Even so, I’ve already gone too far.
This has to stop here.
One day I’ll summon the courage to ask, but for now, I need to let it go. If I back out of my half-baked plan now, good karma might give me a break for warning Easton that his secret was coming out. At least now he can prepare himself for the media shitstorm the announcement is sure to toss his way. I’ll just shoot him a text and cancel, assuring him of my word to keep Reid out of it, which will buy his silence.
Just as I reach for my cell to shoot him a text and refund my ticket, my phone lights up with an incoming text…from Easton.
EC: 415 Cedar Street @3
Guilt batters me as my parents begin to clear the table, their eyes lingering a bit longer on the other, no doubt from the reminiscence I drew out of them both with my prompting. Hands full of plates, Dad pauses behind Mom as she opens the sliding door. He leans in and kisses her shoulder, the look in his eye when he withdraws clearly not meant for me to see. Feeling sick, I avert my attention back to the Texas sun just as it dips below the horizon, coloring the sky a violent red.
What the hell are you doing, Natalie?
Just as I bring the question up, my phone lights up with a gate change announcement for my flight leaving for Washington in a few hours, and I’m not sure I’ll be on it.
Bette Davis Eyes
Kim Carnes
Easton
Sitting in the last booth—which runs adjacent to the bar—I dart my gaze out the windows between my truck parked a few spaces to the right of the entrance and those outside scurrying along the crosswalk. Others congregate at a small cluster of tables next to the front door, soaking up what little warmth they can get from the afternoon sun.
Flipping my cardboard coaster on the tabletop, I sink farther into the heavily worn seat, hating the fact that I’m early. I should have made her wait, questioning if I would show. One thing I do know is she’s not getting a single fucking quotable syllable from me until I feel her out.
I’m educated enough in what Mom calls her ‘past life’ in Texas to know there may be some truth to her claim our parents dated. Although why she mentioned it remains a mystery, especially since she made it clear she wants them kept out of this. If anything, that useless information was a display in poor taste, the definition of classless.
If she’d shown a little of that, I might not be sitting here ready to rip into her. With respect to my mother’s profession, there’s a big difference between hungry mass media and good journalism. There’s also a fine line in how to approach someone with a request to pry into their personal life—and she crossed a dozen lines in minute one. Her father might own Speak, and her mother might have inherited a media empire, but it’s obvious growing up surrounded by seasoned professionals has done fuck all for her. I’m willing to bet she’s newly graduated and hungry to make worthy headlines to compete with her parents’ legacy. If so, she’s going about it all wrong. Especially if I’m her first stop in making a real effort.
Anger resurfaces as I mentally run through the list of those who could have sold me out—my suspects limited to a few. Even with that list, I can’t think of one who would benefit by uttering a word about me releasing my album. It’s that she mentioned Dad playing the role of producer that’s really thrown me.
Acidic irritation runs through me as music begins to blare from the digital jukebox in the corner of the bar opposite me, accompanying the background noise of scattered conversations and clinking glasses.
No matter how hellbent Dad is on me seeing this through, he would never compromise my need to do this my way or our relationship in this capacity. Both my parents have spent my entire existence trying to protect me from the information-hungry masses, more so, bloodthirsty predators like Natalie Hearst. I’m positive Dad would never do so much to shield me, only to toss me straight into the lion’s den—even with us at odds about how I chose to go about this. This source—whoever the fuck they are—can’t possibly be on my shortlist. Sadly, the only way I’ll find out who is, is by getting it from her. This means, temporarily, I’ll have to play amicable enough while keeping my temper at bay. This is an ask that, at the moment, is too fucking much.
I’ve been without the need of my parents’ protection for far longer than either of them would admit, but have yet to relinquish their rights in doing so. Their need to believe—especially my mother—has kept me silent, but not for much longer.
Anger simmering close to boiling, I do my best to sink into the easy rhythm of the music, mimicking the pluck of guitar strings with the fingers wrapped around my pint glass.