Page 95 of Resurrection
"Hey, Nomes," he slurs. His lips try for a smile again but settle for a lopsided frown. "You’re here too."
"Not by choice." I cross my arms, trying to look stern, but worry creeps in like a stray cat. "How much did you have to drink?"
"Enough," he replies cheekily, as if that's an actual measurement. He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in defiance. "More than enough."
I can already see this is going to be one of those nights. I can see that I should remove myself from the situation.
I don’t.
I just study my surroundings for a second. The neon lights from the casino dance off parking lot signs and the pavement, painting the scene in oranges and pinks that look almost romantic if you don't know any better. I release a heavy sigh, the kind that comes from the depths of a history too complicated to unpack.
"You have someone to take you home?" I ask, looking around like the desert around us will magically spit the answer.
"I haven’t thought that far ahead yet," he mumbles, waving his hand at me. "Come, sit with me for a bit."
"I’ve had a really long day at the restaurant. I don’t have the time or the desire to deal with your bullshit."
"Hmmm." He looks at me for a heartbeat, then says, "Is that why you haven’t called or texted? Lack of desire." He chuckles. "You seemed to have plenty of that last night."
This little shit. I draw a deep breath but choose not to attack him. What good will it do anyway? "You can't drive like this."
"You never know, Nomes." He wiggles his fingers in front of his face. "Curious what they call these? Magic hands. Hands ready to step in anytime your number one is out of commission."
"What are you talking about? Get up."
He attempts to focus on me, but his gaze slides off to the side like a car on ice. "You don't think I can walk without you?" There's something so pitiful yet endearing about his admission that it breaks my resolve a little more.
I look around, half expecting to find a hidden camera or a crew from one of those reality shows. But it's just me, Ty, and the silent cars that will all have hangovers tomorrow from the booze and perfume of their owners.
"Alright," I say, more to myself than to him. "Let's get you to your folks' place."
This sends him into a mumbling spiral. "Just a substitute, you know. Just…filling in."
I crouch next to him. "Ty, you’re wasted. Stop overthinking it and get up."
"Always second best," he mutters. "Never the real deal."
His head drops forward, and for a moment, I think he's fallen asleep mid-brood. I take a deep breath, more for courage than patience, and slide an arm under his. "Come on. Up you go."
He stumbles to his feet with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, and I can't help but chuckle. Some part of me hates that I'm doing this, but a bigger part—the part that remembers—won't let him fall. Even if he left me.
Ty is heavier than I remember, but together, we manage to make it to my Subaru. He's mumbling the whole way about being just a stand-in, as if the words themselves have been spiked and are rendering him drunker. And since he’s not making any sense, I choose to ignore it.
"Ty, stop," I say gently as I maneuver his body. "You're going to make yourself sick."
"Too late," he replies, his eyes closing as he slumps into the passenger seat.
I shake my head, not sure if it's due to affection or annoyance, as I buckle him in. Maybe a little of both. The door shuts with a solid thunk, sealing in the booze and misery. I rest my forehead against the window for a second, the glass cool and comforting, before getting in.
Tyler's asleep or at least pretending to be, and his breath fogs the passenger window.
I turn down the radio, the song too close to a memory. He's silent, but it's a loud kind of silence that fills the car like smoke. He's like that. Filling up all the spaces. In my Subaru and in my mind.
I’m wavering again. Rethinking Sonia’s revenge advice.
"Sorry for the trouble," he finally mutters, his voice a rasp in the dark. But he doesn't sound sorry. Just lost.
The tires hum against the road, and every now and then, he lets out a sigh that feels too heavy for someone who’s passed out. I glance at his slumped form. Even in his rumpled state, with his messy hair and stubbled chin, there's something about him that makes my heart remember how to hurt.
