Screw Easton Crowne and the awareness that loving him brought me.
Screw men in general, aside from the one man I’ve almost always been able to count on.
Dad lingers at my office door as I do my best to relieve him of the burden of being a concerned parent. “Please tell Mom just how fine I am and be gone, good media king,” I wave him away, “this princess has a deadline. Find someone else to hover over and terrorize.”
Dad lingers a bit longer when my intercom buzzes, and I snatch the cradled phone like the lifeline it is, willing to talk to anyone who will get the overprotective guardian out of my office.
“Line one—”
“Got it,” I say, with the phone already to my ear, continuously shooing my father away. When he’s out of earshot, I hit the button with a ‘no comment’ ready on my tongue. “This is Natalie Hearst.”
“Beauty…”
Stunned, I focus on the blooming flowers of my screensaver and school my expression.
“Are you okay?” His voice is void of sarcasm, but that does nothing to curb my contempt.
“About the puppy? I’m good. I’m not much of an animal person anyway, a fun fact you didn’t know about your ex-wife.”
“I didn’t fucking mean that,” he rasps out, his voice scratchy as though he just woke up.
“Well, you were right about some of it, so feel free to congratulate yourself.”
“Natalie…I’m sorry.”
“I’ve already forgiven you, and I did it for me. Anything else?”
“I’m in Austin.”
“Yeah? Good for you. Go to Sam’s on 12th street, amazing barbecue.”
“Can I see you?”
“No thanks. I barely survived the last scathing interaction.” Heart pounding, I tilt my head and type gibberish on my board to make myself look busy while feeling the prodding blue eyes across the pit.
Not again. Nope. Nope. Nope.
“You’re a stain.”
Easton made every imaginable headline professionally for weeks following the Super Bowl. His sales skyrocketed along with the simultaneous hunger for his picture and any personal information. His half-time performance blasted him into the stratosphere, quadrupling his already impressive sales and putting all twelve of his singles on the Billboard, numbering one through twelve. Personally, he disappeared, not a single picture of him surfacing. Not only has Easton’s success become ceaseless in media chatter, but the Sergeants’ performance was rated by many as one of the top ten half-time shows in NFL history. Even so, Easton seems to have exiled himself from the spotlight.
“Let me come to you,” he says. “I want to apologize in person.”
“No!” I blurt as several sets of eyes fly my way. “No,” I repeat, lowering my voice. “It’s not a good idea, and you know it’s not. Listen to me…you’re okay, you’re better than okay, and I’m going to be okay, and I need you to respect that. I’m happy for you, I really am, and I’ll accept your apology now, but please don’t call me again. There’s nothing more to say. I wish you well.”
I hang up the phone and stare at it, just as the line instantly lights up with another incoming call. The gravity of what I just did begins to hit as I try not to let the burn singe too much of me.
He didn’t call. You imagined it.
The lines continue to explode, and my phone texts tick up in numbers—no doubt Holly and Damon attempting to check on me.
I send them a group text to assure them I’m okay, and they both instantly start an emotional welfare check interrogation.
“Damnit,” I mutter, hanging my head. Dad’s right. I need to try to avoid this circus for at least a few days until some of the storm blows over. Grabbing my laptop, I walk across the pit. Employees eyes follow me as I command my heart to slow.
He didn’t just call. You imagined it. He’s not in Austin.
I knock on Dad’s doorframe, and he immediately puts his call on hold, kicking back in his leather chair while squeezing his stress ball.
“What’s up?” He eyes my laptop.
“You’re right. I’m going to go. I’ll work from home for the next few days. I’m so sorry, Daddy.”
“Look at me,” he commands, and I do. “Do I look upset? This isn’t on you.” I can feel his aggravation for me in his posture, but see nothing but love in his eyes.
“Thank you. Love you.”
“You too. Come home if you want.”