Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

SIXTY-FOUR “Drive”

SIXTY-FOUR

“Drive”

Sixx:AM

Natalie

T welve to fifteen minutes. That’s the length of the average halftime show. Though my hopes are that the Sergeants will take the former as the Cowboys retreat from the field with a fourteen-point lead.

Twelve minutes of hell is what awaits my father and me as the stadium staff scrambles below to set the stage for the halftime show. Thankful for the Dutch courage flowing through me and the slight ease it brings, I decline to sip my newly refilled beer. Though buzzed, I’m still painfully present. There’s no remedy for the grief currently running through me in any form.

“You were a temporary high.”

If Easton hadn’t annihilated me with his vicious retaliation in that bathroom—if we hadn’t run into each other, I’d be somewhere near the vicinity of okay. But as the teams disappear from the field and the stadium begins to shake with renewed energy for what’s to come, I know the true test of the night lies in the grueling minutes ahead.

Twelve to fifteen minutes.

Please, God, let it be twelve minutes because a minute more might break me. Dad and I sit in unspoken agreement to stand our ground, glancing over at the other every few seconds as historic friction fills the air.

It’s while the stadium crew begins to set up the stage and the spectators start to roar with excitement that Dad wordlessly takes my hand in silent support. My concern isn’t so much for myself anymore as I’m a lost cause, but for how he might be feeling.

He’s here because of me—for me, and I want to be just as much a silent strength for him. Dad catches me studying his profile and quickly tries to quash my rapidly building anxiety.

“I’m fine,” he assures, and I nod, doing my best to believe him—hoping that his current state and relaxed posture will be an eventual possibility for me. “We can leave if you want to. I’m fine with that, too.”

“Maybe we should, but we aren’t going to,” I declare vehemently. “We have just as much of a right to be here as anyone else. We aren’t second-class citizens, Dad.”

His reply gets drowned out as the stadium goes dark, and the first notes of “Tyrant”—an early Sergeants’ hit—begin to fill the air. Sparks of light fly stage-side toward the open roof as I settle in.

Within minutes of the Sergeants taking the stage, the roar of the crowd nearly overpowers the volume of the music. The buzz they’re creating consumes every inch of space as Ben bellows out every lyric with expertise—the rest of the band in sync, a clear demonstration of the legendary band they are. Relentless in their execution, they play a mind-blowing compilation of their greatest hits, spanning decades of a legacy they’ve built together—easily blowing away the expectations of everyone present, including me.

Despite his reassurances, every few minutes, I turn to weigh Dad’s expression. Not once has he wavered. As he confessed in Chicago, he’s had decades to get over any hurt regarding their breakup and has years of memories he made with my mother to wash away the sting of those he had with Stella Emerson Crowne. Even without the recognition of shaping Stella into the powerful journalist she became, my father humbly and gracefully took a back seat to any claim of his part. He selflessly loved her enough to want her to thrive—to want her happiness.

Only the six of us know the details of the more complex story behind the woman who put the legendary band ruling the stage on the map, but only three people lived it.

Dad let Stella go to finish the rest of her chapters with another man and, in turn, found his unwritten chapters with my mother—showering the two of us with all the love in his heart. A fact that only reiterates why my father remains my hero. In embracing that, I look over at him with all the love I hold.

As I do, I sense a little tension building as the AT&T stadium is blanketed in darkness while Rye’s guitar screeches out, ending the last song. I look up to see Stella on the jumbotron, wiping a tear away before gripping Lexi’s hand that rests on her shoulder. Seconds later, a lone spotlight shines on Reid behind his drumkit.

It’s when a second spotlight appears, beaming down on a grand piano, and Easton takes the bench that what strength I’ve mustered starts to drain. The deafening roar of the crowd with his surprise arrival has instant tears threatening. Dad looks up at the jumbotron to see Easton smiling as the crowd’s roar reaches a thunderous level.

Behind the glass partition that separates us, the whole arena buzzes with electricity as Easton gets comfortable, adjusting the mic before looking over at his father with a grin. Reid smiles back at him, his face filling the jumbotron as he scans the stadium with reverence, giving himself a moment—clear appreciation in his expression for those screaming for the band, for his son.

“Thank you,” Reid speaks into the mic floating above his drum kit. “Thirty years ago . . . A Latina grenade stomped her way into my life and saved me seven minutes, so I promised her I would make the best of them.” Pandemonium ensues as the camera focuses for several seconds on all four members of the Dead Sergeants. Reflection and emotion flits on each of their faces as they stand in contemplation on the biggest stage in the world. As the noise dies down, the camera pans back in on Reid. “She’s the reason we’re here tonight, so I think it’s only fair we give our last seven minutes to her.”

Easton leans into the mic with a grin, his whisper low. “For you, Mom.” Easton begins to tease the stadium by repeating the opening notes of “Drive” on his piano keys. The uproar in response earns them one of Easton’s most genuine smiles. The song’s significance to fans and expected encore is no surprise considering the adoration and success of the movie.

Dad tightens his hold on my hand, and I glance over to see his shoulders have gone rigid, my whisper of his name getting lost in the noise of the crowd just below us.

Feeling his unease, I rack my brain for the reasoning behind his shift in demeanor. I thoroughly search my mental inventory. Well after the Sergeants’ rise to stardom, Stella stumbled into Emo’s and discovered Reid playing with the Sergeants at the end of one of their tours. They’d taken to the stage of the club to pay homage to their roots. Unbeknownst to Reid, Stella was at the foot of the stage, crying hysterically as Reid bellowed out the song in memory of her. As Easton continues to tease the stadium with the melodic opening, Dad’s words from the bar come back to me, stinging like a thousand needles.

