We don’t exchange a single word as we go through the rest of the property. Still, he remains close, our arms brushing as he glances over at me every couple of minutes—strangely in silent support and apparently ready to listen.
He probably thinks I’m a little crazy or cracking up.
Currently, I fear he might not be wrong.
Once we leave the garden, he drives around the outskirts of the city. The music blaring as the whipping wind circulates through the ancient Chevy, and the heater blows at our feet. Every so often, I glance over at him as he drives, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. I have no doubt those thoughts are keeping him in better company because, for the umpteenth time since I got to Seattle, I’m questioning why I’m here. All I do know is right now, I feel incapable of taking the lead. The self-assured, confident, steadfast, focused woman I was before I opened those emails is nowhere in the vicinity.
Sadly, but truthfully, I’m thankful for the distance between myself and the people that know me best—especially my father. But even that tiny relief brings its own type of guilt.
After endless miles of relaxed silence with music continually flowing, Easton finally asks me where I’m staying. Not long after, he pulls up to the circular entrance of The Edgewater Hotel. The sliding doors are to our right, and a fire roars in the large stone column on the left. The heavy repeat of the engine amplifies to an obnoxious level when he puts the truck in park and turns to me.
“As odd as the day was, thank you,” I say, too exhausted to be embarrassed.
He dips his chin, his gaze dancing along my windblown hair before his eyes snap back to mine.
“Um…look, I fly home on Sunday, so if you are still willing to do an interview, I guess…well, you have my number.”
Another subtle dip of his chin gives me no inclination either way as I drink in his features. Knowing what the odds are, I’ll probably never see him again. In all honesty, I wouldn’t have blamed him if he dumped me roadside hours ago.
“It’s been…,” a laugh bursts from me, and his lips lift slightly in response. Something inside me mourns the fact I’ll never see Easton Crowne smile.
“Bye,” I whisper, shutting his truck door before walking through the lobby doors, fighting not to look back. I don’t hear his truck engine rev until I’m well past the reception desk.
Devils Haircut
Beck
Easton
Entering the front door, I hear music drifting throughout as I start the trek across our expansive sunken living room before stepping up into the kitchen. I find Mom dressed in her usual at ease attire—one of Dad’s tour T-shirts, baggy sweats, and a messy bun. Studying her while she dutifully stirs a pot, I can’t help but notice she seems smaller in frame than she used to.
“What are you cooking?”
Mom jumps a foot off the floor before turning to me, eyes wide, one palm flattened to her chest, a partially coated wooden spoon gripped in the other. “What the fucking scary stalker type of an approach was that?” She widens her eyes as I chuckle. “Seriously, son, why didn’t you announce yourself?”
“Because you’re blaring Beck while cooking…” I eye the pot and the clock on the stove behind it, “…spaghetti at midnight. Seriously, Mom?” Chest heaving, she snatches a remote from the counter and taps a button furiously, lowering the volume.
“I couldn’t sleep. You didn’t text.”
“This again,” I sigh, ripping off my hat and running a hand through my hair. “I’m moving out.”
“Not yet. I have to mentally prepare.”
“You said that six months ago. It’s about four years past time, two at the very least, don’t you think?”
“Says who?”
“Every other self-respecting twenty-two-year-old human with a set of testicles.”
“You’re safe here, and you’ll be on tour soon anyway, so it’s pointless to get a place now that will essentially be a storage unit. Save your money.”
“A tour?” I scoff. “That’s a bit premature.”
“Mark my words, you’ll be on the road by summer,” she says with surety.
“That’s a big if,” I remind her, knowing there may be some truth to her statement. While music distribution has changed substantially in the last fifteen years, making it far easier to release with the mere push of a button, the road aspect to perk ears to new sound remains the same. Especially if I don’t get the airplay or streaming results I hope for within the first few months. My hopes will most likely be dashed anyway, due to my hesitance to sell myself and my music by placating the media. Much like in my dad’s day—and the days before—if I want my music heard, I’ll have to pay dues by playing clubs and smaller stadiums to get the word out. Playing live still has the potential to have as much impact as it’s always had. It’s also a way to sharpen sound, bring bands closer on a personal level, and is considered by many musicians as a rite of passage.
Her prediction is still farfetched, considering I don’t exactly have a band—yet.
“Either way, you live here until we know. Deal?”
For my mother, it’s all about security, and I can’t say it hasn’t been needed over the years. A few months after I was born, a crazed fan broke into the infamous A-frame house my parents reunited at while we were home. Dad managed to get the disturbed woman outside until the police arrived. In an effort to protect me, they moved us into the security guarded, gated community where I’ve grown up. It was a wise decision on their part. My mother still remains bitter about the fact we had to move out of a house that meant so much to them both. I’ve heard the story dozens of times over the years of how their chance meeting at that open house solidified them together for good. To this day, each time my mother tells it, her eyes cloud with sentiment.
“Elliot Easton Crowne,” my mother prompts, breaking up my inner musings. “You will stay here until your tour is over, right?”
“This is not full name serious,” I taunt.
“To you,” she digs in, ready for this fight.
“Fine,” I concede, running my hands through my hair in frustration, but wanting no part of the oncoming rant if she doesn’t get her way on this. Mom tends to get emotional more often than not, forever wearing her heart on her sleeve. She’s always felt things on a deeper level than most people do.
It’s one of the character traits I love most about her and identify with, which is why I’m well equipped to handle her because I have them myself at times.
A smile threatens at the memory of Natalie having her own moment hovering above me in the bar parking lot. Her long, strawberry hair whipping around her face, sticking to her lips. Even in the midst of her wardrobe crisis, she looked like a beautifully wrapped disaster, emotions warring, cheeks pinkening with embarrassment as her eyes battered mine with a plea to keep my company. She won that battle far too easily, and I let her because I would have been hard-pressed to leave her there looking as lost as she seemed. She reminded me of Mom a little then—and myself, too, her emotions prickling just beneath her skin. The exchange only sparked my interest.
Upon first meeting her, I assumed the conclusions I’d drawn about her since her threatening call were right. That she was privileged and ruthlessly abusive because of it. Turns out, she’s the opposite of what I expected, showing clear remorse for that call by apologizing more than once. Mom speaks up while stirring her sauce again, and I shoot up a silent prayer that she’s planning on dining alone. “What did you do today?”
“I cruised around and went to the Chihuly Garden.”
She tosses an inquisitive glance over her shoulder. “Alone?”