Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

FIFTY-SIX “Mayonaise”

FIFTY-SIX

“Mayonaise”

The Smashing Pumpkins

Easton

S trapping my Stratus around me, I adjust it as the cheers ring out in encouragement. I muster a smile I don’t feel in response, because tonight, I feel a disconnect, not from the music but from those I’m playing for. Far too into my own head, I’ve tried for the entirety of the show to get there with them and failed. Stepping up to the mic now, frustrated, I even myself out, scanning the packed three-story bar before I speak.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling my typical ‘time for one more’ spiel disingenuous, so I don’t bother with it. “This is for my wife.”

A roar filters through the space as ache-filled electricity hums through my veins. LL starts the repetition of the fill chords of “Mayonaise” just before I start to pluck in the whisper of my own, milking the notes while feeling them festering inside me. Using every bit of my reserves, I tap into my frustration while coated in my exertion. At the peak of momentum and in perfect time, Tack drops the beat, and Syd nods to me, joining in on cue. The heavy guitar-filled melody fuels my contempt as I start to recite lyrics about someone who believes themselves cursed by the people closest to them, attempting to strip away all hope and happiness. At least that’s the way I’m interpreting it for myself—because for me, and where I’m at mentally—it’s all too fucking fitting.

Glancing over to the side of the stage, I envision my wife in place of a shadow currently taking up residence where she belongs. My slow leaking destruction bleeds through my voice to those witnessing my slow implosion. My plea into the mic for something to give, for things to be different, for a change in the stagnant water I’ve been treading. Screeching into the mic, I plea to be heard and understood by those who know me best, by those refusing me everything I’m begging for.

Unleashing my anger fully, I run the guitar up and down the solo and turn to address my mother just after, every lyric following the electric riff meant for her. Her lips part on an audible gasp I can’t hear before I turn back to address the swaying crowd, confessing the hell I’ve been forced to dwell in since Sedona. Fusing myself with the music, I allow those few minutes to break apart, for her, for myself, and for the man intent on keeping us both in purgatory.

My resentment now borders on hate for Nate Butler, because I haven’t seen my wife in forty-three fucking days.

So on stage, I rage against him.

Rage against the circumstances in which we found each other.

Rage against the way I feel daily about her continued absence.

Rage against her inability to wage a war she won’t allow me to fight.

Rage against the promises we’re breaking every day we remain divided.

I rage against it all until the lights go dark. Exhausted as the applause explodes throughout the club, I exit the stage without a single ounce of relief. Joel meets me at the side of the stage, reading my mood in silent support as we walk toward the back of the club. In the next second, a tropical scent wafts into my nose as I’m gripped by the neck, and lips that don’t belong to my wife smash into mine. Pushing the woman who accosted me away by the shoulders, I assess her and jerk my chin. “Not fucking cool.”

Clearly drunk, she stares back at me with wide blue eyes, on the verge of speaking before Joel gently takes her by the arm and away from me, handing her over to security.

Joel joins me again as I stalk toward the dressing room, bypassing everyone, including my mother. Slamming myself inside, I fume at the fact that my wife is no longer the last woman to kiss me and that security was stolen from me. In the next breath, I begin to wonder if she’d even fucking care.

You can always find me,

in your own story

Lost and found

Our whispered confessions

A thousand hours apart

For a few seconds longer

Found then lost,

Remember our story,

Our screaming secret

Every memory pushed inside you

A thousand hours apart

For a few seconds longer

Replay our past

To destroy seconds of theirs

Erase their memories

To consider our future

A thousand hours passed

To earn a few seconds longer

You could have found me

In those thousand hours

Waiting

for just a few seconds longer

choose me

I write out the last of the lyrics in my notebook as the band bustles around me. Feeling the burn of the last two words, I take a numbing swig of beer before staring at my phone screen in indecision. In the same time zone, a state away, I note it’s 1 a.m. in Austin, and all I want to do is talk to my wife, who is, no doubt, fast asleep. I pull up her last text.

Wife: I hope you have a good show. I love you.

Even though the message is sincere, it rings hollow for me. The chaos in the room quiets briefly, the sudden stillness in the air credited to my mother, who’s standing in the doorway. Throats clear as she makes a beeline for me. One of our roadies lifts his chin in question, and I nod. In fast response, he starts evacuating the room, as if her sudden appearance wasn’t enough to do so. In seconds, the noise outside the door is the only sound in the room as her presence batters me with hurt.

