Evan helps. He holds a flat hand away from his body, then brings it into his torso.
“See that, Courtesans? Tell these awesome-sauce kids how happy we’re are to have them!” Rex shouts to the crowd.
The arena’s bursting with excitement and I feel like the only one standing still as stone, bodies writhing around me. When everyone in the crowd made the ASL sign for “Welcome,” I continue to watch Easton and my son. Jamie signs something I can’t altogether see, and Easton shakes his head, patting Jamie on the shoulder before scooting him off his lap.
My brows pull together at the exchange. Did Easton understand what Jamie said?
But … Easton was so confused at Jamie’s hospital bed. He likened us to wizards when he saw us communicating.
Wyn plays a few notes on his guitar. Mason joins in with his keyboard. The crowd roars.
“All right, let’s get started!” Rex screams. “Get ready for the show, little dudes!”
Jamie and the boys climb off stage as the notes of Nocturne Court’s latest, greatest single cuts through the stadium. When Jamie hits my side, I pull him close, squeezing his shoulders. I’ve never seen him so happy and immersed, surrounded by people. His attention is glued to the stage in the same honorific way he approaches his online games.
The first song, Hurt Me, Jerk Me plays, and I side-eye Jamie a few times, hoping he doesn’t grasp the full meaning of the song, but it’s catchy, despite the pseudo-lewd lyrics, and—if I’m going to be honest—it’s nothing like the insults I read when he’s on his tablet and he and his friends message each other during their gaming sessions.
My tiny, underweight baby is growing up into a healthy, hormonal teenager. The unadulterated joy in his expression builds a dam against my anxiety over Astor, or anyone else, knowing about my private life. Over his father trying to ram his way back in.
How can I be mad when Jamie’s getting the night of his life?
My purse sits tight at my hip, but I fall into Nocturne Court’s music the same way Jamie has, swaying with the audience, helping Jamie hold up his phone for pictures. When Heartfall plays, I kiss the top of his head, feeling as close to him as when he was a newborn, protective of this soft, fragrant head.
I move my lips against Jamie’s hair. I won’t let him have you again. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll keep you safe.
A clash of sound raises my head.
One of Easton’s symbols has fallen off its stand and the bass guitarist jumps out of the way.
Easton’s arms still fly with beats, but at the chorus, the notes are off. A few seconds behind. Then … more than a few seconds.
I focus on Easton’s face, seen in spaces through the metal, brass and canvas of his instrument. Forehead coated in sweat, Easton’s expression is creased, pained.
Panicked.
He’s panicked.
Easton sees me.
Through the crowd, the screams, the thrashing of sound that’s no longer his music, he meets my eyes.
Easton? I mouth, my arm tightening around Jamie.
Hair falls into Easton’s face. His arms shake and tremble, but still they pound against his drums.
“He needs help!” I shout, trying to catch someone’s attention on stage. “Stop! He needs help!”
Jamie looks up at me, confused and scared. My stiffness has alerted him.
No one up there’s looking my way—they’re all trying to get back into the song. Rex seems annoyed but determined.
I try for one of the bodyguards below the stage, standing near me. I shake one’s arm. “The drummer! Easton! Something’s wrong!”
“Wha?” The bodyguard leans closer.
“I said, Eas—”
But my attention’s jerked back to the stage.
Easton works his jaw, his mouth open and closing, color leeching from his face. The whites of his eyes are so prominent, he resembles more of a wild, caged animal than a member of a rock band.
Rex abruptly stops singing, and the audience boo’s and throws whatever they have on hand onto the stage. Trash, shirts, bras.
Rex turns, hands cupping his mic and asks, “East? What the f—”
A ricochet of ringing, clashing metal against wood against drums is Easton’s last signal for help.
He collapses behind the stage.
20
Taryn
“I’m his lawyer. You’re letting me in.”
The nurse on the other side of the reception desk stares at me like she would a dead plant. “I don’t care who you are. If you’re not family, you’re not getting in.”
