the gas, and the truth painfully settles in. There’s no place for Easton Crowne anywhere amongst them.