Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

SIXTY-EIGHT “The Dance”

SIXTY-EIGHT

“The Dance”

Fist of Five

Natalie

O n a plush blanket in the middle of nowhere, I pull on a dark beer as I continue to read. Morning became afternoon, and as the story progressed, I traded in coffee for something a little stronger to take the hard edge off Stella’s bared bones story about falling for two men—our fathers . Every so often, I glance up at Easton where he lays propped on his side. He’s dressed in jeans, solid red high tops, and a thick hoodie—a hoodie no doubt covered in his scent, which he’s offered more than once, and I’ve repeatedly declined. Earbuds in, he’s posted next to me like he has all the time in the world. More than once, I’ve found his eyes trailing down my exposed skin, denying myself the rush it brings as I became more immersed.

Flipping a page, I feel the heat rush to my cheeks as Stella sneaks over to Reid’s apartment for the first time. Throat drying, my pulse kicks up.

“She blushes.” I look up to see Easton smirking.

“You read this?”

“The whole thing,” he says softly, “but you might be skimming soon.”

“This feels . . .”

“Invasive? Yeah, I thought so too, at first, but it’s the story she wanted to share with the world. Keep going,” he urges, moving to lay on his back, his hoodie riding up to expose some of the tattoo on his side. Ignoring the urge to trace the skin with my gaze, I divert my focus back to the page, continue reading, and become lost.

Hours later, sitting with the script propped on my thighs, tears streaming down my cheeks, I read Stella’s tearful goodbye to my father as they locked eyes across the stage at the music festival. Swallowing repeatedly, Easton gently scrapes away a tear with the pad of his finger as I soak in the true ending of their relationship while marveling at what an incredible man my father was and is . Of how Stella truly loved him. The words blur until I manage to make it through the last few pages, understanding the context of their final emails more clearly.

Reeling from what I have just experienced, I lay the manuscript on the blanket, staring at the rapidly darkening sky. We lay there for a few silent minutes as I absorb what I just read, a vortex of feelings. Turning my head, I look over to see Easton’s eyes on me.

“Say something,” he whispers.

“It’s pretty obvious now why we were born so close together,” I manage a watery smile. “My parents were on their honeymoon, and your mother was . . . reaffirming their relationship.” I shake my head. “This is all so crazy. Our stories are so different and so similar too. It’s like . . . I don’t know what to do with all of this,” I pull in a shaky inhale, my heart raw as my emotions get the best of me, and I let my words fly.

“My dad tried at the Super Bowl. He really did. For the most part, he was okay, but that song forced him to relive that night, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter how much time had passed—he felt it. Watching him relive it . . . it was hell on earth. I was so angry with your mother, with you, with our circumstances, with what became of us , that’s how I was able to—”

“Sign the papers,” he finishes for me. “I can’t blame him, Natalie. I just can’t anymore.” Easton blows out a harsh breath. “I was fool enough to believe that time mattered. But love is like music for so many in the fact that it’s—”

“Timeless,” I finish for him. “That’s how I felt about their emails, like it was happening as I read them.” Another tear escapes as I shake my head. “I don’t know what to say. I’m just . . .”

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” he assures. “But I’ve been fucking blind to how much you could see. I always was. You saw how much it was destroying your father and our families, and I was too consumed in what I felt for you to see you were right in many respects. I’m sorry for that.”

“Yeah. But I see too. I see how she truly loved him. I-I—”

“Clarity, insight, remorse,” he finishes for me. “That’s why I’m here. I wanted you to have this, so you could get some much-needed, much-deserved perspective, if you still wanted it. You paid for it dearly. We both did. Fuck knows I needed it and found it in there.” He moves to sit. “I tried to hate him, but the more I read, the more I understood who Nate is, it evaporated. Somewhere deep down, I knew if I read it, I couldn’t hold him responsible.”

“God, what we put them through,” I say. “I feel so bad for all of them.”

“There was no winner,” he says.

“I came to that conclusion months ago.”

Easton nods. “At least we know why they reacted the way they did and were initially so fucking adamant about keeping us apart.”

“It’s so weird, but I’m not angry anymore.”

“Me neither,” he croons softly, lifting his eyes to the purpling sky.

“I’m just . . . sad.” I press against my aching chest with both hands. “Jesus, this hurts so much.”

“There’s more,” he says, pulling an envelope from his pocket, “but I have to take this back with me.”

I open it to see it is a letter addressed to Stella. More tears emerge as I read Reid’s letter to Stella on their wedding day and finish it with an exhale bordering a sob. “God, it’s so beautiful. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“I probably shouldn’t have, and I don’t think Mom realized she left it in there. But we’ve come this far . . . and there’s more.”

