Inside the case, situated in front of the life-size picture, sits a Drummer’s Workshop kit. A battered set of Reid’s drumsticks—one with the tip broken off—rests against the large, tattered bass drum. Reading the prompt, I recognize I was right in assuming it’s the set of drums Stella won by chance and sent to Reid after they broke up. Her gesture was a plea to encourage him to keep going, even after he broke her heart and left Austin. A slight bitterness seeps into me, but at the same time, I know the gesture was probably what kept him from quitting.
“They saved him,” Easton confirms, staring at the kit. “It cut him deep to donate them, but he didn’t want them rotting away in storage. He figured at least they’ll be preserved here. Mom saw in him what he couldn’t see for himself,” he utters, unmistakable pride in his eyes for what his parents have.
I nod, ashamed my confidence is shaky in the same respect, and I allowed—am allowing it to happen. Easton trails me into a nearby room as I stare blankly at the next display. His warmth surrounds me before he rests his chin on my shoulder, my body reacting in kind as it begins to thrum with awareness.
“I’m right here,” he whispers, the words resonating a second before bringing me to a scene in Drive. Reid typed out those exact words for Stella on her laptop minutes before they collided in their first kiss. Just as I question the implication of Easton’s whispered words, his warmth vanishes and he steps away, his expression imperceptible. He scans the room briefly, seeming to get lost in thought before turning back to me and extending his palm. “Come on, buttery breasts,” one side of his mouth lifts. “I’ll take you back to your hotel.”
I do the only thing that’s felt right since I landed in Seattle and place my hand in his.
Only You Know
Dion
Natalie
For the first few minutes of the drive back to the hotel, I fight the urge to try and extend our time together. Somehow, Easton’s managed to turn another shitty morning into an extraordinary day. An unforgettable day. As hard as I try to muster the courage, I can’t manage to get the words out thanks to the lie I’m continuing to feed into. His effort to give a little background by taking me to the museum to help me with my fictional article hasn’t gone unnoticed.
It’s when the surroundings start to become familiar that the overwhelming urge overtakes me. Just as I go to speak, Easton lifts a finger, asking me to wait. The now recognizable, faraway look in his eye is present as he becomes absorbed in the music. Ears perked, he turns the song up and I quickly pull up my Shazam app to identify it when it doesn’t appear on the ancient truck’s radio display. Seconds later, the title pops up on screen—“Only You Know” by Dion. I look up the year it was released, 1975, and make a mental note of it as we reach the hotel.
Limbs growing heavy with disappointment, I ready my goodbye, but instead of pulling up at the entrance to drop me off, Easton parks and wordlessly exits his truck. In seconds, his warm hand surrounds mine as he pulls me from the cab before turning and stalking toward the hotel, ostensibly on a mission. Instead of questioning what he’s doing, I speed up to keep up with his determined strides. Ambling into the lobby with me in tow, he stops and scans it. Seeming unsatisfied, he continues his search to the adjacent lounge. I nearly collide with him as he pauses briefly when we reach it before making a beeline to the back of the large room. Glancing around, I soak in the atmosphere for the first time since I arrived in Seattle.
I’d picked The Edgewater on a whim after seeing that several known celebrities and musicians have stayed here. Ironically, it was a picture of The Beatles fishing in the Puget Sound from one of the room windows that sold me. One of a few growing coincidences I purposely haven’t pointed out to Easton.
As Easton speed walks through the room with me in tow, I note that the large, clustered seating area is adorned with posh, comfortable-looking furniture. Branches extend from tree trunk-shaped support columns through the space, and much like my room, cemented river rocks make up the massive fireplace to our right. The fireplace currently hosts a low burning flame, making the atmosphere romantic in feel. A large, amber-lit antler chandelier rests low in front of a row of floor-to-ceiling windows. Just beyond one of the windows, a cluster of seagulls dip along the water, leaving it rippling in their wake.
It’s when I peek over Easton’s shoulder that I spot a baby grand that faces away from an amazing view of Puget Sound.
Unclasping my hand, Easton leaves me standing beside the polished instrument, discarding his hat on top before taking the bench seat. It’s then I notice the moisture coating the hand he just released.
He’s nervous.
I barely have time to register what’s happening when Easton closes his eyes. Time seems to stand still as his fingers search for and easily find the keys as he runs down a few chords.
Just after, he begins to play as I stare at him, stunned. Within a few notes of the intro, I pick up the melody, which mimics, note for note, the song we just heard on the oldies station. It’s when Easton opens his mouth and begins to sing that I feel the full gravity of what’s happening.
Easton Crowne is singing, for me, in my hotel lobby. Not only that, but the man’s voice is staggeringly perfect.
As if on cue, the water begins to glitter dramatically with the sun’s descent, the warm hue drenching him in a surreal, golden glow. Rays filter across his dark locks which start to unravel as he plays, the sun casting his features in perfect light as his velvet voice wraps around each lyric with expertise. Within seconds, I’m intoxicated—completely drunk on the sound and sight before me.
Easton moves naturally behind the piano, the scope of his talent no longer a mystery as he breathes new life and soul into a song over a half-century old. His fingers instinctively move along the ivory keys, and his raspy, melodic tone guides it the rest of the way as the song hits its crescendo.
Disbelief clouds me, and my eyes sting in response to the emotion he so easily evokes. Though borrowed, Easton owns every second of the song, the lyrics, and the very essence of the music. Unable to do anything but gawk, I fly over the edge of his mystery into infatuation.
It’s not just the way he plays. It’s the way he deconstructed the song, implementing every instrument while only using the piano. It’s as if he calculated an exact compilation for this very purpose.
But how?
My full being lights up with understanding as he continues to play, entirely in his element as a level of certainty overtakes me.
Easton Crowne is not some budding star. He’s a supernova.
He’s undoubtedly a prodigy—a genius disguised in a beautiful, but highly breakable—human package. At any time in the future, if he so desires, he will become a world-renowned star.
If I take advantage of this knowledge—and my current position—and write this story, an exclusive with him could very well kickstart my career and get my name out of the grey and into a bolder black. Even so, no part of me wants to share this moment with anyone in any capacity. More than anything, I want to cling to his star as it burns the brightest—if only to be with him for a little longer. If what Easton said is true, and we live in echoes of defining moments, I want to remain in this one for as long as I possibly can.
When Easton finishes the song, he glances up, his eyes focusing on me as if he’s coming out of a trance. A blooming smile slowly spreads across his gorgeous face as though he’s surprised himself. Unable to help it, I take another dangerous step with the edge of gravity continually urging me toward him. Thunderous applause explodes from adjacent rooms, along with those he drew into the lounge. The sound of their cheers snaps me from my dreamlike state into the present as Easton gives them a brief dip of his chin in a silent thank you. His eyes remain fixed on me and my reaction to him.
I interrupt my own applause by wiping an errant tear, feeling a pride I have no business feeling.