He came out guns blazing, the most natural showman alive, and I was instantly hot for him. Though dressed the same as when he collected me, the look somehow turned more rock and roll as he performed, his hat backward, the visible tips of his hair dripping sweat within the first few songs, his T-shirt plastered to his muscular chest.
Hidden between the first and second curtain, side stage, I really do have the best seat in the house, away from the audience’s view. From my vantage point, I witnessed every damned facial expression and close of his eyes. I felt every change in pitch, every emotion he’s feeling, relaying and evoking as he plays and sings seamlessly, like a veteran—God help me. Now well into the set, it’s astounding they all have the same energy as when they started playing, as if they’re just warming up.
Drinking in the scene before me, I briefly shift my focus to the rest of the band. Tack remains a powerhouse on the drums as LL edges the stage on lead, his retro and badly faded Hawaiian shirt hanging open as he draws out every note with perfect clarity. Syd remains on the other side of the stage, far less animated, his bass lines steady yet expertly provoking.
But it’s the man center stage that is wrecking us all past repairable. He’s spent most of this song, “Tumble Dry,” cupping the mic—his current weapon of mass destruction—with both hands, sweeping us away with the haunting melody and cut-throat lyrics.
I sway where I stand, maybe ten feet away, singing along, giving the starstruck fangirl dwelling inside me her fair share of indulgence.
They’ve surpassed my expectations. I’m already dreading when the second show ends, but still thankful I’ll be gifted one more.
One more will be enough, Natalie.
Chucking the heels I put on before the show, I lift my arms in praise above my head as sweat trickles down my back, and I allow myself to get swept away.
Easton’s voice flows like lava throughout the small auditorium of six thousand, the place packed to capacity. Peeking out through the curtain at the beginning of the show, I saw that many of the fans taking up the first row are women, their expressions nothing short of worship, as if they reach out to him, he’ll cure them all. For them, in these few minutes, he’s worthy of those starved and reverent looks. He would also be the cure for me if I acknowledged the continually growing ache and pounced on the opportunity to temporarily pacify it with him.
But I’m no idiot.
I’ve had a long drink, and I know of the addictive thirst that’s sure to follow. Easton now belongs to the world—and for him, for me—I have to live in this moment because I know it’s fleeting. He’s space-bound, and my roots are firmly planted. Refusing to let my mood be altered by those thoughts, I cheer along with the crowd and take endless minutes of footage before putting my phone away. The last few songs of the show I decide will be for memory alone.
As a journalist, it’s sometimes hard for me to distinguish which moments to live in and which to capture with total mental clarity for my own creative outlet down the line. But this moment is definitively mine, and he wanted me here. Natalie Butler, not Natalie Hearst. Even if we are one and the same.
Closing my eyes, I get lost in the lyrics, mouthing them in tandem. It’s when I open them and see Easton angled toward me, watching me intently from where he sings, that all the breath whooshes out of me.
Bastard.
I’m so close to the fire now. I know exactly what parts would remain intact if I so much as take a single step toward what I’m feeling, the truth of it continuously plaguing me.
A tale as old as time as far as human nature is concerned.
I want what I can’t have.
Even as I think it, his quiet electricity runs rampant throughout my body, engulfing me as the hairs on my arms and neck stand on end. I inhale the charged air between us as memory floods in, of the desire in his eyes, of how we bared ourselves, pulled each other apart, and examined our pieces before fusing ourselves back together so effortlessly. I feel those seconds with every fiber of my being as he engages me fully, his guitar strapped on his back, guttural lyrics of longing pouring from his lips. The tidal wave of his gaze ebbs away, slowly receding as they drift closed, unmistakable ache in his voice just as he sings the last line before the stage goes dark.
When the lights come back up, I’m utterly seduced, drenched in him from feet away, my desire for him at an immeasurable high. Forcing my selfish needs down, I smile and extend my hands in a clap as the crowd roars to a deafening level. Even without seeing them, I can physically feel the bond between Easton and his audience, of the love he spoke so fondly of. Not only that, as Easton scans the throng of fans, taking it all in, I can see the elation on his features as he engages them. “Thanks so much for coming out, Oklahoma City,” he places a hand on his chest before his eyes flick to mine. “I’m so glad you came.”