The back door of the parlor slams shut just before Benji closes the bathroom door behind him.
“Keep talking,” Easton prompts.
“The last email between them was an apology from your mom about the headlines regarding your parents’ engagement,” I relay, blinking up at him. “As I was reading, it was like experiencing the heartbreak myself…after they broke up, it hurt like hell. It was so strange. It was like, as my dad’s heart was breaking, mine was too. How can two people who claimed to love each other so much just walk away from each other?”
“Natalie. The only way to know is to ask him.”
“I can’t. Trust me, I wanted to at first, but I can’t help feeling like he hid this because it’s too painful for him to talk about and he buried it so he wouldn’t have to.”
“But your parents’ marriage—”
“A rough month here and there, but…good,” I grip my beer and sigh, “this is ridiculous.” I toss the rest of it back as Easton eyes the glass in my hand, knowing I’m purposefully numbing. “It’s a stupid, unhealthy fixation on a past that doesn’t even belong to me. I need to shake it off and let it go—”
“But if you don’t…”
“I have to. My entire future—every dream I have envisioned for myself, is based around my relationship with my father, and that’s by my choice. He didn’t raise me to follow in his footsteps. My love for storytelling came naturally, and my admiration for him is what led me on this path in the first place. Now that I’m a year or two away from inheriting his legacy, losing his trust would be detrimental—not only to the future I have waiting but, most importantly, to our relationship. I want that paper, Easton, and I want my father to trust me with it. It’s my career dream.”
Easton hums his understanding, and Benji joins us as we stare off, reading the room. “You guys need another minute?”
“Yes,” Easton says.
As I answer with a firm “No.”
I widen my stare at Easton in a plea to stop as Benji snaps on new gloves before resuming the needling along Easton’s side. As Benji resumes working on him, I search his face for any sign of discomfort. “Does it hurt?”
“Not really, no. It’s like being pinched.”
“Wait until I get to your ribs, motherfucker,” Benji grins, keeping his eyes on his task.
Even as he taunts him, brotherly love is stamped in both their expressions. Loving the look of it, I soak it in until dark jade eyes flit to mine with a sadness of reality seeping in. I won’t ever see Easton again after tomorrow. My heart grows heavy at the thought of it. Somehow, in the short time I’ve known him, I’ve grown attached to our budding friendship and easy connection, and it’s becoming painstakingly evident.
It seems reciprocal—has to be, because he stopped me from leaving. He forgave me for a deception he shouldn’t have. He could have let me go last night, but he didn’t. Instead, he’s been adamant I stay with him—and in his jacket. Not only that, it seemed to pain him when I tried to take it off earlier. The woman in me shamelessly rejoices in that slight show of possession on his part. But that’s what I feel now as I stare at him, possessed by this inescapable attraction and the need to get closer to him in every imaginable way.
But this isn’t a game, and I no longer have a lack of sufficient sleep to blame for my behavior. I showed up a shell of myself, questioning everything, and he’s been nothing but a beautiful sanctuary—a comfort to me. A comfort I’m becoming dangerously needy for. Yesterday, we bared our souls to one another. More than that, we revealed our hopes for our futures while exposing our biggest fears.
Easton pinpointed the sum of mine to me last night, one of which opposes his own. Though I don’t exactly want to become a headline, I want to live a headline-worthy life. My other fear coincides with my first—I’m afraid I’ll settle for less down the line, in life, in my career, and more importantly, in love. Gazing back at him, I find myself grateful for his presence in my life—even if temporary—while mourning the fact I don’t get to know him after today.
“Neither of you has said a word in five minutes,” Benji speaks up, embarrassing us both. Easton and I have been staring at each other the entire time, even knowing that—we don’t break our gaze. The ache churning in my chest intensifies as I imagine he’s feeling what I am, what his eyes are conveying.