“Um, Easton, look at me,” I wave my hand around my stinging cheeks. “Do you really think I’m up for it?”

“Not like that,” he lifts his chin toward the paper. “Look at the bottom of the stationery.”

I lift it, and even with dusk setting in, I manage to catch the logo.

“The Edgewater,” I gasp, utterly stunned. “That’s just . . . wow.”

“I wonder which room it was,” he says thoughtfully. “I wonder if Dad remembers.”

“I bet he does, but please don’t tell me, because I have a feeling it will totally freak me out.”

“But it’s cool, right?”

Biting my lip to hide the tremble, I nod in agreement.

“We were asking too much, weren’t we?” I wipe my eyes with my sweater sleeve. “Doomed from the start.”

“That’s not my take away. Mine is a lot like my father’s now,” he exhales, “I have a grudge-filled respect for Nate Butler that I couldn’t have ever managed before.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Yeah. I wish . . . fuck . . .,” he exhales, “what I wish. And as much as I fucking hate to admit it, they all had every right to their initial reaction. When they were trying to get over it—”

“We screwed the rest up ourselves,” I finish for him.

He gives me a subdued nod.

“Thank you for this,” I say, hugging the manuscript to my chest. “I wonder if my father has read it.”

“He lived it,” Easton says, “but I don’t think so. Mom says her agent and lawyer reached out with the original, and he denied having any part in it.”

“He did?” I shake my head as dozens of answers to questions I never thought to ask circle in my mind. Silence lingers as I start to plug some of the pieces into place.

“You’re going to have a lot to unpack,” Easton supplies, “it will take a little time, but you’ll get through it.”

“My dad was a badass,” I grin, hugging the manuscript a little harder.

“Mine was an asshole ,” he says, “ and a badass.”

“How do you feel about the part where he . . . almost—”

“Killed himself?” Easton shakes his head while brushing off his jeans. “I never would have thought him capable of that, but the way I feel sometimes when I get really low, I understand the thoughts . . . Honestly, I can barely imagine that version of him. Living on a mattress, starving, on a fucking floor.”

“Your mother saved him by washing his hair,” a fast tear forms and falls, and he catches it with his thumb, seeming briefly fascinated by it.

“Jesus, Crowne. You know, you always do this to me. One minute I’m emotionally stable and somewhat put together, and the next, with you, I’m a damn mess.”

“Such a beautiful mess,” he fires back.

I glance around as the sun disappears. “What have you been doing all day?”

“Staring at my beautiful wife.”

“ Ex -wife.”

“Right,” he says as he stands and holds out his hand. “Come on, Beauty. I’ll take you home.”

The ride back to my apartment is silent as I mull over what I just read, which felt more like what I lived . Our parents’ love story in its entirety. Emotions swirl in my chest as my mind races with the knowledge we both have now.

Joel pulls the SUV to a stop two buildings away from mine and parks between two cars to keep us hidden. When he exits, a strange energy rolls off Easton, who sits next to me, his gaze trained out his passenger window. I can’t get a clear read on him as I soak in his profile—as much as I can in the dark cabin of the SUV.

“So, now we both know,” I state the obvious, my perception shifting by the second. “Do you . . . feel like it was a mistake . . . like we were a mistake?”

“Never, and I never fucking will,” his declaration strikes deep. “So yeah, now we both know,” he says, his voice hoarse. “It’s funny though.”

“What?”

“Their story doesn’t change the significance of ours.” I manage to catch him licking the corner of his mouth as he keeps his gaze on the car parked next to him.

“So, do we try to forgive each other now?” I ask.

“I want to . . . See, the thing is, I will never regret us, Beauty, because . . .” he seems to sort through his words, choosing each carefully—which I hate because it’s new, and I know it’s because of post-apocalyptic Easton and Natalie.

“Because?”

He turns to face me, eyes shimmering. “I can’t recall any other time in my life where I was so blissfully happy.” A tear slowly rolls down his cheek, “Can you?”

The burn starts in my throat, and I choke out my answer while letting my own tears free. “No.”

“If that’s not a sign of something fucking real, something worth fighting for, something worth keeping , then I don’t know fucking anything at all.”

“We tried,” I sniff, my own tears cascading down my cheeks, “didn’t we?”

“We succeeded,” he says, plucking one away, “we really did when we kept everyone else out of it.”

“Until we tore each other apart,” I say. “We . . . .” I shake my head. “We really hurt each other.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I still think the world of you. I still think you’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. I will never regret us.”

“Jesus, Easton, can’t you, just for once, be a less authentic human being? Just once?”

“You know I fucking can’t,” he replies with a shaky breath.

“So, what’s your future now?” I ask, just as Joel raps on the hood and Easton eases away from me.

“New York,” he answers. “We’re kicking off the tour at the Garden in five hours.”

