Page 20 of Resurrection
Tyler’s tapping his fingers on the counter, staring at his drink like he’s not sure if it’ll bite him. There’s a plate next to him. My signature appetizer trio. Roasted artichoke, heart of palm, and edamame hummus bites. He’s eaten almost all of it. It’s weird how I pay attention to whether people finish my food. Because if they don’t, I must not be very good at this. And that’s the worst. All the years you spend perfecting your skills don’t count if no one wants to eat your dish.
But he did, and somehow, that makes me happy, even though I’m mad.
I go up to him with a million sharp words on the tip of my tongue.
"Wow," I say. "I thought you’d be in LA by now."
He looks up, his blue eyes catching mine. The memory flashes like lightning. Kissing him in the park. Telling him I’d follow him anywhere.
I shut it down. I’m older now. Wiser.
"Hi," he says, straightening up on his stool. He hesitates, runs a hand through his messy hair. The hair I used to love touching. The hair I haven’t thought about in yea—no, days.
"Food is great," he supplies. "I’d like to thank the chef, but I hear she’s got a grudge."
"She doesn’t." I eye his tattoos sticking out from under the rolled-up sleeves of his black crewneck T-shirt.
I wonder if he still has the one he secretly got in high school on the inside of his arm. I looked for it at first in all of his interviews, when he started to appear on TV and in magazines. But it was in a spot that was hidden from the view. And when he ended up in The Deviant, he was always wrapped in all back on stage, his entire body and face covered up. I started losing track of how he looked. I started forgetting the little details. And now, he’s different. Hair, body, eyes, face.
"I wanted to see your place," Tyler’s voice interrupts my thoughts. It's low and careful, like he’s testing the waters. "I didn’t know if?—"
"If you’d be welcome?" I finish for him. "I’ve got news for you. You’re not."
He shifts in his seat, and the fabric of his T-shirt pulls against his chest. I try to ignore the sudden tug in my heart, the one that remembers every curve of his body.
"Are you going to exercise that ‘We have the right to refuse service to anyone’ rule with me?"
"I’m not that petty. You can eat and drink here all you want. I only kick out people who make a scene."
"Got it." He nods like he’s memorizing some complex information. "Avoid causing disturbance."
I find myself smiling but immediately shut it down.
"It’s been a long time, Ty," I say. "A long, long time. You do whatever you want as long as you leave me be."
"I’m just trying to make things right," he says, tapping his fingers on his glass, a slow, cautious rhythm.
"Yeah, well, usually actions speak louder than words."
I think of my father, the way he used to say a person’s worth is in what they do, not what they say. And here’s Ty, saying all the right words. Saying them like he means them. But what do words mean when you’ve got nothing to show for them?
There’s a long silence, and the noise of the restaurant fills it. A kid drops a glass. Gasps and apologies bounce off the walls as the tattooed man I don’t know anymore sits across from me. He knows it’s time to go. He can see it in my eyes.
"It was really good." He stands and shoves his hand in his pocket to retrieve a credit card. "Great seeing you, Naomi. Even if you don’t believe it."
I believe it, all right. Just not the way he thinks I should.
He leaves in the same manner he came, unannounced and unresolved. I watch his figure until it disappears into the neon lights of the casino, and the space lingers with old, familiar pain that stretches across the bar and into the restaurant, touching everything.
I go behind the counter and pretend to check receipts, even though I know Sonia will have them squared away. My hands move quickly, efficiently, as if I’m trying to prove that I can survive Tyler Brady. His sad blue eyes. His toned tattooed arms. His messy rockstar hair. Those damn long legs. I hate it. Hate that he’s again occupying every corner of my mind.
Sonia ducks out of the kitchen, balancing another tray of food for Morgan, our new waitress. The girl's still a little slow and needs help, but she’s good with the patrons, and I intend on keeping her.
Sonia’s eyes are bright and curious, like she wants to ask but isn’t sure she should. I try not to look at her as I pass her on my way to the kitchen. I put some distance between myself and my best friend, hoping she’ll get the message and give me time to process. But it’s Sonia. If she gave people space, she wouldn’t be Sonia.
I double back to the counter and shuffle some orders around, making sure we’ve got everything set for tomorrow. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Sonia’s at my side now, her hands on her hips. Her red shirt is the liveliest thing in the room. The restaurant is packed, and the kitchen is busy, but she’s ignoring the staff and staring right at me. "Was that the guy you dated in high school?" she asks, her tone casual yet probing, but she's not loud enough for everyone to hear.
