Page 59 of Resurrection
The drive home is a blur, the road disappearing into a fog of worry and frustration as the thoughts of my brother and Ty seem to occupy every inch of my mind, refusing to be pushed aside, no matter how I try. As I pull up to my driveway, the porch light turns on.
I sit behind the wheel with the engine idling for a few minutes, not wanting to go inside. Finally, I trudge my way up the front steps and unlock the door.
The house smells like cumin, clean sheets, and failed expectations. I shut the door with my hip and remove my shoes, then immediately walk to the wine rack and pour myself a glass of pinot grigio. The way it drops into my stomach is straight-up medicinal. I take a few more sips and eye the clock. It’s almost midnight. I’m supposed to be getting ready for bed. Instead, I’m thinking about Tyler fucking Brady.
Correction: I’m always thinking about Tyler. The way his hands move, the way he talks, the sound of his voice. Even now, I can’t look at a guitar without picturing those long, clever fingers gliding over the fretboard.
I shuffle to the bathroom and run the water hot enough to raise a sweat. Ilook at myself in the mirror, not because I’m vain, but because I like to keep track of how I’m aging. Seventeen years ago, I was all waist-length hair and baby cheeks; now, I see my mom in my cheekbones and my dad in the set of my jaw.
I strip, dump my clothes in the hamper, and slide into the bath, balancing the wine glass on the edge of the tub. Then I drop my head back and close my eyes.
I try to think about the restaurant, the way the line cooks look at me when I’m in a mood, the dessert special that won’t set. I try not to think about the interview with the food blogger next week that Koda arranged for me, or my brother and his drinking, or my dad’s memorial that needs to be organized.
No matter how much I try to stop thinking about Ty, I just can't. Because Ty, like my own pulse, is impossible to ignore.
My mind drifts to a few years back when The Deviant was still touring. That tour made headlines. For all my pride, even I couldn’t resist. I found him on YouTube, playing his guitar in front of what had to be thirty thousand people. His hair was longer then, all California sun-streaked, but still that same brown with caramel highlights.
The way he moved on stage, the casual tilt of his head, the occasional lazy smile when the crowd screamed—he was a rockstar, and he knew it. His stage costume and makeup only made him seem more dangerous, more irresistible. I watched that video a hundred times, and each time, I pretended I was immune.
Bullshit. There’s nothing immune about me when it comes to Tyler Brady.
The wine is starting to give me a pleasant buzz, and I sink a little deeper. The bathwater sloshes over my shoulders. My hands are on my stomach, drifting in lazy circles. I don’t even remember making the decision to touch myself. It’s as automatic as breathing. My fingers trail lower, slow at first, just skimming the skin, almost like I’m not the one doing it.
I think about how Ty used to touch me—like he was mapping out a guitar solo, teasing a note before letting it ring.
I picture him in that video—dressed in all black, every muscle tight under the fabric, sweat shining on his skin, blue eyes lit up by the stage lights. I imagine the music, heavy and hot, the way he looked straight into the camera when it panned over to him as if he could see through the screen and into my living room.
I close my eyes and pretend he’s here, leaning against the bathroom door with his arms crossed, and grinning that cocky lopsided grin.
"You stalking me again, Medina?" he says in my head, his voice low and a little smug.
"Just doing some market research," I answer, and I’m smiling even as my cheeks burn.
In this fantasy, he’s taller than I remember, all sharp angles and inked skin, and when he crosses the room, he makes no sound.
In the tub, my hand slips between my legs, my thighs pressing together. The wine has gone straight to my head, and I let myself float, the sensation turning liquid and warm. I picture Ty kneeling next to the bath, those blue eyes locked on mine. He’s teasing, always teasing, running his tongue over his bottom lip, waiting for me to ask.
"Thought you were too good for me," he says, his voice a little rough.
"I was. I am," I say, but the lie crumbles as soon as his hand is on my chin, tilting my face up. He kisses me like he’s angry, like there are years of unfinished business between us. In the real world, my back arches, my hips lift, and I chase the feeling as if it’s the only thing left to do tonight.
The memory drifts to the week before he left for LA, when we kissed in his old Honda behind the 7-Eleven. I remember the taste of gum and desperation. That was the first time he went down on me, clumsy but determined, making me laugh even as he tried to make me come.
In the bath, I muffle a moan, rolling my hips into my own hand. It’s quick, almost clinical, but I draw it out anyway, wanting to savor the ache. I picture Ty watching me, his gaze heavy, his hands everywhere.
In my mind, he’s a little older, a little sadder, but still beautiful. Still mine, at least here, at least tonight.
The orgasm rolls through me, shuddery and sharp, and I bite down on my lip to keep from calling out his name. I float for a minute, brain empty, wine glass sweating on the rim of the tub. I could stay here all night, but I know I’ll have to get up, dry off, and face the music eventually.
I open my eyes and look at the ceiling, thinking about how nothing ever turns out the way you plan, but sometimes the detour is the best part.
I reach for my phone, thumb hovering over Ty’s contact. I think about texting him—just a hey, or maybe something riskier. I put the phone down.
Tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow.
17NAOMI [THE PAST]
My brother’svoice rang down the hallway. "Your sidekick is here again, Shrimp!" There was so much irritation in that one phrase that you could feel it even through the door of my room.
