“In a way,” I swallow, “I guess I did.” My mouth dries as he refuses to free me from the power of his perusal. As I opt for honesty, my heart begins to thrum harder with each passing second. “Thank you for giving me a soft place to land, Easton.” Fumbling, I find and tug on the handle of the truck before slamming it closed. Gripping the top of the open window with my fingers—unsure if I’ll see him again—I peer over at him and try to convince myself that if this is the last time, I’ll be fine with it.
“I’ll…” a nervous laugh escapes me, “thanks again, and good night.” Turning abruptly, I stalk toward the lobby, my pounding heartbeat and footsteps in sync. I don’t have to look back to know. I can feel his eyes on me.
White Noise
Exitmusic
Easton
Adding more weight to my press bar, I glance down as my phone lights up with an incoming text.
Natalie: I just want you to know that you don’t have to regret or worry about what you confided in me today.
Downing my water, I take the bench seat and text back.
Still not claiming to be villain or vulture?
Natalie: Exactly.
So, if my secrets are safe with you, what will you write?
Natalie: Let me worry about that.
The bubbles start and stop for almost a full minute before stopping altogether.
“East!” Mom calls from atop the stairs of our basement, which Dad converted into a state-of-the-art home gym and theatre years ago. “I left a plate of dinner on the counter if you’re hungry!”
“Okay, thanks,” I call up to her, distracted by the image of Natalie’s panic-stricken face when Mom called earlier today. It was obvious by her reaction that the answer to some of her mystery lies there, but I surprised myself by letting her off the hook without explanation.
What are you so afraid to tell me?
The bubbles start and stop again for over a minute, and I can’t help my grin. I’ve got her cornered, and she’s flailing.
Are you really that afraid of me?
Her answer is immediate and defiant, just like her.
Natalie: No.
It’s clear she’s got a surface confidence, some of it ingrained, a lot of it natural. I have no doubt what she told me today is true, that her life is structured, and she probably prefers it that way. But I’ve been loving every second of watching her guard slip willingly and unwillingly in the short time I’ve known her. The more we spend time together, the more I find myself increasingly captivated by her own disbelief during those times, as if she’s surprised herself. If she only knew how fucking beautiful she is when she allows herself to unravel naturally. My fingers dart over the screen in easy invitation.
Want to get lost again tomorrow?
Natalie: Don’t feel obligated.
I don’t.
I bark out a laugh at the hangtime of more bubbles without reply.
This woman.
Natalie: Okay.
I’ll text you.
Natalie: Night.
My fingers linger over the screen as renewed energy courses through me. I can’t pinpoint what possessed me to reveal so much to her without ample reason to, especially when it’s obvious she’s still hiding a lot from me. My own confessions poured from me as if I’ve been saving them specifically for her. For some reason, I want her to understand my logic, me. Oddly, I didn’t battle with myself over it after I dropped her off and am more unsettled by how I felt when she walked into her hotel, away from me.
The adrenaline I feel now lingers, thanks to the odd connection I feel to her. The attraction is heavy and growing stronger, but more so by her mystery and what she wants from me. I saw her hesitate—more than once—as she looked over at me on the drive back. I have little doubt she wants to confess whatever is weighing on her, but I’m not about to demand it because odds are, I won’t get it all.
Laying back, I resume my reps as I replay the day, the light in her eyes as she looked at me with the same curiosity, like maybe she’s searching for similar answers from me.
She’s shying away from our attraction, and I’m not the man to press it, but today I fucking wanted to. She’s become one hell of a distraction from the unease I’ve been feeling for weeks about releasing.
Maybe that’s why I’m becoming so attuned to her, because if I’ve been in need of anything lately, it’s a diversion.
“Are you going to come up sometime tonight?” Dad’s voice sounds from the bottom of the stairs as he lowers the volume on “White Noise” by Exitmusic, a song I find fitting for my career predicament.