With the slight tilt of his head, Easton weighs my words.
“Easton, tell me why you’re so hesitant to give an interview for something you’re signing up for.”
He focuses back on the installation as bated silence ensues but surprises me when he finally speaks up. “The most I have to give to anyone is my music. That’s personal enough.”
“But it discredits you as a human being.”
“I don’t want to be human, not for them, because I’ll be crucified no matter what, and you can’t convince me otherwise. I want to—strike that—I have to keep a piece of myself for me and those close to me.”
“But what if your music inspires people so much they can relate and want to know more about you?”
“Then it’s the music they relate to, my feelings, my experiences, maybe my politics or beliefs at the time I was feeling them when I wrote it. I don’t want to be held to some inhuman standard. I want to be able to make mistakes and evolve, just like everyone else. So, no, I’m not signing up for anything. I’m sharing my music. That’s it. I don’t want anything else from it.”
He looks over to me, his voice grave.
“I wasn’t made for this, Natalie. Creating and playing may be the only thing that comes naturally to me—and might be construed as talent—but the fame aspect is not something I’ve ever wanted, and I was born into it. It makes me feel less than human. I feel trapped, imprisoned by it, and for that, yeah, I’m just fucking unappreciative. As selfish as it may seem, I don’t want to be responsible for people that way. If I play, it will be for entertainment. I’m no one’s messiah and don’t strive to be. Kind of like your Kevin Carter. I know exactly what I want and what I don’t. I want my music heard. I want to play it for those who enjoy it. That’s it. I don’t want you to print any of this to paint a picture of another fucking ungrateful rock star’s kid, who already feels trapped by fame before he even releases. It’s my worst nightmare. Pick a different angle, any fucking angle.”
“It’s the truth.”
“It’s part of the truth,” he insists, not giving me anything else.
“We don’t have to be friends, Easton, and I may grill you for the truth, but I can promise you that I won’t sacrifice any part of you for them.”
He remains silent, his jade gaze magnetic as we stare off.
“I know I haven’t given you a single reason to trust me, and I may seem a little out of…” my fucking mind, “sorts, but I assure you I am capable of writing an honest story full of whatever your truth may be. If you decide to grant me an interview.”
He nods, unrelenting in his observation of me as more silence ensues.
“Will you at least tell me what you’re thinking right now?”
“I think you’re beautiful,” he rasps out, “and I feel sorry for you.”
I can’t help the bark of a laugh that bursts from me as my pride takes another solid hit. “Screw you, Crowne.”
His lips lift slightly in another almost smile before he extends an open hand toward me. “Come on.”
Frowning, I stare at his outstretched hand as he extends it further, urging me to take it. Hesitantly I grasp it, and he encases it in his warm palm before leading me into the next room.
We don’t exchange a single word as we go through the rest of the property. Still, he remains close, our arms brushing as he glances over at me every couple of minutes—strangely in silent support and apparently ready to listen.
He probably thinks I’m a little crazy or cracking up.
Currently, I fear he might not be wrong.
Once we leave the garden, he drives around the outskirts of the city. The music blaring as the whipping wind circulates through the ancient Chevy, and the heater blows at our feet. Every so often, I glance over at him as he drives, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. I have no doubt those thoughts are keeping him in better company because, for the umpteenth time since I got to Seattle, I’m questioning why I’m here. All I do know is right now, I feel incapable of taking the lead. The self-assured, confident, steadfast, focused woman I was before I opened those emails is nowhere in the vicinity.
Sadly, but truthfully, I’m thankful for the distance between myself and the people that know me best—especially my father. But even that tiny relief brings its own type of guilt.
After endless miles of relaxed silence with music continually flowing, Easton finally asks me where I’m staying. Not long after, he pulls up to the circular entrance of The Edgewater Hotel. The sliding doors are to our right, and a fire roars in the large stone column on the left. The heavy repeat of the engine amplifies to an obnoxious level when he puts the truck in park and turns to me.