Guilt batters me as my parents begin to clear the table, their eyes lingering a bit longer on the other, no doubt from the reminiscence I drew out of them both with my prompting. Hands full of plates, Dad pauses behind Mom as she opens the sliding door. He leans in and kisses her shoulder, the look in his eye when he withdraws clearly not meant for me to see. Feeling sick, I avert my attention back to the Texas sun just as it dips below the horizon, coloring the sky a violent red.
What the hell are you doing, Natalie?
Just as I bring the question up, my phone lights up with a gate change announcement for my flight leaving for Washington in a few hours, and I’m not sure I’ll be on it.
Bette Davis Eyes
Kim Carnes
Easton
Sitting in the last booth—which runs adjacent to the bar—I dart my gaze out the windows between my truck parked a few spaces to the right of the entrance and those outside scurrying along the crosswalk. Others congregate at a small cluster of tables next to the front door, soaking up what little warmth they can get from the afternoon sun.
Flipping my cardboard coaster on the tabletop, I sink farther into the heavily worn seat, hating the fact that I’m early. I should have made her wait, questioning if I would show. One thing I do know is she’s not getting a single fucking quotable syllable from me until I feel her out.
I’m educated enough in what Mom calls her ‘past life’ in Texas to know there may be some truth to her claim our parents dated. Although why she mentioned it remains a mystery, especially since she made it clear she wants them kept out of this. If anything, that useless information was a display in poor taste, the definition of classless.
If she’d shown a little of that, I might not be sitting here ready to rip into her. With respect to my mother’s profession, there’s a big difference between hungry mass media and good journalism. There’s also a fine line in how to approach someone with a request to pry into their personal life—and she crossed a dozen lines in minute one. Her father might own Speak, and her mother might have inherited a media empire, but it’s obvious growing up surrounded by seasoned professionals has done fuck all for her. I’m willing to bet she’s newly graduated and hungry to make worthy headlines to compete with her parents’ legacy. If so, she’s going about it all wrong. Especially if I’m her first stop in making a real effort.
Anger resurfaces as I mentally run through the list of those who could have sold me out—my suspects limited to a few. Even with that list, I can’t think of one who would benefit by uttering a word about me releasing my album. It’s that she mentioned Dad playing the role of producer that’s really thrown me.
Acidic irritation runs through me as music begins to blare from the digital jukebox in the corner of the bar opposite me, accompanying the background noise of scattered conversations and clinking glasses.
No matter how hellbent Dad is on me seeing this through, he would never compromise my need to do this my way or our relationship in this capacity. Both my parents have spent my entire existence trying to protect me from the information-hungry masses, more so, bloodthirsty predators like Natalie Hearst. I’m positive Dad would never do so much to shield me, only to toss me straight into the lion’s den—even with us at odds about how I chose to go about this. This source—whoever the fuck they are—can’t possibly be on my shortlist. Sadly, the only way I’ll find out who is, is by getting it from her. This means, temporarily, I’ll have to play amicable enough while keeping my temper at bay. This is an ask that, at the moment, is too fucking much.
I’ve been without the need of my parents’ protection for far longer than either of them would admit, but have yet to relinquish their rights in doing so. Their need to believe—especially my mother—has kept me silent, but not for much longer.
Anger simmering close to boiling, I do my best to sink into the easy rhythm of the music, mimicking the pluck of guitar strings with the fingers wrapped around my pint glass.
Glancing up at the plastic, ketchup-splattered clock hanging above the bar, I decide if she’s a second late, she gets nothing. As the clock ticks past 2:59, I start to count down the seconds, willing it to run out. I watch it tick down to fifteen and go to get up when I catch sight of her. Strawberry blonde hair whips around her face disrupting the view as she takes confident strides toward the bar. Her long, toned legs are covered in tight-fitting black denim and matching plain Uggs. The rest of her is swallowed in layers of colorful shirts, a sweater, and a thick scarf. It’s as if she put everything in her suitcase on. Opening the door, she steps in and searches the bar. Her eyes find me easily as she zeroes in and walks my way. Her lips lift slightly in greeting as her eyes fix on me, her gaze not meeting mine fully until she comes to a stop at the foot of the table.
It’s then she lifts them fully to peer down at me as she starts to unwrap her scarf, her plump, glossy lips upturning. The initial hit of indigo eyes feels like the strike of a crowbar being leveraged against my chest. Tightening my grip on my pint, I kick back in the booth, resolved that she’s a snake. A beautiful snake, but a snake just the same.
“You’ve already decided you don’t like me,” she says, a barely perceptible Texas lilt curling the end of each word. “I can’t really say that I blame you right now.” She slides into the opposite side of the booth before signaling to the bartender, pointing to my beer before lifting two fingers. I remain silent. It’s her shitshow.
She casts her eyes down briefly before lifting them back to mine to thoroughly inspect me. “Look, Easton,” she sighs, “I’m sorry. That phone call was,” she shakes her head, “to put it bluntly, it was an asshole way to approach this and get an interview, though I’m sure you’re used to it.”
I give her a dead stare in return.
“I reconsidered coming,” she lifts her head to the bartender, who summons her with the flick of his wrist to pick up her own fucking beers.
Yeah, princess, this isn’t that kind of place.
If I hadn’t researched enough to know that she is an heir to a media empire, I would assume she was a pageant princess of some sort. She’s beautiful, polite enough, obviously educated, and proper when speaking as if she’s ready for the next spelling question. Nothing about her sticks out as extraordinary, except the eyes. They have a depth I wasn’t expecting, probably intelligence. Either way, I flick that aside as she fetches her beer and rejoins me, pushing a fresh dark draft my way. I push it back toward her to decline while tilting my own up. She sits back, taking a large sip of brew while glancing around, no doubt to sum up the place with a few sentences for her article.
“Describe it,” I order.
“Sorry?”
“Describe the bar,” I lean forward, bracing my forearms on the table. “How would you write it?”
“Sticky,” she says with a light laugh, peeling the menu off the side of her palm.
“Fuck this,” I say, unable to believe I entertained her in the first place as I move to stand. She grips my arm to stop me, and I sneer at her, my shoulders locking up as my anger spikes. I shouldn’t have agreed to this. Showing up gave her too much leverage.
“Jesus, okay.” She licks her gloss-slicked lower lip. “Dark and dank, clearly in need of a deep clean…but perfectly necessary. If there were a list of the lost art of bars, this would rank high.”
“Why?”