Page 66 of Resurrection
I can’t concentrate on the music.
Setting the guitar aside, I shift my attention to my phone, my fingers hovering over the Reply button as I imagine how easy it would be. Just one click and bam! Decision made.
So why can’t I?
I stare at the wall for a good five minutes. One tiny little thumb press. That’s it. I dig my fingers into my hair instead and rub it like I can get the indecision out.
The email sits there, taunting me the same way the slots at the Sageview Ridge Casino taunt desperate people. The details are neatly laid out—new audiences, new opportunities, exposure, money. Every reason I moved to LA in the first place. The stuff kids dream of, and I’m one second away from blowing it.
I can't even bring myself to care. Not the way I should. All I can think about is Naomi and that parking lot kiss.
I still feel her lips. Still feel the softness of them on mine, even though it’s been days. Her face swims in my head. Her big brown eyes and dark hair. The same turquoise earrings she wore in high school. The way she used to look at me when we were sixteen, like I was more than just the new kid with a second-hand Fender. Like she actually believed I could make it.
I run my hands over my face as if I can wash off the doubt. Then I get up and grab my keys, making the first decision that actually feels right. It clangs like a chord I’ve never played before, sharp and strange, and maybe kind of beautiful.
I need to see her.
I’ll figure out the rest later.
Tonight, Oasis smells like garlic and pepper, and it’s busy and loud with voices. At the entrance, a line of people waits for tables, and the hum of conversation rattles off the dark wood beams overhead.
"There’s a bit of wait time unless you want to take a seat at the bar," the host says as I approach the stand.
"Bar is fine," I reply.
It’s dinnertime, and the restaurant is all old-world charm with the lights dimmed and candles flickering. Naomi's back there, behind the glass wall, working the kitchen in her chef’s whites. She moves between the counters with ease, shouting orders.
Her eyes land on me through the window as I settle on a bar stool, and her surprise hangs there for a few moments before she resumes moving.
Not wanting to be a dick in the middle of the dinner rush, I order a beer and ask for a menu.
I’ll wait.
I’ve waited seventeen years.
What’s another hour, right?
She’s like a general in there, checking on her team, calling out instructions, and I can't seem to look away.
The bartender slides me my drink. I watch the glass sweat but don't drink much, not wanting to be too drunk when things quiet down and Naomi has time to talk.
The place is packed. Families, couples, a few dudes in suits way too sharp for this valley.
I’m trying not to look like I’m keeping an eye on her, but I lose myself in the routine of her work, in the occasional glance she throws my way. It's the same look she used to get back when we were teenagers, when she was helping her parents at the food truck. Here, she's at home, confident, like she was always meant to do this, and it hits me right in the gut just like it always has—leaving her then was the best thing I could have done for her. She followed her dream instead of following mine.
My drink is almost gone by the time she finally wipes her hands on her apron and heads in my direction. The set of her shoulders tells me she’s ready for battle.
The dining room has emptied out, and there are only a few patrons left, working on their desserts, and a very drunk old guy on the other side of the bar.
"Tyler," she greets me from across the bar counter. "What brings you to my restaurant?"
"Naomi." I lift my glass as if in a mock salute. "Am I not allowed to have dinner here?"
"Only if you behave."
"I have been so far."
She looks me right in the eye, and I can feel that gaze deep in my gut. "You better, because—let me remind you—we do have the right to refuse service to anyone. Besides, you're on tribal land."
