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I know he would be disappointed to find I let myself down.

My temporary cure?

After a grueling day at the paper, I spend my nights recalling the spontaneity in Seattle. It’s been blissful getting lost in those memories, even if I have to walk through hellfire while fighting my pillow after.

Dad was pleasantly surprised when I went into overdrive and says the time away had done wonders for me.

But it wasn’t time. It was a who and a culmination of things about him that inspired me—his honesty, his observations, our jam sessions, and getting lost together. In getting lost with Easton, I discovered new parts of myself—parts that are grossly unsatisfied with the way I’m currently living.

I spent the first few days with his earbuds in, immersed in sensory overload. I finally had to tuck them away in my desk, having decided anyone who listens to music while emotionally compromised is a masochist. It’s utter agony knowing my mind now associates certain songs with a man forever trapped in a place and time I don’t want to outlive.

It’s hard for me to rationalize my feelings or even romanticize any part of them. Every time I play a song from his playlist, I feel every emotion I felt during that time and still manage to summon images of us during certain lyrics.

It’s in the after that I fully realized the truth about the power of music Easton spoke so emphatically about.

Last night, at the feed store getting food for Percy, I heard an old ’80s ballad and nearly lost my shit mid-aisle.

Crazily enough, no matter what I try, I’ve been grieving the loss of Easton like I am going through a full-fledged breakup. Which. Is. Insane.

I didn’t even mourn Carson this long, and we damned near lived together for a year. But the fact that I’m having such a hard time letting go makes my embarrassing reaction as I left Seattle a bit more bearable.

It might have been a flash of days, hours, and minutes, but they remain with me. Easton remains with me, and it’s bittersweet.

Easton properly kissed me, fucked me, and I’m certain—if we gave each other a chance—he might have been the one to properly love me.

Pulling up my phone, I see another missed call notification and blink in surprise.Twocalls today. He’s about to give up. It’s only a matter of time before he does. Appetite gone, I toss my fork and pull down my sunglasses, the elation of his call cut short when his name evaporates from my screen.

Inside my car, AC blasting, tapping my thumbs on the wheel, I eye my phone where it rests just outside the lip of my purse as it relights with the missed call notification fromEC. Just after, a text from Dad comes through with praise for my latest article.

Daddy: Great job. I’ve got a few notes. We’ll go over them when you get back from lunch.

Guilt wins again.

Tucking my phone back into my purse with a sigh, I shift my focus—the paper, my father, my goals, our joint plans—I press the gas, and the truth painfully settles in. There’s no place for Easton Crowne anywhere amongst them.

TWENTY-FIVE

“Pets”

Porno for Pyros

Easton

My cell vibrates in my hand, and I brace myself for the inevitable as I slide it to answer. “Hey, Mo—”

“And I quote, ‘Easton Crowne—’”

“Mom, stop,” I can’t help my growing smile as I exit the coffee shop while she talks over me.

“‘Easton Crowne and his band, REVERB, are leaving their fans stunned and mystified with every performance, and for good reason. Young Crowne seems to be making a statement by way of a nod to his predecessors. His nightly encore is a purposefully intended tribute to a diverse list of influences. Last night, he finished his set with Porno for Pyros’ “Pets,” the context clear—we’re all missing the unattainable point of a pointless world.’”

“Mom—”

“Do you know who fucking said that aboutmyson?”

“Don’t tell me. I told you I don’t read the reviews.”

“Then don’t. I’ll read them all to you.”

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