Tye: Where are you?
Got turned around and retrieved. I’ll be there in a few. I’m so sorry.
Tye: No worries, beautiful. Hurry up!
It’s only been three weeks since Tye approached me at my mother’s annual media party in Dallas and charmed me into giving him my number. Tye was one of a few sought-after Texas-based celebrities invited to attend. It took the better part of two weeks for me to take his advances seriously and consider them, despite his insane schedule. After a lot of thought, I agreed to dinner—a dinner which the paparazzi was made privy to fifteen minutes after we were seated at the restaurant.
They stalked us for the rest of the night, making it impossible for us to retain any semblance of intimacy. Even worse, the media twisted our maybe something first date into some sort of whirlwind fairytale romance. The truth is, I hardly know him. Though I admit, if I’m being forced to try and move on—as my husband seems to be doing—Tye wouldn’t be the worst way to go.
Not only is he easy on the eyes, but he’s also taking his place as one of the most legendary quarterbacks in the NFL. In addition, he’s a businessman, an entrepreneur of sorts, who has big plans beyond leaving a mark in football history. His disarming charisma made it impossible for me to turn him away completely. I battled between head and heart endlessly when he presented himself as a prospect after deciding to entertain the thought of dating again. Reason being? Easton’s headlines.
The hardest-hitting report circulating a month ago with photos of him with a rock goddess named Misty Long, whom he’s collaborated with on a song yet to be released. While Misty’s reps denied they are dating, the pictures the paparazzi managed to get are just as damning as my shots with Jonathan, which were splashed everywhere for weeks after the gala.
The image that haunts me most is a candid of them huddled closely on the beach in Malibu just outside her home. He was smiling at her, the kind of smile that’s hard to earn from him, and the sight of it damn near killed me.
Though Easton’s allowed the media to paint a picture on his behalf, I remain indecisive, thankful Tye has taken the reins. He’s been aggressive and decisive enough for the both of us, a burden I allow him to have as I try to come up with some clarity for a new vision of my future. Not the future my heart remains set on, which I’m mentally trying to dismantle daily.
My parents are, of course, thrilled with the possibility of me dating an NFL player, Dad especially, which is no surprise. While it’s been an out-of-body experience for me, our courting mostly consists of scattered texts and a few late phone calls because dating hasn’t been possible for us yet. For that, I’ve been thankful.
Ironically, our second “date” just so happens to be the day Tye plays for his second Super Bowl ring. If they win, it will be his first as the Cowboys’ quarterback. He earned the last ring when he played for Tampa two years ago. In the short time we’ve had to get to know each other, the media has been relentless, camping out at my parents’ house, my apartment, and at the doors of Austin Speak. The pressure is even more grueling now as I’m whisked toward Tye, knowing a hundred million pairs of eyes might be directed toward me in a few hours for more reasons than one.
“Almost there,” Donald assures, three different lanyards tangled around his neck as I marvel at my idiocy. I got lost within minutes of being ushered inside the stadium. My racing mind turned simple instructions complicated as some panic slithered in. To be fair, it’s not like I’ve ever been inside the massive, multi-billion-dollar sports arena. The state-of-the-art stadium I’m being escorted through now is a Goliath compared to the David-sized field in Austin.
Even as I fly toward the man of the hour with the support of everyone in my life—including the media who labeled me the abandoning villainess just after our trip to the altar—I feel the crushing weight of today’s expectations. Though the media seems to have forgiven me recently. My guess is because there has been speculation that Easton has moved on with his goddess, which led to questions about his fidelity and the reason for me filing.
All of it bullshit.
Following Easton’s lead, I’ve kept my ‘no comment’ stance as firm as he has. Positive he hasn’t worried himself over the headlines produced from our corners and remained oblivious to the trash talk we’ve both been subjects of. It’s my job to watch both our futures, speculated or not, unfold in the press. Even if I try to avoid it at this point, I can’t because his rising stardom parallels any other sensational performer in history. The more his star shines, as it’s sure to, the more Easton’s name will become synonymous with others like Prince, Madonna, and the likes. As it is, he’s constantly being compared to Elvis, his media-donned nickname, ‘The New King,’ which I’m certain he loathes—if he’s aware of it. His music is getting more play than any other artist. As I predicted, the world is fascinated by him and more blood-thirsty than ever, thanks to his aversion to media. False Image got the Diamond award twice in recent months selling over twenty million copies, sales climbing daily. With the growing demand for added tour dates, the band is set for a European tour which kicks off in six weeks.
While I’m proud of him, it’s been a living hell watching him resume his life and being aware of his every move and staggering success. No doubt no less grueling than what my father endured when he covered Stella and Reid’s engagement, wedding, and the birth of their only child—my husband.
Easton’s been on my mind more than usual. In a horrendous twist of fate—today, of all days—the powers that be saw fit to throw a gigantic wrench into my first and only attempt at moving on.
What’s even more damning is that legally, I’m still married to Easton Crowne. Though we’ve been separated for nearly six months, neither of us has signed the papers, the live document still resting in our idle hands.
The second time I opened the document, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw his signature was absent. What I didn’t realize was that when I did, Easton would be notified by email each time I opened it, and vice versa.
Stupidly and repeatedly, I still check anyway, praying I haven’t accidentally missed the notification email. All my hopes clinging to the absence of his signature until recently.
When Easton’s headline with Misty was blasted into the stratosphere, my jealousy boiled over. Grapevine news reported from every major paper stated they were recording together, but TMZ was the source that reported a blacked-out SUV hadn’t moved from her Malibu mansion in days.
Seconds after hearing those details and studying the photos while trying to interpret Easton’s body language, I allowed suspicion and anger to take over. That day I opened the document, fully intent on signing. I scribbled my name, my finger hovering over the accept button. But no matter how angry I was, I couldn’t go through with it.
Just as I cleared my signature, Easton’s name lit up as active on the left-hand side of the screen. We engaged in a virtual standoff, and I knew he was there watching, knowing I’d read the news and was waiting just to see if I’d sign.
Though I assumed he’d eventually leave, he stayed with me as more time ticked by. Every minute he lingered caused another tear to fall. Ten minutes came and went, as did twenty, and at the hour mark, I was sobbing at my desk, furious with him—all the while relieved no signature appeared. His continued presence gave me every indication that he didn’t want it either.
Or maybe I’m just the delusional ex who still wants to believe he cares more than he does. As the details of the picture ate me alive, and I broke down behind my office desk in Chicago, the sincerity in his words from our honeymoon hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest.