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It’s when I hit the sheets that I find myself becoming more thankful for the invasion and more determined to seek solace in her for the time we have left.

I might only have a few days remaining to find some reprieve in the distraction who crash-landed on my doorstep, but it’s enough for now.

I wake hours later in the exact position I fell asleep in, having slept better than I have in weeks.

THIRTEEN

“Bad Day”

Fuel

Natalie

Ididn’t sleep.

As much as I tried to blame it on the jet lag, I found myself warring with Easton’s admissions and the fact that he seems to know exactly who he is, the questions he posed to me a lot harder for me to answer than I let on.

Last night, as I stared at the low-lit flames burning in the fireplace tucked in the corner of my hotel room, I listened to the music from his playlist and physicallyfeltthe weight of the lyrics wrapped inside the expertly created rhythm, amplifying their meaning.

For the first time, I became fully aware of their capabilities as Easton’s prodding questions circled in my head.

As I mulled those questions over for deeper, more meaningful responses, I replayed every song on the rapidly growing soundtrack I’ve compiled in our short time together. I examined the lyrics, wondering which parts of them he personally identifies with before questioning which parts I, myself, could relate to.

The irony that though none of the lyrics were lost on me, I hadn’t really experienced much to coincide with what they entail—which began to eat at me the more I listened.

Words have always been what light me on fire. The stories they create fuel me, and the more I tuned into each song, I realized the art of fusing a story, message, or layered emotions in fewer words to paint a picture is fascinating. Composing lyrics with the right notes is an art form widely recognized and celebrated by billions of people. Though aware of it, I’d spent most of my life idolizing the noteless side of composition.

Which led to an even deeper question—why hadn’t I ever taken notice before?

Music had always been more background noise for me than anything else, and I couldn’t remember a time in my life when it played a central role.

I also couldn’t remember the last time Holly and I did something between our busy schedules, other than lunch, or a recent time where I laughed as hard with her as I did with Easton.

As more sleepless hours ticked by, I calculated how long it’d been since I had sex—or even dated—which only pulled me deeper into my own head.

The conclusion I drew after hours of contemplation—I’ve considered working ‘living’for so long that the lines have completely blurred. I gave my parents the excuse that I hadn’t taken a break since I graduated last year, but amlivingthe totality and consequences of that truth at present.

Which led to another forgone conclusion—I’m quickly becoming the living definition of burnt the hell out.

Those realizations—combined with the fact that I found myself going further into Dad and Stella’s emails again—kept me tossing and turning until the early morning hours. The insurmountable guilt continued to pile up to the point that I felt I was suffocating. Thankfully, my mind shut down, granting me a few short hours of reprieve. Seeing the email thread the second I regained consciousness this morning inevitably led to my current, ongoing battle with my conscience.

Nate Butler

Subject: Look at me.

March 31, 2009, 4:22 p.m.

Right girl,

I may be the pompous ass who feels he’s rarely wrong, but if I’m right, then I take it back. I can’t fucking stand the hurt in your eyes or the fact that this day is dragging out, as is your silence.

I’m so sorry I hurt you. I was being honest, but even if I felt I was right, it wasn’t worth it. I love you too much to allow this to drag on.

Please, baby, look at me, or I’m not going to make it through the rest of the day.

Nate Butler

Editor in Chief, Austin Speak

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