Page 71 of Resurrection
Get your shit together, Naomi.
My hand leaves a print on the dusty railing, and each step I take up the narrow stairs raises more questions than I have answers for. I make my way into the attic, kicking up clouds of memories I’ve tried to bury.
I stop in front of the boxes lining the far wall. They’re labeled in black marker that's faded but not quite enough. I find the one I'm looking for, years of my life packed in cardboard and too much tape. A loose photo on the floor catches my eye—Tyler and me on a rollercoaster in Riverside, the wind in our hair and our faces flushed with youth.
I close my eyes and rip the lid open.
The attic feels like a shrine to everything I've been trying to outrun—old posters curling at the edges, relics of bands Ty and I used to worship. I could have left it all at my parents’ place, but for some reason, I brought all this crap with me.
Be honest, Naomi. You never really forgot about Tyler Brady. That’s why you kept all the things that remind you of him.
Across the side of the box,High Schoolis scrawled as if I could sum up all that history in two words.
I dig past old T-shirts with faded logos, postcards we never sent, and wristbands from shows that changed Tyler’s life. The deeper I go, the more the memories pile up, one on top of the other.
I pull out a mix tape, the ink on the label smudged but legible.Ty & Naomi’s Road Trip Mix.
My breath catches as I remember singing along in his old Honda while we cruised through our neighborhood, convinced we were headed somewhere big. Somewhere together.
I reach further into the box, my fingers brushing against something soft. The small velvet box sits at the bottom, heavier than it has any right to be.
I hesitate, my heart thumping like it might break through my ribs. I don't want to open it, and yet I do. I can't resist. Inside is the promise ring Tyler gave me when we were eighteen and stupid enough to believe we could have forever. The silver band shines, the tiny stone catching the light like it's winking at me.
Before I know what I'm doing, I slip it onto my finger. A perfect fit, as if time and distance and heartbreak never happened. For a moment, everything is as it was. It's me and him and a whole future stretching out ahead. But the moment fades, the way they always do, leaving me with the sharp edge of what I've lost.
I rip the ring off as if it's burned me, clutching it in my palm while the attic seems to close in around me. It's too much, too fast. The way he looked at me today like nothing's changed.
But I'm not that naïve girl anymore. I've got plans of my own this time. A way to even the score.
I think back to the kiss, the heat of it, and how easy it would be to fall right back in. I think about my tipsy bathtub escapade. I’m ashamed to admit, butTy still turns me on. Then I remember my resolve, the determination that's been fueling me since I returned to this town.
Make him love me, then break his heart like he broke mine.
My grip tightens around the ring before I loosen my hold, gently setting it back in the box. I almost close it, but then something shifts.
Instead of putting the ring away, I slip it into my pocket.
20TYLER
Today, my parents’house smells like beer and Mom's cooking. She’s been fussing with dinner all afternoon while Dad and I hang out in the living room. The TV blares with the usual crack of the bat and his running commentary. He always gives his own enthusiastic play-by-play.
Dalton Brady—yeah, that guy practically pumps baseball through his veins once the season kicks off.
I guess he’s who I inherited my obsessive streak from. For him, it’s sports; for me, it’s music.Potato, potahto.
Dad takes a swig of beer and says with a grin, "Damn good game. Freeman’s looking good."
I nod, but my mind's not in it. It’s still in that tiny office where Naomi and I made out a few days ago.
I can't stop thinking about her, the heat of our kiss, and the taste that’s still on my lips.
"So you're gonna stay awhile this time, huh?" Dad asks, not looking away from the screen.
Mom doesn’t wait for me to answer. Her voice carries in from the kitchen, full of hints and half questions. "Maybe it has to do with a certain someone?"
I laugh it off, but she’s right. Even after seventeen years, I’m still drawn to Naomi Medina like a moth to a flame.
Dad balances his beer on his knee. "Last time you were home this long, Bush Jr. was in office."
