I nudge him. “So, you have that to look forward to.”
He dips his chin noncommittally before sauntering over to the last case. Like Ben’s display, at the back sits a life-size black and white picture of Reid, fingers firmly gripping his sticks, arms raised and poised to rain hell on his drums. Shirt tucked in his back pocket, Reid’s expression is much like Easton’s when he gets lost in the music.
Though I’ve attributed Easton’s skin and hair color to Stella, in this photo Reid and Easton’s likeness is striking.
Inside the case, situated in front of the life-size picture, sits a Drummer’s Workshop kit. A battered set of Reid’s drumsticks—one with the tip broken off—rests against the large, tattered bass drum. Reading the prompt, I recognize I was right in assuming it’s the set of drums Stella won by chance and sent to Reid after they broke up. Her gesture was a plea to encourage him to keep going, even after he broke her heart and left Austin. A slight bitterness seeps into me, but at the same time, I know the gesture was probably what kept him from quitting.
“They saved him,” Easton confirms, staring at the kit. “It cut him deep to donate them, but he didn’t want them rotting away in storage. He figured at least they’ll be preserved here. Mom saw in him what he couldn’t see for himself,” he utters, unmistakable pride in his eyes for what his parents have.
I nod, ashamed my confidence is shaky in the same respect, and I allowed—am allowing it to happen. Easton trails me into a nearby room as I stare blankly at the next display. His warmth surrounds me before he rests his chin on my shoulder, my body reacting in kind as it begins to thrum with awareness.
“I’m right here,” he whispers, the words resonating a second before bringing me to a scene in Drive. Reid typed out those exact words for Stella on her laptop minutes before they collided in their first kiss. Just as I question the implication of Easton’s whispered words, his warmth vanishes and he steps away, his expression imperceptible. He scans the room briefly, seeming to get lost in thought before turning back to me and extending his palm. “Come on, buttery breasts,” one side of his mouth lifts. “I’ll take you back to your hotel.”
I do the only thing that’s felt right since I landed in Seattle and place my hand in his.
Only You Know
Dion
Natalie
For the first few minutes of the drive back to the hotel, I fight the urge to try and extend our time together. Somehow, Easton’s managed to turn another shitty morning into an extraordinary day. An unforgettable day. As hard as I try to muster the courage, I can’t manage to get the words out thanks to the lie I’m continuing to feed into. His effort to give a little background by taking me to the museum to help me with my fictional article hasn’t gone unnoticed.
It’s when the surroundings start to become familiar that the overwhelming urge overtakes me. Just as I go to speak, Easton lifts a finger, asking me to wait. The now recognizable, faraway look in his eye is present as he becomes absorbed in the music. Ears perked, he turns the song up and I quickly pull up my Shazam app to identify it when it doesn’t appear on the ancient truck’s radio display. Seconds later, the title pops up on screen—“Only You Know” by Dion. I look up the year it was released, 1975, and make a mental note of it as we reach the hotel.
Limbs growing heavy with disappointment, I ready my goodbye, but instead of pulling up at the entrance to drop me off, Easton parks and wordlessly exits his truck. In seconds, his warm hand surrounds mine as he pulls me from the cab before turning and stalking toward the hotel, ostensibly on a mission. Instead of questioning what he’s doing, I speed up to keep up with his determined strides. Ambling into the lobby with me in tow, he stops and scans it. Seeming unsatisfied, he continues his search to the adjacent lounge. I nearly collide with him as he pauses briefly when we reach it before making a beeline to the back of the large room. Glancing around, I soak in the atmosphere for the first time since I arrived in Seattle.
I’d picked The Edgewater on a whim after seeing that several known celebrities and musicians have stayed here. Ironically, it was a picture of The Beatles fishing in the Puget Sound from one of the room windows that sold me. One of a few growing coincidences I purposely haven’t pointed out to Easton.
As Easton speed walks through the room with me in tow, I note that the large, clustered seating area is adorned with posh, comfortable-looking furniture. Branches extend from tree trunk-shaped support columns through the space, and much like my room, cemented river rocks make up the massive fireplace to our right. The fireplace currently hosts a low burning flame, making the atmosphere romantic in feel. A large, amber-lit antler chandelier rests low in front of a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. Just beyond one of the windows, a cluster of seagulls dip along the water, leaving it rippling in their wake.