“I’m better than family.” I lay both palms on the desk and lean forward. “If Easton Mack injured himself on stage with about nineteen thousand phones pointed at him, he’s primed for a civil lawsuit, and if I don’t talk to him immediately about his injuries, his case could be seriously affected.”
I’m not a personal injury lawyer, but Nurse Hatchett doesn’t know that. Nor do I need to speak to someone immediately after their injury to file a lawsuit, but I doubt she knows that, either.
Stretching the truth is part of my J.D. degree, and I need to understand what’s wrong with Easton. He scared the shit out of me up on that stage, and more importantly, he scared the shit out of my son. After a rapid text session with Harper, Jamie took a ride home with Paulie’s family, Harper waiting for him in our apartment. Jamie, of course, 100% supported my wanting to know what happened to Easton and practically pushed me into an Uber to investigate.
Nocturne Court’s show stopped abruptly after Easton collapsed, and during the flurry of panic, we squeezed through a nearby emergency exit before the full mob erupted.
As a result, we were some of the first out. I didn’t see Astor anywhere, and don’t see her now, in the hospital. I might’ve beaten them, but to what avail, I’m not sure.
Easton may not want to see me. I have no right to be here, legal or otherwise. There was an irresistible pull to try to get to him after he collapsed. I was desperate to see if he was all right. And, it’s the same magnet feeling that brought me to his hospital and begged to get in his room, and if anyone tries to question—if Astor sees me and questions—I’d like to think it’s basic common decency that brought me to this place. It happens when someone you know collapses for unknown reasons and you want to find out why.
At least, that’s what I tell myself to argue.
But I’m worried about him.
The nurse sighs, and I know I’ve got her, until she sees a doctor come around the desk and into the waiting room. Her gaze fortifies as she turns back to me. “Talk to his doctor. If he gives you permission, then you can go right ahead.”
I sigh in return. “I assume that’s the doctor?”
She replies flatly, “Yep.”
I push off the desk and cut off the doctor as he’s heading to the elevator, his attention focused on his clipboard.
“Dr., uh, Benson?” I read his name tag as I stop him.
“Yes?”
“Are you currently treating Easton Mack?”
His expression hardens. “Young lady, I don’t know who you bribed to get up here, but you better go right back down to the parking lot before I call security. Have more tact before you decide to stalk an injured celebrity—”
“I’m his lawyer.”
Not quite, but I was Easton’s lawyer not too long ago.
Dr. Benson’s eyes become tired. “I assume you provided the on-duty nurse with identification?”
I nod. He looks to the nurse at reception, who also acknowledges my truth, then says, “Room 808. ‘Round the corner. He’s alert, but quite confused. I don’t want you in there too long.”
“Thank you.”
That was easy, but not surprising. Doctors generally want nothing to do with lawyers, unless they’re on their side. Which … applies to most people, I guess.
“And Miss?”
I turn back to the doctor.
“I’m going to have Nurse Hatchett ask the patient
if he wants to see you, first.”
I slump into the wall. Not so easy.
When the nurse returns, I mostly expect her to see me off, since Easton’s refused my company. Instead, she surprises me by saying, “Mr. Mack will see you now.”
When I reach his hospital room, I tentatively knock on the open door.
Easton’s attention was on the sheet draping over his body, but at the sound, he looks up.
“We gotta stop meeting like this,” I say with a small smile. “Unless picking up ladies in hospital rooms is your usual come-on.”
Easton offers a weak smile in return. “You didn’t have to check on me.”
“Oh, but I did.” I wander in, stopping on the right side of his bed. “My son thought you were dead.”
Easton lets out a breath. “How bad did I scare him?”
“Pretty badly,” I say quietly, and lay a gentle hand on his bare arm. “But he’s a trooper. Once I get home and tell him you’re fine, he’ll be back to creating more night-ops plans to ride his bike without my knowing, and we’ll be back to normal.”