“Really fucking subtle, son,” she says, her voice shaking.

“Wasn’t meant to be,” I mutter, unsure of how to react to this new dynamic and exhausted from the struggle of trying to figure it out.

“I can’t believe you just walked past me,” she takes a seat next to me on a long, black leather couch. Turning toward her, I feel the same animosity that’s been brewing between us, which never existed before. “Hey, Mom, good to see you. What are you doing in New Orleans?” she snarks before continuing. “Good question. Well, the truth is I came to see my kid play,” she spouts sarcastically, “since he hasn’t answered a single call from me in a week.” She tilts her head in taunt. “Where’s your father, you ask? Well, he’s currently at the hotel because he packed a fucking bag and flew halfway across the country only to take a stand by not showing up, even though he’s dying to see you play. So, on principle alone, he’s refused to accompany me because you two fumbling idiots are determined to be the death of me. Enough of this shit,” she barks, “Easton, I’m serious.”

“What bothers you more now, Mom? That you can no longer order me around or that you can’t control my emotions?” I keep focused on the beer cap I’m flipping between my fingers.

“That’s completely unfair. We both realize and accept you’re your own man. Before, you were apologetic, and now this icy shoulder? What point are you trying to make? Tell me, Easton, I need to know.”

“I’m not changing my mind. I’m not divorcing her. You can’t just snap my happiness away like it’s a toy I’m no longer allowed to play with.”

“We reacted and overreacted the way we did because it was warranted. We never asked you to end your marriage. And where is

she , son? This woman you chose to give yourself to, knowing the damage it would do to your family and hers?”

I lift my eyes to hers.

“My wife is currently trying to salvage her relationship with her father, trying to earn back his trust. Meanwhile, we’re both trying to work around all of your fucking collective tantrums and mood shifts. So, where is my wife? In hell, that’s where she is. Blaming herself, punishing herself, because she doesn’t feel like she deserves happiness with me, because your fucking husband made her feel like she didn’t—along with her own fucking father, who still doesn’t!”

The first three weeks, we threw ourselves into work, her getting ready for the thirtieth edition of the paper while planning the party to honor him. Instead of rewarding her, Nate’s made it nearly impossible for us to connect. Filling her schedule, he’s sent her as a liaison for Hearst Media to every party, every convention, and every thing imaginable on the East Coast to keep her from joining me on tour. What’s worse? She’s allowed it. His ploy to keep her away from me, a calculated chess move as he forces her to pay penance for loving me. As of a week ago, she’s home. But, he’s kept her scrambling to keep up with his demands, all the while keeping her locked out personally. I have no doubt that right now, she’s only placating her father to try and get back to me while he does everything he can to hasten her future without me—continually driving an axe between us. Something is going on that I can’t place. At this point, I think we’re being polite to protect the other from what’s truly happening in each of our lives. Her more so than me since my accumulating resentment is the only thing I’m withholding.

She’s hiding , and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it—or I might lose her. Even as we make time to keep connected—every chance we get—I feel the drift, and because she’s allowing it, I’m losing wind.

I can’t fight alone. We’ve fought twice since we got married, and both times ended with her tears and my murmured apologies—even if I felt justified in my anger. She hasn’t so much as tried to come to see me because she believes she can still get through to him.

Every day I ache for her, and every single day she assures me of her returned affection. Though I believe her, I need something more because I feel like I’m swinging in the dark. Thirty years ago, Nate rivaled my father for the affection of the woman he held most dear. History is repeating itself now, and he’s doing it again, but this time he’s winning.

“She’s coming,” I inform my mother. “And when she does, it will be your choice to make.”

“This is supposed to be the happiest time of your life,” Mom says, shaking her head, her expression bleak. “I want that for you so much.”

“Yeah, I believe it’s called the honeymoon phase.” I finally look over to her. “Do you know my wife didn’t recognize my body on FaceTime the other night because Benji’s been to two shows and inked me, and I forgot to mention it. Does that sound like a good honeymoon to you?”

“I’m talking career-wise.”

“Having a blast,” I say dryly, tugging on my beer. “Can’t you tell?”

The silence that follows cuts us both as her expression falters and her eyes fill with tears.

