Page 54 of Resurrection
My heart was in my throat as I waited for Naomi's reaction. The music floated into the night air, carrying my hopes and fears with it. I choked a little on the lyrics at first, messing up the lines, but since she didn’t know the song, it didn’t matter.
At first, I was terrified to look at her, terrified that she’d say it was the lamest thing she’d ever heard. But Naomi was quiet next to me.
As I played, I finally gathered the courage to sneak a few glances at her, watching for any sign of what she thought. Her face was impossible to read at first, but then she started smiling, a slow, wonderful smile that made me forget how to breathe.
When I finished, Naomi’s eyes were shining in the dim light of the streetlamp. "Ty, that's amazing," she said, and I couldn't believe she actually liked it.
"You're just saying that."
"No way," she insisted. "I mean it. You're really good."
If my heart beat any faster, I was sure it would explode. She scooted closer on the bench, and our shoulders touched. "Can you show me a chord?" she asked, holding out her hand.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to work. Naomi's fingers brushed mine as I positioned them on the fretboard, and there was that spark again.
"Like this?" she asked, looking up at me with those impossibly big eyes.
"Yeah," I said, my voice sounding a million miles away. "Just like that."
We stayed this way for a while, our hands on the guitar and the night all around us, pretending everything was perfectly normal when it was the opposite. Her closeness made my head spin, and I wondered if she felt it too, the electricity that seemed to buzz and hum with every breath.
15TYLER
I’moutside Sageview Ridge community center, leaning against my Audi, acting like I’m too old to be nervous.
In reality, I'm most nervous I've ever been.
I should be back in LA by now, working on some new project. Instead, I’m stuck in my hometown, chasing Naomi Medina.
And writing new music.
My music.
Yes. I’ve been messing around on my acoustic for a couple of weeks now. I scrap a lot but not all, which seems like some sort of a glitch. It’s been ages since I’ve created something that belonged only to me.
Back in the days of The Deviant, I had very little input into the band’s music. Mostly, my freedom revolved around riffs and solos. Lyrics were out of reach since Justice was the principal songwriter.
But here and now, I don’t have any guidelines or instructions. I can do whatever I want.
And this feeling of not being tied down by someone else’s expectations is rousing.
The sun dips behind the hills, painting the sky with shades of everything that used to be, and I tap my fingers on the hood, counting the seconds until I lose my nerve.
It’s been too long and too raw—waiting for her like this—and both my phone and my gut says I should go. Coachella has attracted too many influencers and gossip chasers, and being on their radar is not something I want or need.
When the kids finally pour out of the community center, I duck behind the car, hiding the jittery mess inside me.
I don’t want to be seen today. If they spot me, I’ll be bombarded by millions of questions, and my resolve to do what I came here to talk about will be gone again.
Luckily, the teens scatter to their parents’ respective vehicles and don’t see me crouching behind my Audi.
What the hell are you doing, Ty?
Hiding from high school kids?
That’s right. Stooping any lower would be impossible.
And then I hear a voice call me—her voice. "Tyler?"
