Page 47 of Reverse

Just got off the phone with your sister. Please don’t let Paige bully you into a venue choice. This is about us. Her crazy makes yours seem sane, which is no easy feat. Regardless, I’m siding with my Right Girl and always will. By the way, I can’t fucking wait to marry you.

I love you, Stella.

Nate Butler

Editor in Chief, Austin Speak

Sent via Blackberry

They wereengaged.

The revelation shook me to my core when I read it last night and is no less debilitating now as I ready myself for another stolen day with my father’s ex-fiancée’s son.

Feeling all kinds of fucked up, the reason in black and white feet away, I slam my laptop closed as I plaster on concealer. As I apply my makeup, I contemplate sending Easton a message to cancel our day, just as he texts he’s on his way to collect me.

The thought of getting lost again with Easton currently outweighs my need to flee, which is only further proof of just how far I’ve taken this moral hiatus. My fear now is how much I will continue to play into this lie, especially now that I feel my attraction building for Easton the more time we spend together. Even worse, I’m catching myself becoming more drawn to him in every way that matters—and I’m thinking I’m not the only one.

This pull can’t be one-sided, not with the type of energy passing between us.

Or maybe Easton’s just this intense with all the people in his life. He doesn’t seem to have an off switch for it, though he clearly knows how to relax and enjoy himself. Something, until recently, I had no idea was a serious issue for me.

Maybe sleep deprivation has me reading too much into everything.

I’ve never had insomnia and it appears to be a slow thief, robbing me daily—by chipping away at my confidence, my sense of purpose, my moral compass, and everything that’s made me feel like a respectable human being—until this week.

“It’s just a bad week,” I snap, closing my compact, and palming off the bed when a heavy knock sounds from the other side of my hotel door.

Music blaring from my cellphone, I snatch it up and immediately turn it down, embarrassment threatening that Easton might hear it until a light and unintrusive “housekeeping” announcement is bellowed. In my haze last night, I’d forgotten to put the digital Do Not Disturb on the lock.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I call out as I dart into the bathroom to stare at my reflection. Even after layering thick paste beneath my eyes, it’s aided poorly in concealing the darkening circles. Opting not to wash my hair, I spray it with some dry shampoo, and luck is on my side when my curls bounce back with a kick. Taking the small victory, I wrangle them up with a hair tie. Somewhat appeased by my appearance—though thrown together—I war with going through another day of deceit.

Part of my solution is clear. At some point, I need to come clean with Easton, if only to ease his worries about what I will do with his confessions. He’s taken special care of me in my time here, and because of that, it’s my biggest hurdle. My fear is, once I confess, he’ll tuck and run. If I’m holding off the truth, it’s one hundred percent because I want his company and am now starting to crave his warmth.

Humming along with “Honest” by Kyndal Inskeep—a fitting song for my mood and one of my favorites on my rapidly accumulating playlist—I lightly mist my thickest sweater with my favorite Black Orchid perfume. Upon exiting the bathroom, my eyes catch on Easton’s jacket, which is draped over the side of my bed. Selfishly, I decide not to pull it on in an effort to keep it just a bit longer. Unable to help myself, I sniff the collar, his scent enveloping me as my phone buzzes in my hand with an incoming text.

EC: Be there in five.

The butterflies I’m trying to deny wake me up far more effectively than the cold coffee I toss back before setting the cup next to my uneaten breakfast. Grabbing my tiny travel purse, I take in my appearance one last time and discard the tray of food outside my door. In the elevator, I give myself a good sound lashing.

“You will be the professional journalist you were trained to be today, Natalie Butler,” I command as the doors open. Determined to take charge of the situation—despite my consistent deterioration in simple, everyday functioning—I find myself rattling in anticipation for the roar of Easton’s truck motor just before it sounds and he appears.

Sliding onto the seat, I slam the door and turn to greet him with a low “Hi,” before I’m hit by the sight of him. His clean scent circulates through the cabin as I drink him in.

His presentation today—fucking edible. He’s got a solid black hat on, the bill of it turned backward, covering his damp onyx hair, its ends curling naturally around his ears. He’s dressed from head to toe in black—a thermal layered with a V-neck jersey, jeans, and high-top Vans. His lips lift in greeting, a low “Hey,” in reply to mine as he puts the truck into gear, a frown pulling at his features as he weighs my expression. “You okay?”

It’s then I feel the surge of threatening emotion as guilt consumes me.

“I don’t have a favorite song, and I work too fucking much,” I admit, blowing all redeeming expectations I demanded of myself within seconds.

He laughs, full-onlaughsat me, as I avert my gaze and buckle in. I feel his eyes on me as I battle to keep my guilty tears in, my confessions threatening to roll off my tongue.

Easton puts the truck back into park, and grips my chin gently, turning my head, his eyes lingering on the circles beneath.

“Is that what kept you up all night?”

“It’s part of it,” I admit. “I don’t know if I’ll be very good company today.”

“That’s assuming you’re capable of improving it?”

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