“Mom, please don’t get upset.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do? I have no idea what to do here.”

“My fight is with Dad and with my wife’s father. I’m not in a good place.” I roll my head against the back of the couch. “Go back to your hotel, okay? Get some sleep, and we can have breakfast before we roll out tomorrow.”

“You’re pissed at me, too, and taking it out on your father because you’re scared of putting my health at risk. You’ve made a bad habit of doing that over the years. He’s not your enemy.”

“You always hurt the ones you love, right?” My chuckle lacks all humor.

“Easton, you have to understand that what you did was . . .” she shakes her head.

“What? What was it, Mom? Because you never fell in love and made a single impulsive decision?”

“Jesus, Easton. Do you think I ever anticipated this ? There’s no fucking handbook for this. I’m sorry. The very last thing I ever wanted was for you to marry the daughter of my ex-fiancé.”

“And why is that ? ” I vent. “It’s not like I ever had the full story. I asked you months ago, and you skirted it. You couldn’t even say his name. I asked Dad the same. He did the same shit. Turns out, it wasn’t just me. You lied to the world, letting them think you and Dad lived out some romantic rock and roll fairytale. You totally omitted Nate. No wonder he hates you both.”

She clamps her hand over her mouth and speaks through it. “I can’t believe you just said that to me.”

“He shaped you as a writer, did he not?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “So, you’re blaming me for his reaction, but not your own actions?”

I grip the leather of the couch, my gaze dropping. “I blame myself for thinking our parents give enough of a fuck about our happiness to act like mature adults.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not,” I swallow back my drink. “But I don’t see what’s so damned impossible that the four of you can’t get over it, so my wife and I can move on with our lives.”

She drops her head and sighs before opening her purse, pulling out a large bound script, and tossing it on my lap.

“I omitted Nate because my agent reached out, and he wanted no part of it.”

I lift it to see the title. Drive.

My mom did write the fucking book, and you weren’t in it.

Only the version you know of.

“You really wrote a book about them both? It wasn’t just you and Dad?”

She nods.

“And Dad read this?” I hold it up.

“Yes, he did. He wanted to.”

“Jesus.”

“Son, I love you more than any soul on earth. I carried you in my body for nine grueling months. Your father and I gave you everything we could as parents. I’ll freely admit that you’re wise well beyond your years, and while you can write and sing a thousand songs about your perception of things, that’s all it is right now—your perception . Until you’ve actually lived through it, that’s all it will ever be. All I’m hearing right now is a rant about your perception of a person’s life to the person who actually fucking lived it . Experience is what truly shapes the soul, your own experience, and you haven’t gained enough or lived enough yet to fully form yours. So don’t tell me what I lived through and what you think you fucking know. I don’t give a damn about your perception of one of the hardest trials of my life . But if you want insight into what can never be fully experienced through words alone, that’s the full story. You want the truth. It’s all there. There’s your option to know exactly why the three of us—Nate included—have reacted the way we have and why we don’t mention the other in passing. It’s not because we hate each other, and it’s not because of one thing that happened. It’s a culmination of things that fucking hurt.” She lifts her chin in defiance. “So before you preach another word to me, know what the hell you’re talking about. Now you can invade my privacy the way Natalie did and no longer blame me for keeping my fucking personal life my own.”

She furiously wipes a tear from her face as I sit stunned, and shame sets in.

“Do you think I’m not sorry for hurting you and Dad? Because I am, but this,” I pick up the book, “is your past.”

“My past turned into your future. Jesus, you told me your own wife tried desperately to warn you, but you’re still dismissive. You aren’t this selfish, Easton. You’re just too wrapped inside your pain to realize what a shit you’re becoming. Look at me, son,” she orders, and I lift my eyes to hers.

“Twenty or thirty years from now, let’s say Natalie isn’t a part of your life anymore. Do you think, for one second, your experiences and love for her, your recollection of the way you’re feeling right now, the bitterness, the ache, won’t be bittersweet? Especially if you’re forced away from each other permanently with as much as you love her right now ? You’re living the love story that will help shape your soul, Easton.”

“So why choose Dad?” I seethe. “If you harbor so much lingering love for another man?”

“Stop,” she says. “That’s enough. You want an explanation?” She gestures toward the manuscript. “There it is. That book is a product of the peace I made letting Nate go, along with an affirmation of all our decisions. Which were the right ones. I have never, not once, regretted it.”