“The night I found out was one of the most painful nights of my life. Seeing how much she loved him, how drawn she was to him, it fucking gutted me. I broke it off right then.”

Oh. My. God.

I turn to my father as the gravity of it hits me, his current reaction a byproduct of that monumental moment between Stella and Reid.

“You were there,” I whisper hoarsely, eyes filling as he keeps his focus trained on the field, on the stage. “You were there. You were there when he sang for her, that’s why—”

“Don’t let go,” he replies hoarsely, his grip on my hand tightening as I realize he’s being forced to relive one of the most painful moments of his life.

“Never,” I say softly, clutching his large hand in both of mine, apologies on the tip of my tongue as Easton’s voice breaks through and he begins to sing as my hopes of making it through the rest of this night intact are utterly obliterated.

Even as the revelation stuns me, I’m inevitably drawn back to the man who seized my heart so many moons ago, and the lyrics of the song begin to pummel me. Easton continues to play the haunting melody as scattered neon purple lights go up one by one throughout the stadium. Synthesizers sound off along with Easton as the camera closes in on him, capturing the details of his face while he poses intimate questions filled with longing.

He continues a slow build as my throat begins to burn. I’m drawn into Easton’s expression as he keeps his eyes down while the weight of our mistakes debilitates me. In these seconds, I become a firm believer that music is timeless. The proof of that almost tangible as years evaporate while my father and I are mutually bruised by a melody, in a front-row seat with a clear view, with history painfully repeating itself.

Even as I rebuke the circumstances against the injustice of what we’re feeling—and the consequences—I grudgingly identify with Stella in the minutes she watched the love of her life sing for her, thinking she was lost to him.

The burn of that truth sears into me further as Easton slowly lifts his head and stares directly into the camera, into me.

The world in its entirety disappears in the background as my supernova sings his parents’ love song, a song from one soulmate to another. The momentum continues to build as Easton casts his spell, enthralling us all just before Reid’s drums kick in and the rest of the Sergeants’ instruments ring out. The song draws heavy as an explosion of fireworks goes off into the night air. Reid detonates on the drums as Ben joins Easton in the chorus. Chills snake their way up my spine as every hair on my body lifts on end with the knowledge that I’m witnessing music history, and the man I’ve been breathing for is making it.

Easton’s soul-filled melody and vocals and the Sergeants’ hard-hitting sound create the perfect compilation of future and past.

Fireworks continue to explode overhead, shooting up to the top of the stadium and light the world in purple and blue. Reid’s drums puncture the night as Rye walks forward, bringing the song to its crescendo with a guitar solo to rival all others—elevating it to the next level—before drawing it all back to the melody.

The lights again dim, Easton front and center in the spotlight, taking the reins naturally as he softly presses the beginning notes, dragging the melody back gently to where it started. He repeats the opening lyrics, the lilt in his voice wrapping mournfully around each word as he pours his soul into them. Just as he draws us all back in with the caress of his voice, the band again explodes into motion, singing the last of the chorus. The cameras pan in on a close-up of each of the Sergeants and Easton as they end the song on the most spectacular high before the lights go dark.

Every soul in the stadium is already on their feet. I lower my head and cough, setting my tears free. The band gathers at the edge of the stage, and Easton steps back, clapping for them in praise as the Dead Sergeants take their final bow, clear sentiment flitting over each of their faces on the jumbotron as endless applause for their performance pierces the sky.

As soon as they exit the stage, the stadium lights kick up as clouds of lingering smoke rise steadily toward the roof, the field already bustling with a whir of activity.

Knowing the performance wasn’t a blatant display to hurt us—but how much it did anyway—is enough to fully resign me.

“You’re a stain.”

It’s when I turn and see the lingering hurt in my father’s expression that I allow some of my love for Easton to turn acidic. Revolted by the pain our brief love story caused us all—and the curse that came with it—I defy it all.

Fuck love.

Fuck fate.

Fuck destiny and timing and the chaotic methods of the cosmos that brought us together only to tear us apart in much the same way.

I no longer want any part of it. The cost is too high.

It’s Dad’s next words that briefly stun me.

“Go to him,” he says softly, releasing the hand I’m still holding, his eyes filled with rare defeat, his expression urgent. “Go to him, Natalie.”

I shake my head adamantly. “No, Daddy. It’s over,” I choke out, “It’s so over.”

“Natalie—”

“I’m certain,” I condemn as the last of the smoke drifts up out of the stadium and into the night sky, allowing more resentment in. Even if it feels wrong, I allow the poison to seep into me because it feels a hell of a lot better than continuing to cling to hope for a future with a remedy no longer within reach.

“You’re a stain.”

“Fuck the Crownes,” I declare, full of venom. “Every single one of them, including me ,” I let out a self-deprecating laugh as I fight and win the battle with the sting in my eyes.

No more tears, and one day, no more pain.

“Natalie,” my father’s eyes command mine, “Is this really what you want?”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s over.” Feeling the finality of it, I hear Easton’s venomous whisper repeat in my head.

“You’re a stain.”

I elbow Dad as I pull up my cellphone. “Let’s drive home and surprise Mom.”

“You sure?” He asks.

“Yeah, Daddy. Let’s go home.”