Page 205 of Reverse

Ironically, our second “date” just so happens to be the day Tye plays for his second Super Bowl ring. If they win, it will be his first as the Cowboys’ quarterback. He earned the last ring when he played for Tampa two years ago. In the short time we’ve had to get to know each other, the media has been relentless, camping out at my parents’ house, my apartment, and at the doors ofAustin Speak. The pressure is even more grueling now as I’m whisked toward Tye, knowing a hundred million pairs of eyes might be directed toward me in a few hours for more reasons than one.

“Almost there,” Donald assures, three different lanyards tangled around his neck as I marvel at my idiocy. I got lost within minutes of being ushered inside the stadium. My racing mind turned simple instructions complicated as some panic slithered in. To be fair, it’s not like I’ve ever been inside the massive, multi-billion-dollar sports arena. The state-of-the-art stadium I’m being escorted through now is a Goliath compared to the David-sized field in Austin.

Even as I fly toward the man of the hour with the support of everyone in my life—including the media who labeled me the abandoning villainess just after our trip to the altar—I feel the crushing weight of today’s expectations. Though the media seems to have forgiven me recently. My guess is because there has been speculation that Easton has moved on with his goddess, which led to questions about his fidelity and the reason for me filing.

All of it bullshit.

Following Easton’s lead, I’ve kept my ‘no comment’ stance as firm as he has. Positive he hasn’t worried himself over the headlines produced from our corners and remained oblivious to the trash talk we’ve both been subjects of. It’s my job to watch both our futures, speculated or not, unfold in the press. Even if I try to avoid it at this point, I can’t because his rising stardom parallels any other sensational performer in history. The more his star shines, as it’s sure to, the more Easton’s name will become synonymous with others like Prince, Madonna, and the likes. As it is, he’s constantly being compared to Elvis, his media-donned nickname, ‘The New King,’ which I’m certain he loathes—if he’s aware of it. His music is getting more play than any other artist. As I predicted, the world is fascinated by him and more blood-thirsty than ever, thanks to his aversion to media. False Image got the Diamond awardtwicein recent months selling over twenty million copies, sales climbing daily. With the growing demand for added tour dates, the band is set for a European tour which kicks off in six weeks.

While I’m proud of him, it’s been a living hell watching him resume his life and being aware of his every move and staggering success. No doubt no less grueling than what my father endured when he covered Stella and Reid’s engagement, wedding, and the birth of their only child—my husband.

Easton’s been on my mind more than usual. In a horrendous twist of fate—today, of all days—the powers that be saw fit to throw a gigantic wrench into my first and only attempt at moving on.

What’s even more damning is that legally, I’m still married to Easton Crowne. Though we’ve been separated for nearly six months, neither of us has signed the papers, the live document still resting in our idle hands.

The second time I opened the document, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw his signature was absent. What I didn’t realize was that when I did, Easton would be notified by email each time I opened it, and vice versa.

Stupidly and repeatedly, I still check anyway, praying I haven’t accidentally missed the notification email. All my hopes clinging to the absence of his signature until recently.

When Easton’s headline with Misty was blasted into the stratosphere, my jealousy boiled over. Grapevine news reported from every major paper stated they were recording together, but TMZ was the source that reported a blacked-out SUV hadn’t moved from her Malibu mansion in days.

Seconds after hearing those details and studying the photos while trying to interpret Easton’s body language, I allowed suspicion and anger to take over. That day I opened the document, fully intent on signing. I scribbled my name, my finger hovering over the accept button. But no matter how angry I was, I couldn’t go through with it.

Just as I cleared my signature, Easton’s name lit up as active on the left-hand side of the screen. We engaged in a virtual standoff, and I knew he was there watching, knowing I’d read the news and was waiting just to see if I’d sign.

Though I assumed he’d eventually leave, he stayed with me as more time ticked by. Every minute he lingered caused another tear to fall. Ten minutes came and went, as did twenty, and at the hour mark, I was sobbing at my desk, furious with him—all the while relieved no signature appeared. His continued presence gave me every indication that he didn’t want it either.

Or maybe I’m just the delusional ex who still wants to believe he cares more than he does. As the details of the picture ate me alive, and I broke down behind my office desk in Chicago, the sincerity in his words from our honeymoon hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

“We’re as close as two people could ever be.”

Feeling those words to my marrow while reliving that memory had me closing the document without signing, giving Easton the victory. Just after, I stared at my phone, praying for any word from him, but it never rang—and I knew why.

While he’s blaming me, I’m blamingus bothandmy father. His determination to keep the ball in my court and remain silent only magnifies the fact that he feels I should shoulderall the blamefor our marriage imploding. And for that, I’m still furious he was so damned impatient he didn’t even give us the time to sort out the nuclear bomb we set off by eloping. He gave me six weeks to clean up the destruction we left in our wake, my life having the most debris to sort through, before doling out his impossible and unfair ultimatum.

Five hours after that headline broke, Nate Butler was standing in the doorway of my Chicago office. Though we spoke briefly during the months of my absence—mostly through Mom, curt check-in texts, and emails—our dynamic had drastically changed, and it was painfully apparent.

Not long after his unexpected arrival, Dad whisked me to a small, screen-littered sports bar he frequented when he came to Chicago, which sits a few city blocks from Hearst’s high rise.

Half a beer in, the silence lingered as I glanced over at my father, who felt more of a stranger to me than he ever had in my entire adult life. Sipping my beer, I’d allowed him the floor to start the conversation until he finally took his cue.

“I hate that I don’t know what you’re thinking right now and that it’s my fault,” he admits, opening a line of honest conversation.

“I do too.”

“Tell me what to do, Natalie. I can’t do my part to repair our relationship if you continue to give me vague replies while remaining in Chicago.”

“I’m trying to figure out what I want,” I tell him honestly.

“You wantSpeak,” he fires back. “Or you did, and I feel like I’ve tainted that. No, I know I have,” he exhales harshly, clear fatigue in his posture.

Guilt threatens as I bat it away, having declared it an enemy of self-preservation.

“The truth is,” Dad continues as I keep my gaze fixed on my beer, “more than anything, I still want to hand it over to you when we’re both ready.”

He says my name with a fair amount of authority—in a request for my full attention—and I oblige, lifting my eyes to his. “But not because it’s some birthright. It’s what you’ve been working toward for a large part of your life. That chair is yours, if you still feel like it’s where you belong, Natalie.”

“It’s easier for me to work at Hearst,” I relay, “Speakwould be a circus if I came back now.”

---