The minute we pull up to the small auditorium, the guys exit like their asses are on fire, having only half an hour to spare before the show starts. Easton had refused to pull over for a third piss break, and the guys threatened to unload in the sea of Gatorade bottles on the floorboard. Needless to say, there was no going back after they’d broken the seal. We ended up stopping four times before we made it to the venue. They all seem in good spirits now, even Easton, who I had refused to let go radio silent on me the rest of the way to Oklahoma. Surprisingly, he seemed just as eager to get us back to the cheerful place we were in when he picked me up. As we caught up, I could see such a change in his posture from the time we met. His smiles are granted far easier. The more I observed the differences in him, the more I realized some of his ill demeanor was due to the fact he was at his own crossroads when ours merged.
We’d been there for each other when we both needed someone to help us put things in perspective. It’s no doubt one of the reasons why we bonded so quickly, and it seems so—unforgettably. One thing I know for certain is that he gifted me the perception I need. Unfortunately, he’s done it in a way that’s brought on a whole new set of challenges. Challenges like trying to keep my legs from wrapping around his naked waist for the next forty-eight hours.
It’s clear now we’re both on the other side of the road we merged on, having chosen our respective directions. Unsurprisingly, I’ve stayed the same course—a course I’ve chosen my entire life, as has he. My path isn’t as full of solutions as his is, though—something I’ll be hard-pressed to admit to him.
As much as I love the intense Easton I met who was weighing a major life decision, this Easton is just as alluring, if not more enigmatic, which will make the next couple of days much harder.
Mulling over the task at hand, I catch sight of a familiar face as an identical second van, which was absent during our road trip, pulls up beside us.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim, and Easton flashes me a grin before l haul ass toward the driver’s door of the second van. Joel steps out looking gorgeous in a simple white T-shirt and jeans, a ready smile for me as he opens his arms and I fly into them. “Hey, you!” I greet, feeling the warmth in his embrace as we hug tightly and pull back slightly with matching grins. “Is it weird to say that I missed you?”
“Not at all. We bonded fast, and we weren’t the only ones.” He lifts his chin, gesturing behind me, and I follow his line of sight to catch Easton’s gaze darting warmly between us before Joel leans in on a whisper. “And in case it’s not evident, you’ve been missed, too.” Before I can get a read on Easton, the back door of the arena bursts open. Easton’s eyes slip from the two of us as he’s greeted by a man who eagerly pumps his hand with both of his own. Joel and I chuckle as Easton widens his eyes at us helplessly. The man talks a mile a minute, clasping his palm on Easton’s shoulder before ushering him toward the door.
“You told him, didn’t you?” I turn back to Joel as Easton disappears inside. “That I was crying when I left, you told him.”
Joel shakes his head, not a trace of guilt to be found in his expression.
“I didn’t have to.”
Worldstop
Roy English
Natalie
Blindsided.
That’s how I felt during the first half-hour of the show. The online experience of watching Easton perform doesn’t do him or the band nearly enough justice. Just a few minutes in, I decided it would have been a tragedy if I missed this opportunity. Though Easton said they were jelling well as a band and making good progress in tightening their sound, I can’t imagine them sounding better. Easton’s stage presence is an experience within itself. Combined with his astounding vocal range and his music, it’s utterly mesmerizing.
He came out guns blazing, the most natural showman alive, and I was instantly hot for him. Though dressed the same as when he collected me, the look somehow turned more rock and roll as he performed, his hat backward, the visible tips of his hair dripping sweat within the first few songs, his T-shirt plastered to his muscular chest.
Hidden between the first and second curtain, side stage, I really do have the best seat in the house, away from the audience’s view. From my vantage point, I witnessed every damned facial expression and close of his eyes. I felt every change in pitch, every emotion he’s feeling, relaying and evoking as he plays and sings seamlessly, like a veteran—God help me. Now well into the set, it’s astounding they all have the same energy as when they started playing, as if they’re just warming up.
Drinking in the scene before me, I briefly shift my focus to the rest of the band. Tack remains a powerhouse on the drums as LL edges the stage on lead, his retro and badly faded Hawaiian shirt hanging open as he draws out every note with perfect clarity. Syd remains on the other side of the stage, far less animated, his bass lines steady yet expertly provoking.
But it’s the man center stage that is wrecking us all past repairable. He’s spent most of this song, “Tumble Dry,” cupping the mic—his current weapon of mass destruction—with both hands, sweeping us away with the haunting melody and cut-throat lyrics.
I sway where I stand, maybe ten feet away, singing along, giving the starstruck fangirl dwelling inside me her fair share of indulgence.
They’ve surpassed my expectations. I’m already dreading when the second show ends, but still thankful I’ll be gifted one more.
One more will be enough, Natalie.
Chucking the heels I put on before the show, I lift my arms in praise above my head as sweat trickles down my back, and I allow myself to get swept away.
Easton’s voice flows like lava throughout the small auditorium of six thousand, the place packed to capacity. Peeking out through the curtain at the beginning of the show, I saw that many of the fans taking up the first row are women, their expressions nothing short of worship, as if they reach out to him, he’ll cure them all. For them, in these few minutes, he’s worthy of those starved and reverent looks. He would also be the cure for me if I acknowledged the continually growing ache and pounced on the opportunity to temporarily pacify it with him.
But I’m no idiot.
I’ve had a long drink, and I know of the addictive thirst that’s sure to follow. Easton now belongs to the world—and for him, for me—I have to live in this moment because I know it’s fleeting. He’s space-bound, and my roots are firmly planted. Refusing to let my mood be altered by those thoughts, I cheer along with the crowd and take endless minutes of footage before putting my phone away. The last few songs of the show I decide will be for memory alone.
As a journalist, it’s sometimes hard for me to distinguish which moments to live in and which to capture with total mental clarity for my own creative outlet down the line. But this moment is definitively mine, and he wanted me here. Natalie Butler, not Natalie Hearst. Even if we are one and the same.
Closing my eyes, I get lost in the lyrics, mouthing them in tandem. It’s when I open them and see Easton angled toward me, watching me intently from where he sings, that all the breath whooshes out of me.
Bastard.
I’m so close to the fire now. I know exactly what parts would remain intact if I so much as take a single step toward what I’m feeling, the truth of it continuously plaguing me.
A tale as old as time as far as human nature is concerned.