“That’s right,” I say. “A European tour. That’s so incredible. Are you excited?” He gives me a small dip of his chin.

The air of the SUV thickens with emotion as I blurt my truth. “Easton, I don’t want to not know you. You became my best friend. I miss that so much, outside of everything else. Can we at least try to be what we couldn’t be before? I don’t want to not know you,” I repeat. “It’s too hard. I miss you.” He remains quiet as I grab his hand, and he turns back to face me. “Maybe, one day, when it doesn’t feel . . . so much like entering the seventh circle of hell?”

He lowers his eyes to our clasped hands, and I’m not sure he’s going to answer, but he speaks up, his voice ragged. “Yeah, maybe then.”

Joel knocks again on the hood in warning.

“I’ve got to go. I’ve got a plane to catch,” Easton sighs.

“But this, right now, this isn’t goodbye, right?” My pulse picks up as panic sets in.

“Not for me. I really need to go,” he repeats.

“But we will talk again?” I ask, unrestrained tears flowing down as I gather my purse and laptop and clutch them to me.

He focuses on me, his expression pained. “If you ever . . . need me,” he utters softly, “I’ll be right where you left me, okay?” He turns back toward the window as the roar in my chest intensifies.

“Okay,” I agree easily. “You, too.” I pause with my hand on the door. “Easton?”

“Yeah, Beauty?”

“Did you just lie to me for the first time?”

“I don’t know,” he utters weakly as Joel knocks again. “I don’t want it to be.”

“Okay,” I say, opening my door. “Okay,” I whisper, “well, I won’t say goodbye then. H-h-have a good show tonight.”

He nods as I open the door and step out of the SUV. Joel gazes at me, reading my expression, before pulling me into him—my laptop smashed between our chests as we hug.

“Take care of him, please, Joel.”

“I’m trying,” he presses a kiss against my temple.

“I love you,” I sniffle, “you know that, right?”

“You too, sweetheart. I’m here for you always.”

“Same.”

A sob escapes me before I rip myself away from his warm embrace and turn, starting at a dead run toward my apartment.

Standing in Easton’s jacket on my balcony that night, holding my Edgewater teddy bear, wind whipping around me, I blur out the downtown noise as I replay our parents’ love story—clicking in the last pieces of the puzzle that has plagued me since I began my search a year ago. It’s on the wind, in an urgent whisper that Stella’s words come to me.

“Look up.”

And I do. Straining against the restraints of my balcony, I search for and fail to find a single star while standing in the haze of the bustling city below. Sniffing the collar of Easton’s jacket, I note the absence of a scent that used to be so present. He was just with me, his warmth within reach, but I couldn’t allow myself to get intimate or reacquainted with it. I wouldn’t have survived it. The only thing I regret now is everything left unsaid. So many things I wished I would’ve told him, knowing that we may never speak on that sort of unguarded, intimate level again. Remorse riddles me until I decide for what it’s worth to relay some of it by text, in hopes to open a window, even if the door feels closed. Just as I go to compose a message, a video attachment comes in from Joel. I open it to see Easton paused on screen, on stage behind his piano, a lone spotlight shining down on him.

Joel sent me tonight’s encore.

Heart speeding, I click play, and Easton begins to play the opening of “The Dance,” an old favorite of my father’s I’m oddly familiar with. But within the first few bars, I realize Easton’s playing a very different version than the one I know. When the words begin to pour from his lips, he sings about love found and lost. About being thankful for the ignorance of the cost of the toll that love would take. The music takes a haunting, drastic turn, and Easton goes heavy, gutturally screaming along with LL’s heavy guitar riffs. My entire body lights on fire, every hair standing on end with the knowledge that he’s singing of our demise. Every word burns through to my core as he plays expertly along the keys before tilting his head back and screaming, coming apart on stage. I see and feel it all, the bitterness and rage in his posture, the agony in his expression, the loss of us. Hysterical sobs leave me as Easton brutally echoes the most defining moments of my life. He leads the song through a heart-stopping crescendo . . . and then it’s just him and his piano, the final notes ringing in clearly as he whispers the last lyric into the mic before slamming it closed.

The meaning of this act is not at all lost on me.

Gaping at the screen as the stage goes black and the video stops, a notification lowers for a new email.

An email I haven’t thought to look for since the Super Bowl. An email I’ve been too immersed in my own pain to realize was never sent.

Opening the document, I watch in real-time as Easton signs our divorce papers. Bracing myself on the thin rail of my balcony, all the hope I’ve been harboring disintegrates to ashes and begins to scatter away from me. Remnants of who I was a few minutes before, I again look up to the starless night sky, knowing I’ll find no solace there—or anywhere else.

My supernova just passed me by.