The love between them was so there, so evident, that I found myself tearing up multiple times due to loss alone.
I’ve been so completely immersed in their world that I barely remember checking into my hotel. Without so much as glancing around my room, I dumped my suitcase and stared up at the ceiling before managing to get a few restless hours of sleep. Feeling as insane as the acts I’m committing, I decided after waking I had no choice but to see my emotionally induced, half-baked scheme through. Just as out of sorts now—jet lag kicking in fully—I slide on the offered jacket with a soft “thank you,” meeting Easton at the tailgate of his truck. As we start a silent walk, the material of his jacket blankets me in warmth as an earthy, birchwood scent drifts from the collar. The smell is both divine and comforting.
Allowing Easton to take the lead, I follow him down a small shop-littered street that looks catered to tourists. It’s picturesque, almost romantic in feel as the sun peeks through the flowering blooms, christening the large branches of the towering trees that line both sides of the street.
Easton slows his pace slightly as if taking in the scenery for himself before veering towards a sidewalk leading us past the Mural Amphitheater at Seattle Center, which sits to our left. An extensive view of the Space Needle hovers above the cinema screen-sized mural. Stopping, I take a quick picture with my cell as Easton continues to walk with purpose just ahead of me. It’s then I’m able to fully admire the outline of his build. I guesstimate his height somewhere around six-foot-two, six-foot-three. The cut of his tight jeans outlines both his thick muscular thighs and ample ass. His simple, form-fitting thermal clings to a trim waist, stretching over his muscular back before straining against the width of broad shoulders and bulging biceps.
The man clearly takes care of himself and seems to be in peak condition. If I’m going by looks alone, his genetic makeup will make him an idyllic and mouthwatering front man.
I was momentarily dizzied by the sight of him when he removed his hat at the tavern, and his dark, thick locks fell to rest just below his ears, enhancing his dark lashes and jawline. His presence is more surreal in motion, his chiseled profile and alluring gaze digging into me as he glances my way before I catch up.
After waking and rushing to get ready, I’d only slapped the bare essentials on my face. While he wears the rumpled ‘fresh out of fucks given’ look like he was born to do it, I look like I could use a lesson in self-care, a far, far cry from my put-together, everyday look back home. I can’t exactly hate that I overslept today because I have no doubt if I had arrived at the bar in any sort of business dress, I would have gotten less than the five minutes he originally gave me.
Within a few hurried steps, we’re at the entrance of Chihuly Garden and Glass. Before I have a chance to pull out my card for my ticket, Easton is slipping his wallet back into his jean pocket, two in hand. I mask my confusion as to why we’re here but simply follow him without prompt because I lost control of the day the second I slipped into his truck.
Within minutes, we’re entering a darkened room centered around an illuminated glass work of art. Easton steps out the way of those entering the room behind us, putting a large amount of space between us and those taking photos as he stares at the sea of multicolored blown glass. Standing near the back of the room, I play along during a few uneasy moments of silence before finally speaking up.
“Okay, you’ve made your point. You’re a man of few words,” I whisper. “Why are we here?”
“I haven’t been here since I was a kid,” he says thoughtfully as if he’s speaking first, not answering my question.
“Okay. Why am I here?”
“This is your first time in Seattle.” Not a question and something he shouldn’t know but a fact that I made easy to gather. Right now, I’m a sleep-deprived, directionless, emotional mess due to the revelation of my dad’s past life and my deception. Even so, I’m determined to try and take some control back. As the thought occurs to me to do better, I feel my energy waning further.
“Are we going to the Space Needle too? How about Pike’s Market?” I quip, well aware of the city’s most frequented tourist stops.
He nods toward the glass. “You don’t think seeing this is worth the price of admission?” His eyes are lit with appreciation as he darts them over to me.
“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t pay for it. Thank you for that, by the way…and it’s beautiful, but—”
“But?”
“But I’m not writing a puff piece, Easton.”
“You’re not writing anything at the moment, are you?”
I dart my gaze away.
His eyes remain on my profile as I bite my lip and stuff my hands in his jacket pockets. Amongst the contents, I feel a lighter, a safety pin, and pull a package out to see a dual pack of condoms—LELO-HEX-XL. My eyes fly to his, his expression not changing a fraction as I quickly stuff the package back into my pocket.
“Congratulations,” I mutter dryly with an eyeroll before darting my gaze back to the brightly lit piece.
We stand in silence for another few seconds before I speak again.
“You’ve never given an interview,” I whisper.
“No.”
“So why wouldn’t I want to be the first?”
He shakes his head ironically, a clear call of bullshit. He’s sensing an ulterior motive for my visit, and with every passing minute I remain vague, I’m giving him every reason to suspect me. Fleeing his evasive stare, I leave Easton’s side and walk to the edge of the installation. Bright red cornstalk-shaped lightning rods surround a small patch of yellow glass resembling lily pads. Just beyond, green spikes surround and accentuate a portion of the fixture before similar stalks in indigo blue sit in a cluster around a large, red-based, twisted pile of glass, the top of it colored neon yellow. It’s as if the whole installation is developing, reaching for something higher. The more I take in, the more my appreciation grows for the imagination and thought put into the work and the symphony of colors situated in an array of mind-boggling patterns. All of which are fused together in a way that shouldn’t flow but do so effortlessly.
Sensing Easton at my back, I feel a faint tug on the tips of my hair before my whole body erupts in chills.
Did he just touch my hair?
Feeling surrounded by him, I tilt my head toward the collar of his jacket and gather another hit of his scent. It’s intoxicating, knowing he’s at my back, and maybe, he’s just as curious about me as I am about him.
I blow out a breath, feeling a sort of intimate shift between us, the need to explain myself a little more pushing front and center. Hopefully, in doing so, I’ll be able to lower an inch of his seemingly impenetrable guard. His love language seems to consist of honesty, and if I want to grasp any of the insight to the other side I’m seeking, I’m going to have to keep it real with him. Already feeling exposed and in such a short amount of time, owing to his keen perception and invasive gaze, I decide to go in with a personal truth.
“There’s a famous picture,” I rasp out, “called “The Vulture and the Little Girl.” It was taken by a photojournalist named Kevin Carter,” I glance back at Easton, who’s now standing beside me. I see his gaze gliding along my profile, his own dimly lit by the spotlight on the sculpture. “Do you know of it?”