Chapter 18 Tyler
There’s an answered email sitting in my inbox.
Earlier this morning, my phone buzzed with an unexpected call from my manager, Leif.
An offer from Vortex came in. Their guitarist is taking time off for medical reasons, and Leif got an inquiry about me from their management.
The guys in the band wanted to check to see if I was available first before moving on to other options.
Six months on the road means good money, considering how expensive I’ve become ever since The Deviant tapped me to replace Chance.
But it all suddenly seems like some freaky déjà vu. I have the exact same choice I had seventeen years ago.
Leave or stay.
Music or Naomi.
And I can’t choose wrong this time.
She won’t forgive me if I disappear now while we’re slowly but surely fixing what’s broken between us.
No, I’m not touching this offer with a ten-foot pole, I decide, even though the temptation of being on the road is raw and real.
I've fooled myself into an idea that doing the kind of work I've been doing since the band went on hiatus is better.
But as soon as an opportunity presented itself, I realized I miss the stage.
To distract myself, I grab my acoustic and strum a few chords. But the song I’ve been working on these past few weeks doesn’t sound like it’s supposed to.
The words from my conversation with Leif flash through my mind.
Just checking if you got the email.
Let me know soon.
It’s a hot gig.
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."
I raise both hands in the air in surrender. "I promise I will be a good boy."
She laughs but bites it back almost immediately.
"Busy night," I manage to say. All the words I had in my head, all the stuff I’ve rehearsed all evening are gone. Vanished. I’m nothing under her scrutiny.
"Every night is a busy night," she replies, like I'm stupid for even saying something so obvious.
The noise swells around us, like the restaurant knows this is the most awkward moment of my life and wants to make sure everyone sees it.
Her staff pretends they aren't watching, all except the bartender, who's made it his mission to glare a hole through my head. So we simply exist, leaning against opposite sides of the bar, miles between us, even with just a counter in the way. She’s standing and I’m sitting, and I like it this way, this angle where, for once, she’s the one in the position of power.
"Tyler, I really don’t have time to play games," Naomi finally says, her voice tired. "What is it that you want?"
"So I was thinking I’ll probably be in town for a while…"
"Keep lying to yourself, Ty."
"No, I mean it." I don’t know if I do, but if I don’t latch onto something here, to some sort of project or commitment, then I will be gone.
It’s like I’m trying to find an excuse to refuse Vortex’s offer.
"I want to help. With the volunteering at the community center. I’m not used to doing nothing. I think it will be good."
"Huh?" She tilts her head slightly and crosses her arms on her chest, observing me for a second. "Is that why last time you came to see me at the community center you hid underneath your car?"
"No…well…last time I was a bit out of sorts."
"Ty, volunteering isn’t some easy hobby.
You have to put in some work with those teens.
Not all of them come from good families like we do.
Asher’s from an abusive household. Miranda suffers from bipolar disorder.
They’re not toys. They’re human beings. Saying the wrong thing can set them off.
You’re a very public person, and they all idolize you, but if you promise something and then don’t follow through, it’s hurts them more than you know. "
She pauses and waits as if allowing me to let her words sink in.
I shift on the stool, the leather squeaking a little. "I understand."
"Do you?"
"I know you hate my guts, but I’m telling the truth. This is the first time in a long time that I’ve had a break. I want to do something meaningful while I’m here." I don’t tell her that the idea of meaningful for me is to thaw her frozen heart. Everything else is just the cherry on top.
Naomi holds my gaze a beat longer, searching for something. A way to let me down easy? Maybe. A way to believe I'm serious? I hope so.
Finally, she exhales and rattles off, "Community center. Tuesdays and Thursdays at four. I’ll send you the video materials you need to watch before you start."
"I’ll be there."
She turns to leave, but there's a pause in her step, a second of hesitation that says she's not sure she's doing the right thing. She doesn't turn back, just heads into the madness of the kitchen.
I'm still sitting there with my empty glass. I have no clue if this is the correct choice, sticking around instead of hitting the road. But it feels like something, and that's more than I've felt in a long time.