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.”
From Can to Can’t
Corey Taylor, Dave Grohl, Rick Nielsen, Scott Reeder
Easton
Mom begins to run full throttle toward Dad just as our golf cart rounds the curve that leads back to our dressing room. I don’t miss the reddening of his eyes just before he exits and stalks towards her. She jumps into his waiting arms and showers him with kisses, tears lining her cheeks as he lifts her from her feet, arms locked around her possessively. Their murmurs echo throughout the hall as they console each other with shaky words and devotion-soaked expressions.
My own eyes burn and sting with the knowledge my father’s career has just ended. The finality is sealed with a kiss by the woman who jumpstarted it and spent her life watching it unfold by his side.
Briefly, I see a glimpse of them, younger, colliding the same way all those years ago, and in a cruel twist, an image of Natalie wrapped around me takes its place.
“I’ve been faithful.”
I had a chance of having that. Of what they have. With her.
I can now say that I loved a woman with every fiber of my being, heart and soul, and always will. I can claim that. I wonder how many souls can’t.