The burn of that truth sears into me further as Easton slowly lifts his head and stares directly into the camera, into me.
The world in its entirety disappears in the background as my supernova sings his parents’ love song, a song from one soulmate to another. The momentum continues to build as Easton casts his spell, enthralling us all just before Reid’s drums kick in and the rest of the Sergeants’ instruments ring out. The song draws heavy as an explosion of fireworks goes off into the night air. Reid detonates on the drums as Ben joins Easton in the chorus. Chills snake their way up my spine as every hair on my body lifts on end with the knowledge that I’m witnessing music history, and the man I’ve been breathing for is making it.
Easton’s soul-filled melody and vocals and the Sergeants’ hard-hitting sound create the perfect compilation of future and past.
Fireworks continue to explode overhead, shooting up to the top of the stadium and light the world in purple and blue. Reid’s drums puncture the night as Rye walks forward, bringing the song to its crescendo with a guitar solo to rival all others—elevating it to the next level—before drawing it all back to the melody.
The lights again dim, Easton front and center in the spotlight, taking the reins naturally as he softly presses the beginning notes, dragging the melody back gently to where it started. He repeats the opening lyrics, the lilt in his voice wrapping mournfully around each word as he pours his soul into them. Just as he draws us all back in with the caress of his voice, the band again explodes into motion, singing the last of the chorus. The cameras pan in on a close-up of each of the Sergeants and Easton as they end the song on the most spectacular high before the lights go dark.
Every soul in the stadium is already on their feet. I lower my head and cough, setting my tears free. The band gathers at the edge of the stage, and Easton steps back, clapping for them in praise as the Dead Sergeants take their final bow, clear sentiment flitting over each of their faces on the jumbotron as endless applause for their performance pierces the sky.
As soon as they exit the stage, the stadium lights kick up as clouds of lingering smoke rise steadily toward the roof, the field already bustling with a whir of activity.
Knowing the performance wasn’t a blatant display to hurt us—but how much it did anyway—is enough to fully resign me.
“You’re a stain.”
It’s when I turn and see the lingering hurt in my father’s expression that I allow some of my love for Easton to turn acidic. Revolted by the pain our brief love story caused us all—and the curse that came with it—I defy it all.
Fuck love.
Fuck fate.
Fuck destiny and timing and the chaotic methods of the cosmos that brought us together only to tear us apart in much the same way.
I no longer want any part of it. The cost is too high.
It’s Dad’s next words that briefly stun me.
“Go to him,” he says softly, releasing the hand I’m still holding, his eyes filled with rare defeat, his expression urgent. “Go to him, Natalie.”
I shake my head adamantly. “No, Daddy. It’s over,” I choke out, “It’s so over.”
“Natalie—”
“I’m certain,” I condemn as the last of the smoke drifts up out of the stadium and into the night sky, allowing more resentment in. Even if it feels wrong, I allow the poison to seep into me because it feels a hell of a lot better than continuing to cling to hope for a future with a remedy no longer within reach.
“You’re a stain.”
“Fuck the Crownes,” I declare, full of venom. “Every single one of them, including me,” I let out a self-deprecating laugh as I fight and win the battle with the sting in my eyes.
No more tears, and one day, no more pain.
“Natalie,” my father’s eyes command mine, “Is this really what you want?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s over.” Feeling the finality of it, I hear Easton’s venomous whisper repeat in my head.
“You’re a stain.”
I elbow Dad as I pull up my cellphone. “Let’s drive home and surprise Mom.”
“You sure?” He asks.
“Yeah, Daddy. Let’s go home.”
From Can to Can’t
Corey Taylor, Dave Grohl, Rick Nielsen, Scott Reeder
Easton
Mom begins to run full throttle toward Dad just as our golf cart rounds the curve that leads back to our dressing room. I don’t miss the reddening of his eyes just before he exits and stalks towards her. She jumps into his waiting arms and showers him with kisses, tears lining her cheeks as he lifts her from her feet, arms locked around her possessively. Their murmurs echo throughout the hall as they console each other with shaky words and devotion-soaked expressions.
My own eyes burn and sting with the knowledge my father’s career has just ended. The finality is sealed with a kiss by the woman who jumpstarted it and spent her life watching it unfold by his side.
Briefly, I see a glimpse of them, younger, colliding the same way all those years ago, and in a cruel twist, an image of Natalie wrapped around me takes its place.
“I’ve been faithful.”
I had a chance of having that. Of what they have. With her.
I can now say that I loved a woman with every fiber of my being, heart and soul, and always will. I can claim that. I wonder how many souls can’t.
Knowing that—the gift and rarity of it—all I want right now is the ability to stop the oxygen flow, to cease the reminder pumping in my chest, because the beat feels unnatural now.
The high of playing for an audience that size rapidly dissipates as I stand back, watching those around me embrace in melancholic-laced celebration. Emotions riding high, pieces of me rattle and begin to dismantle inside my skin. For the first time in a very long time, I feel underlying darkness threaten to overtake me.
“I’ve been faithful.”
Knowing she might be here today, even knowing who for had amped my anticipation in coming and revived some lingering hope. Every bit of that hope evaporated when I saw her wearing his number—literally wrapped in his fucking name—in his arms and kissing him. That image continually resurfaces, stoking the notion I might have given so much of my love—of myself in vain. I should be riding one of the greatest highs of my life, but it feels more like a white-hot burn raging inside of me during a moment I need to be present. A moment my dad’s been working toward most of his life.
“I know you’re upset, but it can’t be tonight. This night is monumental for him.”
“Jesus Christ,” I breathe, knuckling my chest, fully absorbing the depth of her plea to me the night we split. Nothing could have kept me away from being here for my parents tonight. Nothing.
Dad gently sets Mom on her feet, her beaming smile lighting up the hall before she turns, eyes searching for and finding me before she makes a beeline my way. It’s all I can do to maintain my grin as she rushes me and pulls me to her. My insides start to come apart as she murmurs her praises. “No words, baby. No adequate words will do. You just made history. That was the best surprise of my life.”
“It was Dad’s idea.”
“You both got me good.” She pulls away and palms my jaw. “There’s not a soul alive who can deny your talent now. Get ready, son. There’s no stopping this train,” she says with surety.
“Thanks, Mom,” I utter softly as my ability to keep the burn at bay falters while pieces of me begin to ignite—Natalie’s parting shot setting each one of them alight.
“I’ve been faithful.”
My wife should have been here. She should be here now, finally taking full claim to the name I gave her, along with her rightful place by my side.