Page 73 of Resurrection
"Yes."
"Ummm…" There’s a brief pause. "Hold on. Let me see if she’s available. Can I ask who’s calling?"
"I have questions about my catering order," I blurt out. I don’t even know why. Because if I tell this guy I’m Tyler, she’ll just have him say she’s busy, and I’ll have to wait until next week to see her at the community center. And I don’t think I possess the composure to face her in front of all those raging teens without talking it out first.
"I can help you with your catering order," the guy on the phone offers.
"I’d like to speak to the chef, please," I insist.
"Sure. Give me a sec."
I’m on hold for a while. There’s rock music playing in the background, a popular ballad from the 80s. We both liked that band as teens. If that’s not a sign that she hasn’t gotten over me, then I don’t know what is.
I lean against the porch railing, try to steady my breath, and wait. Finally, there’s another click and her voices answers, "This is Naomi." A muffled clatter of dishes and the hum of the restaurant in the background bleeds through the line.
I dive right in. "Hey, it’s Ty."
"Seriously? I have no time for this. We’re short-staffed and slammed. I gotta go."
"Look, hold on. Don’t hang up."
"You have three seconds."
Three seconds to make my point. Fuck it. "I can't stop thinking about what happened," I fire off. "Have dinner with me tomorrow?"
She hesitates just for a second, but I catch it. "Is this a joke?"
"No, it’s not. I think before we see each other next week at the community center, we need to talk about that kiss."
"I really am busy, Tyler." I hear her sigh. "I’ll think about it. I’ll let you know."
She hangs up then, without waiting for my response.
Frustration and hope are tying my gut in knots. I stare at my phone, wondering if trying to win her over is pointless.
Don’t give her up, motherfucker.
You gave her up once.
You can’t do it again.
Main Street feels the same, dust settling into familiar grooves, just like seventeen years ago. A collection of prickly desert plants adorning the storefronts that refuse to grow up. The slightly cracked mosaic pavement. The towering backdrop of the San Jacinto Mountains.
Not much has changed in this sleepy town since I left. Like it’s frozen in time.
I walk past the restaurants and the cafes with memories pushing against the bright sun.
The barber shop's still there, its spinning pole rustier than I remember. A couple of older guys standing on the corner watch me, like they’re wondering if I'm lost.
I duck into a jewelry store, thinking maybe I'll find something for her. My mind races with everything that needs to be said, everything I've held in since yesterday's phone conversation. She didn't say no.
Although she didn't say yes either.
It's hot inside, and I move past the glass displays and stare at the offerings, but nothing stands out. I step back onto Main, avoiding eye contact with anyone who might still remember—or recognize—me. I’m wearing shades and a baseball cap, hoping it’s enough to disguise me.
That’s when I see it—the flyer for the high school reunion, tacked to a bulletin board. I’m staring at it as if it holds the answers to all my questions.
Out of nowhere, the sheriff's cruiser swings onto the street with that unmistakable wail of sirens slicing through the air and skids to a halt just inches from me by the curb.
