Tears threaten again as I battle them back.
“I know which parts of you I can take credit for and which I can’t. I raised you right along next to him. Hearst women are strong, Natalie, and you might feel a little weak right now in finding your footing, but you inherited a hell of a lot of the fight in you from me, so don’t go thinking otherwise.” She lightly pulls on her reins to slow Daisy to a stop and dismounts. I do the same as we begin to guide Percy and Daisy toward the barn. “The stubborn streak inside you, I’ll grant that as his gift to you. It’s infuriating, but we’ll figure it out. Now that you’re fully aware your own parents aren’t always capable of acting age-appropriate and make rash decisions, let’s skip the bad parts for now.” She turns to me, her expression surprisingly receptive, an inquisitive look on her face. “So let’s go uncork a bottle so you can tell me the good.”
Unable to help myself, I pull her to me, tears of relief escaping me as she holds me tightly to her. “Thank you, Mom.”
Mayonaise
The Smashing Pumpkins
Easton
Strapping my Stratus around me, I adjust it as the cheers ring out in encouragement. I muster a smile I don’t feel in response, because tonight, I feel a disconnect, not from the music but from those I’m playing for. Far too into my own head, I’ve tried for the entirety of the show to get there with them and failed. Stepping up to the mic now, frustrated, I even myself out, scanning the packed three-story bar before I speak.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling my typical ‘time for one more’ spiel disingenuous, so I don’t bother with it. “This is for my wife.”
A roar filters through the space as ache-filled electricity hums through my veins. LL starts the repetition of the fill chords of “Mayonaise” just before I start to pluck in the whisper of my own, milking the notes while feeling them festering inside me. Using every bit of my reserves, I tap into my frustration while coated in my exertion. At the peak of momentum and in perfect time, Tack drops the beat, and Syd nods to me, joining in on cue. The heavy guitar-filled melody fuels my contempt as I start to recite lyrics about someone who believes themselves cursed by the people closest to them, attempting to strip away all hope and happiness. At least that’s the way I’m interpreting it for myself—because for me, and where I’m at mentally—it’s all too fucking fitting.
Glancing over to the side of the stage, I envision my wife in place of a shadow currently taking up residence where she belongs. My slow leaking destruction bleeds through my voice to those witnessing my slow implosion. My plea into the mic for something to give, for things to be different, for a change in the stagnant water I’ve been treading. Screeching into the mic, I plea to be heard and understood by those who know me best, by those refusing me everything I’m begging for.
Unleashing my anger fully, I run the guitar up and down the solo and turn to address my mother just after, every lyric following the electric riff meant for her. Her lips part on an audible gasp I can’t hear before I turn back to address the swaying crowd, confessing the hell I’ve been forced to dwell in since Sedona. Fusing myself with the music, I allow those few minutes to break apart, for her, for myself, and for the man intent on keeping us both in purgatory.
My resentment now borders on hate for Nate Butler, because I haven’t seen my wife in forty-three fucking days.
So on stage, I rage against him.
Rage against the circumstances in which we found each other.
Rage against the way I feel daily about her continued absence.
Rage against her inability to wage a war she won’t allow me to fight.
Rage against the promises we’re breaking every day we remain divided.
I rage against it all until the lights go dark. Exhausted as the applause explodes throughout the club, I exit the stage without a single ounce of relief. Joel meets me at the side of the stage, reading my mood in silent support as we walk toward the back of the club. In the next second, a tropical scent wafts into my nose as I’m gripped by the neck, and lips that don’t belong to my wife smash into mine. Pushing the woman who accosted me away by the shoulders, I assess her and jerk my chin. “Not fucking cool.”
Clearly drunk, she stares back at me with wide blue eyes, on the verge of speaking before Joel gently takes her by the arm and away from me, handing her over to security.
Joel joins me again as I stalk toward the dressing room, bypassing everyone, including my mother. Slamming myself inside, I fume at the fact that my wife is no longer the last woman to kiss me and that security was stolen from me. In the next breath, I begin to wonder if she’d even fucking care.
You can always find me,
in your own story
Lost and found
Our whispered confessions
A thousand hours apart
For a few seconds longer
Found then lost,
Remember our story,
Our screaming secret
Every memory pushed inside you
A thousand hours apart
For a few seconds longer
Replay our past
To destroy seconds of theirs
Erase their memories
To consider our future
A thousand hours passed
To earn a few seconds longer
You could have found me
In those thousand hours
Waiting
for just a few seconds longer
choose me
I write out the last of the lyrics in my notebook as the band bustles around me. Feeling the burn of the last two words, I take a numbing swig of beer before staring at my phone screen in indecision. In the same time zone, a state away, I note it’s 1 a.m. in Austin, and all I want to do is talk to my wife, who is, no doubt, fast asleep. I pull up her last text.
Wife: I hope you have a good show. I love you.
Even though the message is sincere, it rings hollow for me. The chaos in the room quiets briefly, the sudden stillness in the air credited to my mother, who’s standing in the doorway. Throats clear as she makes a beeline for me. One of our roadies lifts his chin in question, and I nod. In fast response, he starts evacuating the room, as if her sudden appearance wasn’t enough to do so. In seconds, the noise outside the door is the only sound in the room as her presence batters me with hurt.
“Really fucking subtle, son,” she says, her voice shaking.
“Wasn’t meant to be,” I mutter, unsure of how to react to this new dynamic and exhausted from the struggle of trying to figure it out.
“I can’t believe you just walked past me,” she takes a seat next to me on a long, black leather couch. Turning toward her, I feel the same animosity that’s been brewing between us, which never existed before. “Hey, Mom, good to see you. What are you doing in New Orleans?” she snarks before continuing. “Good question. Well, the truth is I came to see my kid play,” she spouts sarcastically, “since he hasn’t answered a single call from me in a week.” She tilts her head in taunt. “Where’s your father, you ask? Well, he’s currently at the hotel because he packed a fucking bag and flew halfway across the country only to take a stand by not showing up, even though he’s dying to see you play. So, on principle alone, he’s refused to accompany me because you two fumbling idiots are determined to be the death of me. Enough of this shit,” she barks, “Easton, I’m serious.”
“What bothers you more now, Mom? That you can no longer order me around or that you can’t control my emotions?” I keep focused on the beer cap I’m flipping between my fingers.
“That’s completely unfair. We both realize and accept you’re your own man. Before, you were apologetic, and now this icy shoulder? What point are you trying to make? Tell me, Easton, I need to know.”