Page 22 of Resurrection
7TYLER
I’m wadingthrough the thick soup of noise in the casino, wondering why I’m still in town, stuck at my parents’ place, wearing out my welcome. My mind flashes back to Naomi Medina and our earlier tense encounter. It took me some time to find the courage to go see Oasis in person. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t stalked her business page online all week, preparing myself for the visit.
She’s done well for herself.
She's got her very own restaurant now—the ultimate dream! Something she always talked about in high school.
Occasionally, I catch myself thinking about those post-graduation plans I cooked up for us—this idea that we’d chase our goals together under LA’s golden sunshine. But then again, she would’ve never had those opportunities life gave her if she'd followed me there. She would’ve never had a chance to open up Oasis.
I love the name. And everything from the layout of the place to the music crooning in the background was perfect. A relief from the flashing lights and gambling tables outside. A glass wall separating the kitchen and the dining room lets you spy on all the clean lines and the pristine way the food is put together.
Everything there has Naomi Medina written all over it.
I need to make things right. I don't want her to be mad at me. Perhaps that’s the reason I’m still in town, why I’m so hesitant to leave. Except for an overly pushy manager always wanting me around if anything comes up, I have no upcoming commitments in LA. My only hope is that I'll get picked upfor the third season ofDreamscape Diariesif the show gets renewed. I can write the score from anywhere.
Otherwise, nothing's stopping me from trying to mend things between Naomi and me anyway.
With this conviction, I walk past the slot machines and toward the exit. The casino lights drip all over me like melted crayons. Fluorescent pink, lime green, electric blue. Voices boom and echo like they’re speaking from inside a tin can.
I’m hardly paying attention to it all. I have an idea brewing in my head, and Naomi Medina is at the center of it. My mind seems to loop back to her every single time I try to move on, to the way she arranges food with her hands, the way she moves as quickly and perfectly as the music.
But I sober up real fast.
Adri is here. He doesn’t look like the hotshot sheriff I met a couple of weeks ago. He’s a little rumpled in civilian clothes and his long hair tied in a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck. He’s hunched over a roulette table with a half-empty drink as his only company.
Stay away from my sister, Brady.
My first instinct is to pretend I don’t know him. But if I want a real shot at repairing my relationship with Naomi, shouldn’t I be nicer to her brother? He lost his father too.
I turn and start walking toward the table where Adri’s slumped in his chair like he’s part of the furniture. The ashtray next to him filled with cigarette butts tells me he’s been here a while. The crowd swirls around him, their voices a low drone, chips clicking, waitresses slipping past in their tight clothes. It’s all lit with the artificial shine of desperation, and he’s just another thing that’s washed up in this sad, fluorescent tide.
I want to go up and tell him it’ll be okay, but I don’t think he wants to hear those words from me.
Instead, I stay where I am, a rock dropped into the ocean of casino chaos.
Adri finally notices me.
Recognition crosses his features, and he glares.
I brace for impact.
He looks like he might knock me over, but instead, he just keeps sitting there, his face twisting as if he’s seen something disgusting.
"How are you holding up?" I ask. I expect a train wreck of a response because he looks drunk. And he doesn’t disappoint.
"How do you think I’m doing?" he slurs. "I had to decide when to shut off my father’s life support." The barbed words fly across the small space between us and hit exactly where he intended to hurt me. "Do you have any fucking idea how it feels?"
"No. I don’t. But for what it’s worth, I am sorry your family had to go through this. You know how much I loved your da?—"
"Don’t fucking talk about him," Adri snaps and focuses on his glass for a moment to take a sip.
I’m just left standing there, and it would be awkward to walk away and not to walk away.
"Surprised you’re still in town," he says, taking a long look at my leather boots before staring into my eyes. "You haven’t said a word to me in seventeen years, and now you decide to be all friendly?"
"I’m an asshole. Is that what you want to hear? But so are you, Adri."
"Damn right. We’ve got that in common." He laughs, a sharp, clearly drunk sound. There’s a moment where it’s almost like we’re friends again. Or like he at least doesn’t want to shove me out the nearest window. Then it’s gone, and we’re back to reality, chips clinking and people shouting over each other. The waitress drops off another drink, and he flicks his fingers at her in a way that makes me cringe.
