“Are you referring to Adrian Town’s suicide?” Adrian was a Sergeants’ fan who committed suicide at one of their last concerts. It was in the headlines for weeks. Easton’s expression darkens.
“I don’t think a lot of people realize they live around echoes of defining moments in their lives.”
“He was mentally ill. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“Tell that to my dad. He was a fucking wreck for almost a year. We still feel the echoes of that night to this day. But everyone seems to take great pleasure in pointing fingers in claiming crazy on those they don’t understand.” He rakes his lower lip, and his chest bounces as irony covers his expression. “Everyone loves The Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh, but I wonder how many know…”
“Know what?”
“That’s the point. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone or change their perception of an artist or take away any merit of his art for any reason.”
“How so?”
“You really want to know?”
“I have to now.”
“All right. He painted The Starry Night because that’s what he saw during one of his most manic states while staring out of his asylum window.”
He glances over at me to weigh my reaction as I picture the painting. “You’re right. I didn’t know that.”
He nods. “Most people don’t unless they look into the artist or listen attentively to the Don McLean song. While some people will appreciate the art, those curious will want to know more about where it stemmed from. When they dig, they’ll get the dirt under their fingernails and hate how it feels.”
“It’s a natural curiosity.”
“I get that, really, but from what I’ve seen and learned, expressing yourself creatively and becoming successful at it always comes at a cost.”
His voice is solemn as he exits the highway and glances over at me as he parks in a recreational area, a picnic bench and charcoal grill a few feet away. Light droplets of rain coat the windshield as we remain idle.
“The truth is, ordinary humans are capable of doing extraordinary things every single day without living extraordinary, extra lives. It’s the art, the creativity that sets them apart, not what they fucking eat for breakfast or who they’re fucking. Let them have their eggs in peace.” His jade eyes find mine, and I briefly get lost in them as the intimacy in the air becomes tangible. “But then I look at you and see you have a natural inclination to seek out what makes humans tick. Of how they came to be who they are, and I can’t fault you for that, no more than you can fault me for not wanting to be under your microscope. I don’t hate the press. I just hate the microscope and what it’s done to the people I love.”
Soaking all his admissions in, it dawns on me. “This is why you haven’t set a release date. You’re not sure you’re going to release at all.”
He turns to stare out of the window, his jaw tensing. “I’ve thought about doing it anonymously, but fuck that, if I go in, I’m going all the way in. I’m not missing the experience of performing, or else what’s the point. It’s a bonding experience I’ve seen and felt—so much love. It’s surreal, and that’s when I’ll be with them. That’s when they’ll have all of me.” He turns to me. “I’m not missing that for any reason.”
“Easton, you can’t let—”
“Can’t I?” He interjects, dread in his tone. “I’ve waded through the scary parts with my parents, watched people I love implode under pressure, buried family friends too soon, and observed people close to me tear their personal relationships apart year after year due to insecurity.”
I try to place who he’s talking about as he turns back to me, his expression full of anxiety.
“Fame is my biggest fear, Natalie.”
Unable to help myself, I reach over and grip his hand as he shifts his focus back out of the windshield. After a few minutes of silence, he turns to me.
“I want you to remember this moment. Right here, right now, just you and me in a fucking SUV, taking a drive to nowhere.” He looks at me pointedly. “Promise me you’ll remember this.”
It’s kind of hard to forget, but I voice his request anyway. “I promise.”
He turns my hand over and slides his finger along my palm as my spine prickles with awareness.
“Now I wonder how you’ll view The Starry Night when you see it again.” He pins me with his inquisitive gaze. “Will you see the masterpiece or the mental illness?”