I did not, at all, make it out of Seattle unscathed.
It was apparent when I got behind the wheel after my flight and saw my tear-splotched reflection in the rearview.
For the first week, it felt like I was hiding a breakup from everyone—especially my parents, which was the hardest task. Even though said task seemed impossible, I went to their house nearly every night and rode Percy until my legs went numb. Sadly, after having the most romantic interlude of my life, I was left talking to my four-legged best friend, who couldn’t produce a word of advice. But riding Percy calmed me, as it so often does. After the first few guilt-riddled days and avoiding non-work-related conversations with my father, I decided I could ride out the guilt until it subsided as long as I kept my secret.
It was when the first call came from EC after week one that I regressed. It took everything in me to keep from answering.
The thing is, I will his calls to continue and can’t bring myself to text him to stop. Even though, deep down, I know it’s only prolonging the inevitable.
Sadly, the workaholic repetition I sought escape from when I went to Seattle—and identified as one of my issues—I resumed with ferocity. Easton told me point blank if I did nothing about it, that I would be responsible from then on.
I know he would be disappointed to find I let myself down.
My temporary cure?
After a grueling day at the paper, I spend my nights recalling the spontaneity in Seattle. It’s been blissful getting lost in those memories, even if I have to walk through hellfire while fighting my pillow after.
Dad was pleasantly surprised when I went into overdrive and says the time away had done wonders for me.
But it wasn’t time. It was a who and a culmination of things about him that inspired me—his honesty, his observations, our jam sessions, and getting lost together. In getting lost with Easton, I discovered new parts of myself—parts that are grossly unsatisfied with the way I’m currently living.
I spent the first few days with his earbuds in, immersed in sensory overload. I finally had to tuck them away in my desk, having decided anyone who listens to music while emotionally compromised is a masochist. It’s utter agony knowing my mind now associates certain songs with a man forever trapped in a place and time I don’t want to outlive.
It’s hard for me to rationalize my feelings or even romanticize any part of them. Every time I play a song from his playlist, I feel every emotion I felt during that time and still manage to summon images of us during certain lyrics.
It’s in the after that I fully realized the truth about the power of music Easton spoke so emphatically about.
Last night, at the feed store getting food for Percy, I heard an old ’80s ballad and nearly lost my shit mid-aisle.
Crazily enough, no matter what I try, I’ve been grieving the loss of Easton like I am going through a full-fledged breakup. Which. Is. Insane.
I didn’t even mourn Carson this long, and we damned near lived together for a year. But the fact that I’m having such a hard time letting go makes my embarrassing reaction as I left Seattle a bit more bearable.
It might have been a flash of days, hours, and minutes, but they remain with me. Easton remains with me, and it’s bittersweet.
Easton properly kissed me, fucked me, and I’m certain—if we gave each other a chance—he might have been the one to properly love me.
Pulling up my phone, I see another missed call notification and blink in surprise. Two calls today. He’s about to give up. It’s only a matter of time before he does. Appetite gone, I toss my fork and pull down my sunglasses, the elation of his call cut short when his name evaporates from my screen.
Inside my car, AC blasting, tapping my thumbs on the wheel, I eye my phone where it rests just outside the lip of my purse as it relights with the missed call notification from EC. Just after, a text from Dad comes through with praise for my latest article.
Daddy: Great job. I’ve got a few notes. We’ll go over them when you get back from lunch.
Guilt wins again.
Tucking my phone back into my purse with a sigh, I shift my focus—the paper, my father, my goals, our joint plans—I press the gas, and the truth painfully settles in. There’s no place for Easton Crowne anywhere amongst them.
Pets
Porno for Pyros
Easton
My cell vibrates in my hand, and I brace myself for the inevitable as I slide it to answer. “Hey, Mo—”
“And I quote, ‘Easton Crowne—’”
“Mom, stop,” I can’t help my growing smile as I exit the coffee shop while she talks over me.