Within a few hurried steps, we’re at the entrance of Chihuly Garden and Glass. Before I have a chance to pull out my card for my ticket, Easton is slipping his wallet back into his jean pocket, two in hand. I mask my confusion as to why we’re here but simply follow him without prompt because I lost control of the day the second I slipped into his truck.
Within minutes, we’re entering a darkened room centered around an illuminated glass work of art. Easton steps out the way of those entering the room behind us, putting a large amount of space between us and those taking photos as he stares at the sea of multicolored blown glass. Standing near the back of the room, I play along during a few uneasy moments of silence before finally speaking up.
“Okay, you’ve made your point. You’re a man of few words,” I whisper. “Why are we here?”
“I haven’t been here since I was a kid,” he says thoughtfully as if he’s speaking first, not answering my question.
“Okay. Why am I here?”
“This is your first time in Seattle.” Not a question and something he shouldn’t know but a fact that I made easy to gather. Right now, I’m a sleep-deprived, directionless, emotional mess due to the revelation of my dad’s past life and my deception. Even so, I’m determined to try and take some control back. As the thought occurs to me to do better, I feel my energy waning further.
“Are we going to the Space Needle too? How about Pike’s Market?” I quip, well aware of the city’s most frequented tourist stops.
He nods toward the glass. “You don’t think seeing this is worth the price of admission?” His eyes are lit with appreciation as he darts them over to me.
“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t pay for it. Thank you for that, by the way…and it’s beautiful, but—”
“But?”
“But I’m not writing a puff piece, Easton.”
“You’re not writing anything at the moment, are you?”
I dart my gaze away.
His eyes remain on my profile as I bite my lip and stuff my hands in his jacket pockets. Amongst the contents, I feel a lighter, a safety pin, and pull a package out to see a dual pack of condoms—LELO-HEX-XL. My eyes fly to his, his expression not changing a fraction as I quickly stuff the package back into my pocket.
“Congratulations,” I mutter dryly with an eyeroll before darting my gaze back to the brightly lit piece.
We stand in silence for another few seconds before I speak again.
“You’ve never given an interview,” I whisper.
“No.”
“So why wouldn’t I want to be the first?”
He shakes his head ironically, a clear call of bullshit. He’s sensing an ulterior motive for my visit, and with every passing minute I remain vague, I’m giving him every reason to suspect me. Fleeing his evasive stare, I leave Easton’s side and walk to the edge of the installation. Bright red cornstalk-shaped lightning rods surround a small patch of yellow glass resembling lily pads. Just beyond, green spikes surround and accentuate a portion of the fixture before similar stalks in indigo blue sit in a cluster around a large, red-based, twisted pile of glass, the top of it colored neon yellow. It’s as if the whole installation is developing, reaching for something higher. The more I take in, the more my appreciation grows for the imagination and thought put into the work and the symphony of colors situated in an array of mind-boggling patterns. All of which are fused together in a way that shouldn’t flow but do so effortlessly.
Sensing Easton at my back, I feel a faint tug on the tips of my hair before my whole body erupts in chills.
Did he just touch my hair?
Feeling surrounded by him, I tilt my head toward the collar of his jacket and gather another hit of his scent. It’s intoxicating, knowing he’s at my back, and maybe, he’s just as curious about me as I am about him.
I blow out a breath, feeling a sort of intimate shift between us, the need to explain myself a little more pushing front and center. Hopefully, in doing so, I’ll be able to lower an inch of his seemingly impenetrable guard. His love language seems to consist of honesty, and if I want to grasp any of the insight to the other side I’m seeking, I’m going to have to keep it real with him. Already feeling exposed and in such a short amount of time, owing to his keen perception and invasive gaze, I decide to go in with a personal truth.
“There’s a famous picture,” I rasp out, “called “The Vulture and the Little Girl.” It was taken by a photojournalist named Kevin Carter,” I glance back at Easton, who’s now standing beside me. I see his gaze gliding along my profile, his own dimly lit by the spotlight on the sculpture. “Do you know of it?”