Page 69 of Resurrection
He nods toward the stack. "Need help with those?"
"Yes. That would be great. Thanks. The office is this way." I lead him down the hallway that’s much quieter now than it was earlier. I can't help but feel a weird sense of nostalgia, like we're playing a song I almost forgot I knew.
He carries two of the boxes easily, and I’m next to him with a couple of smaller ones.
"Just so you know," I say when we stop in front of the door, "I won’t be upset if you don’t show up after today."
"You tend to think the worst of me."
"Can you blame me, Ty?" I shoot back, pushing the door to the office open with my shoulder. We're both slightly out of breath as we tumble inside, and I'm also slightly out of sorts. The entire day feels like it's been building to something, and I don't know what.
Inside is dark, and I search the wall for a light switch with my free hand.
Tyler nudges the door closed with his foot because there’s already not enough space for two people to be here without bumping into each other. The room suddenly shrinks around us. Countless shelves sag under the weight of documents and props, and a wobbly desk takes up most of the floor.
"It’s like they haven’t cleaned this room since we were in high school." Tyler chuckles. "They just kept on piling up stuff."
"Well, the storage room is packed, so we're using whatever space available," I say, trying to my hardest to distance myself from him. "I don't recollect you ever being here."
"Of course, I've been here. Remember that show The Rejects played in the parking lot on Memorial Day during our senior year?"
"You sure it was this community center and not Palm Springs?" I ask, pretending I don’t remember, but the truth is, I remember it all. Every little thing about ambitious eighteen-year-old Tyler Brady.
"You’re too cool now for your ex-boyfriend." He chuckles, setting the boxes on the desk.
It seems so casual and insignificant—this comment—as if he didn't shatter my dreams years ago. Like it’s not a big deal that we dated for two years. And maybe it’s not for him since he was able to leave me behind to pursue his career. I bet everything on him. And I lost.
"It’s been a long time, Ty," I reply flatly. "You don’t really expect me to remember something that clearly didn’t matter to you."
"I do and it did," he says in that raspy voice of his that he uses to sing. His eyes lock on mine, and I'm not sure how long we can pretend this is small talk and not the avalanche it's about to become. "Stop underestimating me, Shrimp," he whispers with a small smile. His tone is light, but the air between us feels dense, like the tension has its own gravity.
"You don’t have the right to call me that," I snap, suddenly unsure of what to do with my hands. If I’m in the kitchen it’s easy. I wipe and chop. Here, there’s nothing except for paper stacks and dusty props.
"I know. You’ve always hated that nickname."
"Yeah, well…" I look away and glare at the shelf overflowing with plastic containers and more boxes.
Ty does what I hoped he wouldn’t do in this tiny room. He takes a step forward, and the space between us shrinks to nearly nothing. "You don’t really mean half the things you’re saying," he rasps out.
"Do you?" I try to sound breezy as I arrange some music sheets on the desk into a neat pile. The paper's thin, crinkly, nothing like the emotional mess we’ve created.
"I do. You asked me why I’m back in Sageview Ridge. I’m back because I haven’t been able to forgive myself for leaving you the way I did. I miss you. I want us to fix this. Whatever it is between us. I’ve been running away from you—from what we had—for seventeen years. I’ve gone to so many places on this earth and you still haunt me, Naomi Medina."
His blue eyes catch the flickering light, and I realize my hands have stopped moving. I force them to start again, more for show than anything else.
"I don’t know if I can trust you again, Ty," I choke out, overwhelmed by his confession.
"I’m not asking you to just do it blindly. I’m here, I’m prepared to stay, prepared to prove to you that history won’t repeat itself. Don’t you find it strange that all this time later, both of us are still unmarried and without kids. Maybe we’re not meant to be with anyone else."
"That’s bullshit and you know it."
"What if it’s not?"
"You wouldn’t have left, then."
"I fucked up."
"Well, some fuckups aren’t fixable."
