Page 50 of Resurrection
I feel like this tree. Trying to cover us up but never really succeeding.
"You don’t get to just come back and say things like that," I blurt out, my back still to him. "You don’t get to mess with my head again."
He moves closer, close enough that I can feel his presence like a heat I haven’t felt in a long time. "I know I hurt you. But I never stopped caring."
I squeeze my eyes shut, wanting to block out everything he’s saying. "I don’t know what to do about any of this now," I whisper, and when I turn to him again, his eyes are so intense with despair, I almost have to look away.
We stand there, apart but pulled together by all the things that have never been resolved.
"For what it’s worth," he husks out, "you’ve always been there, Naomi.Always in the corner of my mind. And I tried. I really did. I tried to erase you, to let you go. But you won’t go. Why?”
"I don’t know, Ty," I say, my voice unsure, my heart even more so. "But I’m not the one with an answer to that question."
"So, what do I do with all of this, then?"
"Beats me. You left once. I’m sure you can do it again."
14TYLER [THE PAST]
Sophomore English smelledlike erasers and bad perfume.
I thought the whole day was going to be like this—putrid and endless. Then Naomi walked in and changed the air. Her hair was in a messy bun, little strands escaping like they were too free to be tied up. She wore beaded turquoise earrings, a tie dye tee, and a pair of light blue jeans. She sat two rows ahead, just close enough for me to smell her shampoo. I wished I were a desk.
I had no idea why I had those weird thoughts at fifteen.
Up until this summer, all I cared about was my guitar and my songwriting. And then one hot July afternoon, I realized Naomi Medina was pretty.
It just happened.
No particular reason.
It'd been a year since my family had moved in next to the Medinas, and I was finding any excuse I could to be near her. The fact that our parents became friendly only helped.
During my freshman year, I met Skinny J. We hit it off and started to jam. His pops had soundproofed their garage, and we had an actual space to practice. Then we recruited Lee and Nestor. And that was how The Rejects came to be.
Of course, we did mostly covers. No one except me tried to write any original songs, and I wasn’t that good either. We mostly played our favorite bands—Bon Jovi, AC/DC, Nirvana, Guns N’ Roses.
We’d opened for some local acts in Palm Springs and Sageview Ridge. Once, we even did a set inside the casino. With our parents present.
The only other interesting thing that happened that semester was theaddition of an exchange student from Brazil to our class. His name was Davi, and he breathed rock music. Sometimes, he’d tag along to our shows and help out with the gear.
It felt like I was on the right path, like things were happening exactly the way they were supposed to.
A few weeks before my sophomore year, I brought up the idea of converting our garage into my own space to my parents.
"What’s wrong with your room?" Dad asked.
"Nothing, but Mom always complains about the noise when I practice."
"Well, practice during normal hours."
"You don’t get it, Dad, do you? You can’t just tell an artist to practice at a specific time. What if I have a song idea in the middle of the night? I gotta get up and try it out before I forget."
"So you think you’re an artist?" Dad chuckled, shaking his head.
I tossed my hands in the air, frustrated. "It could be drugs instead, Dad."
He just laughed, then added, "Okay. Let me think about it."