“Might want to let Dad know. He thinks you still think about Nate.”

Mom pauses. “Well, I did. It’s natural. But I hadn’t in a very, very long time—until you married his daughter.”

She stands and shoulders her purse. “You’re everything I hoped for. You’re all of it. You’re the best mix of your father and me, and I couldn’t be more proud of the man you’re becoming. But as cocksure as you’re acting, you have plenty of growing up left to do. We, as your parents, deserve better, and your wife does too. You want to be a married grown-up, fine, grow the fuck up . Your father and I aren’t at fault here, and I’m done trying to bridge this. This is a conscious decision you made, knowing the hurt it would cause. Try and simplify love all you want, Easton, but you’re still just a punk-ass twenty-two-year-old kid. Try living with the intensity of the love you feel for years, only to lose it to another you feel just as much for, and then come to me and tell me how fucking simple it is. You made a decision, son. Now you have to live with it.”

Tossing my bottle, it shatters against the wall as I stand and face off with my furious mother. “Okay, Mom. I’ll stop loving her. I’ll start fucking groupies and live an empty existence like the little rock star you raised me to be. Maybe I’ll come home addicted to something fun for Christmas.”

The slap across my jaw echoes throughout the room as her eyes spill over. She’s at the door when I catch her.

“Mom.” I circle her waist and pull her body to me as it shakes with her cries. “Please, Mom. I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

Sniffing, she turns and hugs my waist, holding onto me just as tightly. “I see and feel how much you’re hurting,” she cries, “but I can’t control how everyone else feels. No matter how much I want to ease your pain, I can’t make this go away.”

Terrified I’ve pushed her too far, I run a soothing hand down her back.

“I’m sorry, I am,” I say. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Some of it you did, and that’s okay. Jesus, I feel so helpless right now. My baby’s hurting, my husband is hurting, I don’t know how to fix this.”

“We’ll figure it out, Mom, we will. I just . . .” I swallow. “I love her.” My eyes burn. “I can’t stop it, no matter who it hurts.”

She nods and pulls away, cupping my burning jaw. “Crownes don’t know how to love halfway, do they?” I shake my head. “God, baby. What if she breaks your heart?”

“She already is,” I say. “She doesn’t realize she’s choosing him.”

“And you’re sure giving her the choice is the right thing?”

“She has to be the one to make it, or else she’ll blame me.”

She nods. “Please, please, beautiful boy. Please don’t shut me out anymore. Easton, I miss us.”

“Me too,” I confess honestly. “I’ll come by the hotel tomorrow morning and talk to Dad, okay?”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” My voice cracks as my eyes continue to burn. “I promise.”

The truth is I’m lost. I need him more now than I have in some time.

“Okay,” she sniffs. “Well, I’m sorry I broke up the party.”

“I’m not,” I say. “I’m glad you came to the show.”

“You’re incredible, Easton,” she laughs. “Even when you’re bitching your mother out on stage.”

We share a smile.

“You sure you don’t want to talk some more? Are you hungry?” She asks, reading my expression as I duck away.

“No, I’m going to head back to the hotel, get a run in, and some sleep.”

“Okay,” she kisses my jaw before stepping away. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

She gives me a hint of a smile. “It was an incredible show tonight.”

“Did you feel my disconnect?” I ask as she opens the door. She pauses and turns back to me.

“Only because I know you. But they had no idea, I promise.”

“I don’t want to act out there,” I say.

“That’s something for your dad to help you with.”

“Point taken. I promise I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“I’m so proud of you, baby.”

The sentiment rings in my chest. “I feel it,” I say honestly.

Freshly showered and back at the hotel, I flip open the manuscript I tucked in my messenger bag and only get a few pages in before closing it. Even now, I don’t want to know Nate Butler’s fucking love story with my mother.

I don’t want to know the reasoning behind the man currently dividing and conquering my wife and me. I don’t want to fucking empathize with him or understand his side in any way.

Furious with thoughts of this going on much longer, I push send and lift the phone to my ear before it goes to voicemail.

“This is Natalie Butler. Leave a message.”

The line beeps.

“It’s Crowne. Your name is Natalie Crowne,” I snap as the accumulating acid starts to pour out of me, “or did you fucking forget?”