Sitting at the edge of the surf wrapped in Easton’s jacket, I watch the violet sky darken further, giving way to the moon’s beam as it begins to light up the water. All too tempted to flee after the spectacle I made, I only retreated to gather myself together. Though mortified by what I did, I’m finding it hard to regret it, and I refuse to back down now. I hadn’t planned on having that fight with him the way it happened, but some part of me knew I was already gloving up this morning.
The way I knew I would seek him out when I left Mexico, face to face, and finally come clean with him about everything I didn’t the night he divorced me. No matter what happens, I’m not hiding my hurts, my feelings, or my own needs anymore. Sometimes saving face while displaying quiet strength isn’t worth the cost.
I might hate hindsight for the bitch she is, but I have her to thank for giving me clarity on exactly what my worst crimes are when it comes to my ex-husband.
It isn’t the promises we’ve broken but the vows we both failed to uphold. Patience, kindness, understanding, protection, preservation, all of them. They’re the chosen vows countless others have spoken in ceremony for good reason. I didn’t fully comprehend how keeping them close could have kept us united, nor did I understand the importance of each one of them, until we fell apart.
Either way, intertwined between my melancholy and heartbreak, is a relief that, at least now, he knows. If he decides to walk away, I’ll force myself to watch him with a peace I didn’t have before I voiced my regrets to him. That is, if he hasn’t already fled himself.
Even knowing my rejection may be inevitable, like Easton, I have to swing anyway. There are high stakes to truly loving another human being, and you have to hand your heart to them with all the trust you have without knowing the outcome. These are the things that loving Easton has taught me.
But in order for it to be a fair fight, I have to put myself wholly on the line the way he did for me, time and again.
Intent on seeing it through, I power up my cellphone and press send as the raw ache in my chest reignites. He answers on the second ring.
“Hey,” he speaks up in alarm, hearing my sniffle. “Are you okay?”
“N-no,” I croak as my voice breaks. “No, I’m not,” I confess. “And I haven’t been okay for a long time.”
“You can tell me anything,” he urges in a tone that has my tears spilling over. I falter, briefly holding the phone away as I choke on another wave of pain before gathering the strength and breath I need.
“I’m glad, Daddy, because I want to tell you about the man I fell in love with in Seattle.”
One More Try
George Michael
Easton
Once Misty is loaded into her waiting car, I watch it pull away. As I do, a sudden but familiar anger surges through me. The feeling only intensifies as I turn and stalk back into the lobby.
Guilt-ridden, pissed about my current circumstances, fed the fuck up with fate and the havoc it’s wreaked on me, along with my ex-wife—who’s determined to make me dismantle my freshly constructed system for self-preservation—I prowl back into the resort lobby on a mission. Walking up to the reception desk, I grit out my request. “Can you please dial Natalie Butler’s room?”
The man behind the counter clicks his mouse to look her up and dials. “Sorry, Mr. Crowne, she’s not answering.”
“Of course she isn’t, because that would make this much less difficult,” I grit out.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing, sorry,” I say, raking my hands through my hair. Heart pumping with fear that she left before I got a chance to thank her for her belated birthday present—I wonder if she’s already headed toward a plane bound for Texas.
Wouldn’t surprise me. After all, it’s her MO—intoxicate, devastate, and dash.
Fuming, I decide to have the front desk call her again, taking note of the room number when he dials. “Sorry, Mr. Crowne, she’s still—”
“It’s fine,” I wave him off. “Thank you.”
Sweat gathering on my brow, I bang on her hotel door minutes later as my heart begins thrashing wildly in my chest. “Open the fucking door, Natalie!”
My knock goes unanswered as the door adjacent clicks open, and Holly and Damon’s heads pop out, one atop the other. Both their heads slowly turn my way, eyes widening as they take in my state.
“Where is she?” I bark in demand.
Holly speaks up first. “Um, with all due respect, Easton, I’m not telling you shit with that intent to murder look in your eyes.”
“I would never hurt her,” I hear myself say. “And you both fucking know it.”
“But haven’t you?” Holly asks as I fist my hands at my sides before stalking toward them.
Both of them jerk back behind the door, leaving only a fraction open as Damon tosses a progress report from the other side of it. “She’s not in good shape.”
“No shit,” I snap sarcastically, trying to get a handle on my anger. “I just want to talk to her.”
“Is Misty okay?” Holly asks as muffled commotion breaks out behind the door.
“My newest ex?” I belt to them both. “Well, right now, she’s on her way to a different hotel to wipe her memory free of any remnants of me,” I practically shout as Damon’s head reappears. “Probably with someone who looks a lot like you.”
Damon winces. “Shit, man, I’m sorry. That’s on me. That tequila tour was my bad.”
“Yeah, well, what did I ever do to you?” I ask him.
“Believe it or not, you’re getting me back pretty good right now.” He widens his eyes.
I furrow my brows. “What?”
“Nothing,” he sighs. “Look, man. I’ve never seen her that distraught, and I’ve known her since we were babies.”
Panic threatens, the devastation on her face all I can see. “Just tell me where she is.”
“I really don’t know. When she got out of the SUV, she begged me not to follow. We’ve called her a dozen times, and her phone is going straight to voicemail. She turned off her locator, too.”
“Of course, she did,” I palm my face in frustration.
“I can help you look for her,” he offers.
“I’ll find her,” I inch forward. “Can you at least give me a general direction? This resort is three fucking miles wide.”
“East.” Damon offers in fast response.
“East? You’re joking, right?”
He cocks his head. “Unfortunately…no?”
“Just…,” I exhale harshly, “…if you see her, tell her I’m looking for her, all right?”
“I will.”
I back a step away from the door just as he closes it. Not ten seconds later, Holly calls to my retreating back just after I push the button for the elevator. “Easton Crowne!” She booms with protective authority, forcing me to turn and address her as she secures a bedsheet around her.
Oh. Ohhh.
The last few awkward minutes begin to make sense as Holly reads my state—heartbeat erratic, mind in overdrive, worry overtaking me, anger due to Natalie’s disappearance the front runner. Dressed in an impromptu toga, Holly squares her shoulders before issuing her threat. “Rock star or not, I’ll put my foot up your ass, if you hurt my girl!”
“Tell ’im, baby,” Damon sounds from behind the door.
“I don’t see you telling him,” she fires back to the crack of space.
“It’s implied,” he grits out.
“It’s unnecessary,” I inform them, denying my smile and dismissing them both, turning to repeatedly jab the elevator button.
“Just…please, Easton,” Holly reasons at my back. “She’s been through enough.”
All I can do is nod before I step into the elevator turning to briefly meet Holly’s pleading gaze as the doors close.
Less than twenty-four hours in, my ex-wife is putting me through my paces as my ex-girlfriend literally runs for the hills.
I shouldn’t have expected any less.
Same woman.
Same result.
Stay pissed, Easton.