“I’m sorry.”
I angle my head at him. “Why are you apologizing? You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Easton works his lips back and forth, avoiding my gaze. “I haven’t been completely honest. With you. With anyone.”
I ask carefully, “Are you all right?”
Slowly, achingly, he shakes his head.
“Easton, look at me.”
He blinks but doesn’t glance up.
Fine. I bend forward, placing two soft fingers against his jaw, and turn his head. “We may not be destined to be together, but I’m still a very good listener.”
He exhales into my hand, and I’m shocked to feel his weight as he nestles in. “I’m fucking up a lot of things. Including pushing you away.”
“So tell me why.”
Dr. Benson picks that time to stroll in, and like I’m caught red-handed, I jerk back, clearing my throat.
The doctor gives a wry smile. “Lawyer, huh?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I let Easton take the lead.
“So, what’s the latest, doc?” Easton asks tiredly.
“Are you okay with her being here while I discuss this with you?” Dr. Benson asks.
Easton’s throat bobs while he hesitates, but he’s so drawn, so beaten down. “Nineteen thousand people saw my collapse. She’s one of them. Taryn can hear whatever you have to say.”
I brace myself, wondering if I’m about to hear the worst.
“Well, son, this shouldn’t be news to you.” Dr. Benson lifts a thick, metal clipboard hooked at the foot of Easton’s bed and flicks through the pages. I wonder if he’s actually reading it, or if, like me, he does it as a successful, intimidating prop that forces patients and clients to listen in fearful anticipation. “Your sensorineural hearing loss is progressing. Considering you were first diagnosed at fifteen years old and you’re now twenty-eight, you’ve been quite lucky …”
I don’t catch much after Dr. Benson shoots sensorineural hearing loss out of his mouth like he’s reciting the latest statistics of a football game, the diagnosis going ‘round and ‘round my head, each lap becoming harder, faster, louder.
Easton’s going deaf?
“… And frankly,” the doctor continues. I force myself to listen. “Your history indicates you’ve previously had episodes where your hearing disappeared entirely, though rare. This current episode—you said you couldn’t hear anything for about an hour, correct?”
Easton nods.
“And it came back within the last twenty minutes?” Dr. Benson asks. Easton nods again, head hanging low. “We’ll have to run a few tests tonight and consult with our audiologist in the morning to get a sense of how much hearing you have remaining. You haven’t been going to your appointments.” He flips a page. “The last diagnosis we have is from when you were eighteen and at seventy-five percent hearing.”
My heart hurts for Easton as Dr. Benson continues his unintended onslaught. Each word the doctor utters must feel like a brick cast against Easton’s shoulders.
But I don’t want to stop the information from flowing or ask for Easton to get a break. It’s like a car accident—I have to keep looking as I’m passing by.
“Your CT scan, however, is clear,” Dr. Benson says. “You fainted from dehydration, nothing more. Your collapse has nothing to do with your genetic condition, other than, maybe, assisting in the loss of balance when you lost all hearing suddenly and unexpectedly.”
It’s not my business. It’s not my business. Even as I repeatedly remind myself of that fact, my voice has other ideas. “Doctor, the concert … it was incredibly loud. Could that have contributed …?”
“Yes, I see here that your career is as a drummer in a rather popular band,” Dr. Benson says. “Have you been wearing earplugs while on stage?”
Easton’s stare slides to the wall. “What’s the point?”
“Easton,” I say, laying a hand on his shoulder. I don’t know what else to follow up with. What can I say? You should really wear your earplugs like a good boy. Protect the hearing you’re going to lose, anyway.
“Well, despite concert halls and venues being statistically linked to hearing trauma, I doubt it’s the problem in this case. Could it cause your hearing to fail more rapidly? No, because these are two different things. As I said before, your condition is genetic, not traumatic. And, ultimately, you will lose your hearing, Mr. Mack. At this point, it’s only a matter of time. I suggest you continue looking into a cochlear implant.”
