Page 5 of Resurrection
"Will do."
"Take care of yourself, Naomi," she says as I push my cart forward.
My mind's filled with the image of him, vivid and uninvited. Messy brown hair with blond highlights. The piercing in his right ear. The occasional dimple. Blue eyes that could both freeze and melt me all at once. That one tattoo on his arm. Of my name.
It’s been seventeen years, and the thought of him still presses against my heart like a bruise that won’t fade. Seventeen years since he left me without a word after promising so much.
I reach the edge of the market and glance back at the bustle behind me. The voices are a murmur now, soft and far away. I toss the bags into the trunk of my white Subaru, then get behind the wheel.
My heartbeat is loud and fast, and no matter how hard I try to block out his damn face, I can’t.
I hope we don’t cross paths while he’s in town.
Because if we do, I will destroy him.
Just like he destroyed me all those years ago.
2TYLER
"I’m outta here!"I call, even though no one’s really listening as I zip through the living room toward the front door. Golden light spills through the open windows, bouncing off every surface and filling my parents’ Palm Springs house with cozy warmth.
The faint scent of sawdust tells me that Dad is in the garage, probably working on another wood masterpiece. Ever since he sold his construction business and retired, creating things with his hands has been his jam.
Mom’s been cooking up a feast all morning. Last night, I arrived pretty late and all I really did with my folks was drink some tea in front of the TV and chat about my latest gig before I turned in for the night. The traffic was insane on the way from LA, and I needed some serious sleep.
"But you just got here." Mom emerges from the kitchen before I reach the door. There’s some flour in her hair, and the apron she’s wearing over her dress has several splashes of red on it.
"I’ll be back in a few hours."
She moves to stand in front of me and holds my face in her hands like she did when I was five. Then she plants a kiss on my cheek.
"Mom, come on," I mutter. "I'm not a baby."
"You'll always be my baby," she says with a wide smile.
I pull away gently, determined to make it to my car without further embarrassment.
"Will you be back for dinner?" she asks.
"Probably."
"Are you seeing Jon?"
I nod. "Yes."
"Tell him I said hi."
Jon Sheppe is the only high school friend I still keep in touch with. He’s in real estate now and was actually the one who helped me buy this place for my parents seven years ago.
"Will do, Mom," I reply, scrambling for the door. "I’m running late. I’ll see you."
"Have fun, baby. Don’t drink too much, and don’t get in any trouble that’ll land you in the tabloids."
Yes, that’s Colette Brady for you. At first, my mother didn’t understand my need to create music. Like all good mothers, she pushed for college. But eventually, she came to terms with my calling. I know that these days, she secretly enjoys the fact her son is famous and makes decent money. I mean, what parents wouldn’t? Especially when I got her this six-bedroom house in the very affluent part of Palm Springs.
Outside, I jump into my Audi and peel out of the driveway. The engine hums and the open desert flashes by in fragments of the past as I cruise through the neighborhood and toward the freeway.
I’m not sure why I didn’t ask Jon to meet somewhere else besides the Sageview Casino. Maybe I’m a coward. Maybe it was easier to go with the flow than to explain that I’m avoiding Naomi Medina, who coincidentally owns a business inside that very same casino.
