Page 22 of Reverse

“Never reveal a source,” I snap. “That’s Journalism 101.”

Tension rolls off both of us as I stay put, in his space, doing my best to keep what little shred of confidence I have left. He glares at me with a mix of ‘you’re crazy’ while weighing whether or not I’ll carry out my threat.

Exhaling, I step down, still blocking him from shutting the door but giving him space to make his decision.

“Look, my father is my editor, so I get it. It’s not the same, but I do get it.”

The buzz from the hearty sips of beer I took on an empty stomach hits harder as I straighten my posture and come to my senses. It’s as if the entirety of my education went out the window when he threatened to walk. When he sees I have the good sense to be a little embarrassed about it, amusement wins with the slight tilt of his lips. That’s two almost smiles I’ve drawn from him. Maybe there’s a chance to turn this around.

“Freshly graduated?”

“Shut up,” I snap, unable to help my smile. “I’m well aware of my behavior at all times.”

“All I’m saying is that I’ve been singing and playing instruments since I was two. We’re not in the same ballpark.”

“Again, so quick to condemn. My father didn’t read me bedtime stories, Easton. He read me news articles starting with the Roosevelt administration all the way up to Anthrax before I started reading them myself. I wrote my first column when I was seven. It was about my horses. Hi, kettle, nice to meet you. I’m pot.”

As to the question of why I’m here? The truth is I really don’t know . . . I maxed out my AmEx, and on a whim, came here for what? To be ridiculed by a beautiful asshole who seems to be able to see right through my ruse.

“Look, I’ll admit I’m slightly off my game. I’ve barely slept in two days. I’m fucking exhausted and running on fumes and misplaced emotions, and definitely didn’t plan on—”

On what, Natalie? Being attracted to your father’s ex-girlfriend’s son?

Heat coats my neck, and I feel the flush traveling up. I’m thankful for the rapid wind stinging my face to disguise it as more catcalls sound from the tables outside the pub.

A smug smirk graces Easton’s features, and somehow, I know he recognizes everything I’m not saying. Instead of shying away, I switch gears and palm the top of his truck, my dark beer-bred brass balls on full display.

“My legitimacy as a reporter aside, what’s the worst that can happen? Maybe your success can’t touch the Sergeants’ legacy.” Annoyed, I wrestle the hair obstructing my view and secure it inside my fist hoisting it atop my head to see his eyes intent on mine. “But you’re not doing it for that, Easton. You said it yourself. You’re doing it because you have no choice. Maybe that’s why you don’t give a damn about promoting it or trying to sell it because we both know your father—no matter who he is—can’t make you a success. Either way, your reasons are your own. Just let me relay that one truth to them, so you don’t come across as a pretentious douche bag.”

Why are you giving him a pep talk while offering him something you can’t deliver!? You have a paper to earn and inherit. Go home!

An electric current begins to thrum through my veins from the intensity of his gaze. I exhale harshly as he remains mute, and all hopes of salvaging this trip dissipate while I battle to keep the rest of my sanity.

“Obviously, I’m nowhere near the caliber of reporter of my dad or your mother . . .yet. But I’m too fucking intelligent to let inexperience or shaky confidence be the reason I tap out. It will have to be something far more substantial than that to tear me away from my own aspirations, and from what I’ve gathered, I think it’s the same for you. Stick to that, and good luck,” I exhale sincerely. “I wish you well, I really do, and again I’m sorry for the way I approached you. I mean that. I’m not . . . I haven’t been myself lately, and you’re right, it’s not your problem. Take care, Easton.” I step back and palm the door closed for him. He keeps my gaze through the window as he turns the truck over. Defeated but refusing to let him see it, I decide to give him space to make his exit.

His window lowers an inch just as I step back on the curb. “Get in.”

Turning, he slides on the bench seat and pulls up the lock, which sits in the window frame of the ‘80s model truck. As I round the hood, a roar of cheers sounds from the tables. Rolling my eyes, I playfully give them the one-finger salute before sliding onto the bench seat and shutting myself in the truck.

“You have to slam it.”

I do, and before I can get a word in, Easton pulls the gearshift next to the large steering wheel down and gasses us out of the parking lot.

SIX

“Honest”

Kyndal Inskeep, The Song House

Natalie

In a matter of minutes, we’re parked just outside a closed storefront. Easton eases his key out of the ignition and reaches into the small space behind the bench seat producing an army-style faded green jacket. He hands it to me before wordlessly exiting the truck. While packing, I hadn’t at all prepared for Seattle’s spring temperatures versus Texas’s. I blame my lack of sleep caused by the spell I’ve been under since I opened the email chain between our parents. Before I left Austin, I transferred the file to my laptop, and by the time I landed in Seattle, I had read through nearly two and a half years of their relationship—which only drew me further into confusion as to why they split up.

The love between them was so there, so evident, that I found myself tearing up multiple times due to loss alone.

I’ve been so completely immersed in their world that I barely remember checking into my hotel. Without so much as glancing around my room, I dumped my suitcase and stared up at the ceiling before managing to get a few restless hours of sleep. Feeling as insane as the acts I’m committing, I decided after waking I had no choice but to see my emotionally induced, half-baked scheme through. Just as out of sorts now—jet lag kicking in fully—I slide on the offered jacket with a soft “thank you,” meeting Easton at the tailgate of his truck. As we start a silent walk, the material of his jacket blankets me in warmth as an earthy, birchwood scent drifts from the collar. The smell is both divine and comforting.

Allowing Easton to take the lead, I follow him down a small shop-littered street that looks catered to tourists. It’s picturesque, almost romantic in feel as the sun peeks through the flowering blooms, christening the large branches of the towering trees that line both sides of the street.

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