Page 38 of Reverse

With one hand hung on the wheel, he runs the other down his jeans. “Dad got it. He’s all about work ethic and allowed me to earn cash when I found the opportunity. Sometimes I carried lighter equipment for the crew or cleaned toilets at the studios. I did everything I could to save money for my own studio time. When I was fifteen, he put me on the payroll, making the same wages as everyone else because I was determined to earn my way, like he did.”

“And you don’t think this would endear you to your future fans?”

“Sadly, it would probably be thought of as a ploy, so I don’t ever want them to know.”

Expelling a breath, I shake my head as he glances over at me long and hard.

“I once saw a documentary where John Lennon was speaking to a fan outside his house. It was clear the guy had mental health issues to the point a simple conversation wasn’t going to convince him that John wasn’t his answer. He invited that guy into his home, fed him, and had the best conversation he could while trying to relay that he wasn’t the solution. That’s a scary scenario for people in the limelight. Like how the fuck do you handle that responsibly?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to be responsible for the way people behave, think, or live, or the decisions they make. If anything, the message in my work begs them to think for themselves.” He gives me a sideways glance. “I don’t think you can live a genuine life being inspired by others—everyday lives anyway—but you can be inspired by theircreations. There’s a big fucking difference. If some guy wants to propose because of a love song I wrote, great, that’s where it should end. I’m not saying famous people don’t have a responsibility, or if they’re reckless with it and do horrible things, they shouldn’t be called out. They should. But for those who just want to quietly contribute at this point, it’s next to impossible to keep their private lives out of it. Not only that . . .”

“Don’t you dare stop now,” I warn.

“Seeing my father in a state of utter disarray for months regarding one of his fans changed my perception completely about what I want out of this.”

“Are you referring to Adrian Town’s suicide?” Adrian was a Sergeants’ fan who committed suicide at one of their last concerts. It was in the headlines for weeks. Easton’s expression darkens.

“I don’t think a lot of people realize they live around echoes of defining moments in their lives.”

“He was mentally ill. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“Tell that to my dad. He was a fucking wreck for almost a year. We still feel the echoes of that night to this day. But everyone seems to take great pleasure in pointing fingers in claiming crazy on those they don’t understand.” He rakes his lower lip, and his chest bounces as irony covers his expression. “Everyone lovesThe Starry Nightby Vincent van Gogh, but I wonder how many know . . .”

“Know what?”

“That’s the point. I don’t want to spoil it for anyone or change their perception of an artist or take away any merit of his art for any reason.”

“How so?”

“You really want to know?”

“I have to now.”

“All right. He paintedThe Starry Nightbecause that’s what he saw during one of his most manic states while staring out of his asylum window.”

He glances over at me to weigh my reaction as I picture the painting. “You’re right. I didn’t know that.”

He nods. “Most people don’t unless they look into the artist or listen attentively to the Don McLean song. While some people will appreciate the art, those curious will want to know more about where it stemmed from. When they dig, they’ll get the dirt under their fingernails and hate how it feels.”

“It’s a natural curiosity.”

“I get that, really, but from what I’ve seen and learned, expressing yourself creatively and becoming successful at it always comes at a cost.”

His voice is solemn as he exits the highway and glances over at me as he parks in a recreational area, a picnic bench and charcoal grill a few feet away. Light droplets of rain coat the windshield as we remain idle.

“The truth is, ordinary humans are capable of doing extraordinary things every single day without living extraordinary,extralives. It’s the art, the creativity that sets them apart, not what they fucking eat for breakfast or who they’re fucking. Let them have their eggs in peace.” His jade eyes find mine, and I briefly get lost in them as the intimacy in the air becomes tangible. “But then I look at you and see you have a natural inclination to seek out what makes humans tick. Of how they came to be who they are, and I can’t fault you for that, no more than you can fault me for not wanting to be under your microscope. I don’t hate the press. I just hate the microscope and what it’s done to the people I love.”

Soaking all his admissions in, it dawns on me. “This is why you haven’t set a release date. You’re not sure you’re going to release at all.”

He turns to stare out of the window, his jaw tensing. “I’ve thought about doing it anonymously, butfuck that, if I go in, I’m going all the way in. I’m not missing the experience of performing, or else what’s the point. It’s a bonding experience I’ve seen and felt—so much love. It’s surreal, and that’s when I’ll be with them. That’s when they’ll have all of me.” He turns to me. “I’m not missing that for any reason.”

“Easton, you can’t let—”

“Can’t I?” He interjects, dread in his tone. “I’ve waded through the scary parts with my parents, watched people I love implode under pressure, buried family friends too soon, and observed people close to me tear their personal relationships apart year after year due to insecurity.”

I try to place who he’s talking about as he turns back to me, his expression full of anxiety.

“Fame is my biggest fear, Natalie.”

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