“Thank you.” I go to take my bag, and he jerks his chin before handing it off to the skycap approaching us. “Ticket?”
I pull out my phone and present my barcode. He scans it as I stand in a fog, all activity around me a blur. The skycap and Joel exchange words and Joel tips him before turning back to me.
“Jesus, I’m embarrassed,” I wipe my face.
“You have no reason to be,” he assures me.
“Well, you better get used to it,” I sniff, “because you have so many jilted women in your future.” I suck in much-needed air and miraculously manage a smile. “Joel, he’s going to be…” I curse the fresh tears threatening, “I mean, you know how incredible he is, but brace yourself.”
Joel nods, his eyes softening further as the skycap calls out to the two of us. “All set. Best get to your gate. You board in ten.”
“Okay,” I nod and turn to Joel. “Thank you.” He steps up to me and pulls me into him, hugging me tightly. I manage to keep it together long enough to hug him back and pull away, my hands resting on his shoulders. “Take care of him, and please don’t tell him I was in this state when I left, okay?”
“Natalie—”
“Please, Joel, it won’t do a bit of good,” I swallow. “He’s got so much to look forward to. The next few months are going to be the best of his life. Trust me on this. Keep this one thing between us. Please.”
I release him when he nods reluctantly.
“You’re too fucking cool. He’s so lucky to have you, and I’m so happy to have met you. Take care of yourself for me, too.” Lifting, I kiss his cheek before turning and hauling ass into the airport.
Standing in line to board, I hear Easton’s plea as clearly as if he’s still standing behind me, whispering in my ear. Shielding my mouth, I do my best to avoid the mix of odd looks I feel scanning my profile as I choke back a sob. Once free of the line, I charge down the jetway and onto the plane, eagerly searching for and finding my seat to take refuge. Curling myself toward the window, I will the plane to move as I sit in a haze of the aftermath. As the plane slowly taxis down the runway, I burrow into Easton’s jacket.
He’s everywhere—my skin drenched in his scent; my panties soaked with remnants of the most intense lovemaking of my life while my lips still faintly tingle from his kiss.
Plastered to the window, I slip my hand inside his pocket and run my fingers over the lighter, the condoms, and the earbuds he tucked into the jacket last night. Pulling them out, I quickly plug my ears and connect them to my Bluetooth, frantically opening my music app and searching for the song he played for me as we kissed. The opening of “Dive Deep （Hushed）” unleashes a fresh round of hurt.
The lyrics envelop me as the land begins to blur beside me, and I cover my mouth as more hot tears wet my fingers. As the wheels go up, I set the song to repeat and pull up a blank document on my phone to compose.
Heart raw, music fueling me as Easton assured me it would, I begin furiously typing while grieving what might have been as the miles between us increase, and our worlds start to separate. Even as I try to reason with myself that it’s impossible to feel so much for anyone so quickly, my heart defies that logic as it roars in protest. As the space increases between us, I frantically type in vain to close it, the music pulling me further into my every emotion as the blurry truth I type becomes bolder with every mile. By the time I land in Austin, the truth I laid out in black and white is crystal clear. In Easton Crowne, I got a glimpse of exactly what I was searching for when I left Texas, and now I have to live with it.
“Utterly brilliant, a sound impossible to box in any genre, and we dare you to try!”—Mojo
“Easton Crowne has managed to do what no other artist has ever done—outlive a legacy only to become a legend in twelve songs.”—Rolling Stone
“False Image is everything we’ve been missing. Easton Crowne is blue printing the future of rock, and we’re here for it.”—Pitchfork
“I think it’s safe to say not one musician worth their salt has slept soundly since Crowne released False Image.”—Spin
Dead in the Water
James Gillespie
Easton
One Month Later…
Just past the bridge of Metallica’s “One”， I hear the distortion and lift my hand, halting the momentum we’ve been building. In response, I get a frustrated lick of a guitar followed by the bash of a crash cymbal. Annoyance flaring, I glance back at Tack, who sits behind his kit, wary eyes focused on LL before he lifts his soaked T-shirt to clear the sweat off his brow. LL mutters a curse from next to me, the tips of his taped fingers bright red from endless hours of nonstop practice.