“A—” Eyes wide, I look to Easton. “You’re a candidate for the implant?”
Easton shakes his head. “I don’t want it.”
“What?” I’m fully facing Easton now, facts from my own life and experiences muffling Easton’s reasons. “But … you grew up with hearing. Why wouldn’t you—why wouldn’t you want to keep it?”
“A cochlear implant doesn’t simply amplify sounds, Miss Maddox. It’s not a hearing aid,” the doctor says, and I find myself narrowing my eyes at him. “An implant delivers electrical impulses directly to the auditory nerve by bypassing the damaged part of the ear.”
I’m well aware of how a cochlear implant works.
“Yes,” I say stiffly but remain polite. “But you can hear words. Speech. You can understand the sounds of language coming out of people’s mouths, something deaf individuals without a cochlear implant can’t do.”
“Speech, yes,” the doctor replies, then looks to Easton.
I glance between both of them, the soundless questions in my head shouting the loudest. I finally say, “What am I missing here?”
“Pitch,” Easton mutters, so quietly I almost don’t catch it.
“What?” I ask.
“Pitch,” he repeats. “Timbre. I won’t be able to understand it.”
The implications fall into place with the smack of stones against my forehead. “Oh…”
At last, he lifts his chin.
“I won’t be able to play anymore,” Easton says. “I won’t hear music the same way, ever again.”
“But …” I lick my lips. “If you don’t get the implant, you won’t be able to hear ever again.”
Easton regards me flatly. “Jamie’s doing just fine.”
“Jamie was born deaf,” I say softly.
“I’m going to leave you two to talk this out,” Dr. Benson says. “Any questions, Easton, let the nurses know and I’ll come back during my next rounds.”
Once the doctor leaves, Easton says, “I’d rather stay a musician as long as I can. This is my dream, Taryn. It’s actually being realized. If I do that procedure, if I lose all capability of playing music … I won’t be able to live with myself.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s all I have.” In an instant, his expression turns desperate. “I let you in here because I thought, of all people, you’d understand.”
I screw up my brows. Hurt swells
, but I tamp it down. I shouldn’t have expected he’d want me by his side because he likes me. Cares for me and misses my presence. Yet, it was a thought that refused to escape all the way to the hospital.
“Because I have a deaf son?” I ask, starting off soft. “A boy who had no choice but to come into a silent world, who’s not a candidate for a cochlear implant, and who is forced to fight society’s version of normal every single fucking day?” Unexpected tears well up. “A boy who would rather ride his bike dangerously at night so no one will stare at him? Because of all the mirrors we have to install so his eyesight can make up for his lack of ears?”
Easton reaches for my hand. “Taryn, I didn’t mean—”
I pull away. “I see now why you’ve been so secretive. Why you might’ve walked away when you first met Jamie. Why you nearly fell off a bridge because you couldn’t hear the warning signs behind you.”
I wait for my words to sink in, then continue.
“You’re going through a terrible thing, and I’m so sorry for that. To be robbed of something crucial and have it be completely out of your control, I am sorry for that, Easton. But to answer your question, no. I don’t understand why being a musician is more important to you than the ability to hear.”
Easton doesn’t have a response.
He doesn’t have to say anything, because the flat line of his mouth says it all.
21
Easton
I’ve never been so fucking terrified.
My grip digs into the white sheet of my hospital bed—another fucking hospital bed—when Taryn leaves.
She doesn’t know, not in the way I thought she would. There was no way I could foresee the anger and betrayal in Taryn’s face when I announced there’d be no implant in my skull.
A procedure I’ve researched extensively, since my mom shoved pamphlets in my hands the day I was diagnosed as a kid. Since the evenings my pops sat me down and tried to convince me it was the right way to go.
Unfortunately for them, it was right about the time I discovered acoustic guitar.
Playing You: Players to Lovers, Book 4 Page 13
