Chapter 19 Naomi
I don’t actually expect Tyler to show up at the community center, but for the first time in my life, he proves me wrong.
He arrives when the chaos is at its peak.
Kids run wild between rows of chairs, two boys have decided the microphone stands are lightsabers, and someone left a pizza on the stage.
Phoenix Down, who just arrived for their rehearsal session, barely notice the noise, too busy debating what song they'll play for the talent show in place of the Paramore cover they’ve been rehearsing all this time.
Due to some technical difficulties—as they stated during our last meeting—they can’t perform it anymore.
The previous group is finally winding down and starts to leave, their parents waving at me from the door before escorting their children out.
The room vibrates with occasional guitar riffs, high-pitched laughs, and Jamie yelling, "Help, please!"
I have a pen between my teeth and I'm trying to fix my hair falling out of its bun when I spot Tyler entering. He looks around, taking in the insanity, and smiles. Just a little. "Need a hand?"
"Need to move the chairs out of the way," I say, trying not to drop my clipboard as I point to the far corner.
He salutes, then heads into the chaos, where the teenagers immediately recognize him, and rush toward him like it’s like a scene from a zombie apocalypse movie.
It's not every day a real-life rockstar shows up at the community center of our tiny desert town, even if he's only here to move chairs.
"You're back!" Kenny yells, nearly tackling him with enthusiasm.
"Are you going to teach us some new tricks?" Asher asks.
"Yes, I'm back," Tyler confirms, giving them high-fives and knowing exactly who they are. "And I’d be happy to teach you." He glances at me. "If the boss lady allows it."
"Maybe if we have the time," I say.
"Please, Ms. Medina."
"Come on, Ms. Medina."
But I’m not going to make it easy on Tyler Brady.
Who does he think he is?
Instead of guitar lessons, I give him the glorious task of stacking music stands.
To my surprise, he doesn't seem to mind. I watch him chat with some of the teens, completely chill with the work I've thrown at him. The clipboard starts to lose its magic touch as everyone realizes they've got a famous musician helping out.
"I thought you'd have your own entourage," I tease when I pass by, noticing how he steals glances my way every chance he gets. There’s no mistaking why he wants to volunteer—he still hasn’t given up the idea that I’ll somehow forgive him for the seventeen years of misery he’s put me through.
"Left them in the limo," Tyler shoots back, hauling a set of folding chairs like it's a set of dumbbells.
Kenny and Asher are busy setting up on stage, and while Asher’s tuning his guitar, he’s fighting with Jamie over who's got the better solo. The names of the musicians they’re arguing about are lost on me. That’s Tyler’s department.
Later on, a few more kids show up at the community center. Someone probably posted something on social media about Tyler being here today, and now they’re cramming the back of the room.
When they see him, their eyes go wide like he's a walking and talking legend, and they immediately start whispering and pushing each other toward him.
"Hey, hey, can you show us something?" one of them blurts out, not able to contain himself any longer. "Anything? Just one riff?"
"The intro from Dreamscape," another kid pipes up from the back.
I see Tyler grin crookedly, the way he used to back when we were kids ourselves. "Only if you promise not to steal my moves," he says, winking as he takes a guitar from Asher.
The newcomers and the band gather around him, forgetting about rehearsal entirely, as he starts to play.
It's not even a song, more like an impromptu jam session with hints of the material from the popular anime series.
And they eat it up like it's candy. I stand back, my arms crossed, shaking my head at the scene.
Trust Ty to turn grunt work into a rock concert.
One of the teens, a girl with neon hair and more piercings than I can count, points and says, "Your nickname was Strings, right? I think my mom went to high school with you. I saw your picture in her yearbook."
Tyler nods. "Could be. What’s your mom’s name?"
"Alicia. Her last name was Jordan before she married Dad."
I remember Alicia. She was loud and great at sports.
"Yeah." Tyler confirms. "We did go to the same high school. Tell her I said hello."
"Can you sign my T-shirt?" the girl asks.
The rest of the afternoon unfolds in a similar manner, filled with noise as teenagers bombard Ty with requests typical of what they'd ask their celebrity idol.
It's somewhat exasperating to witness since my plans are completely derailed.
But that's the Tyler Brady effect, and I have only myself to blame for this mess. I allowed him to take charge.
The failed rehearsal eventually winds down, the community center clearing out as evening approaches.
Parents pick up kids, volunteers pack up everything from leftover pizza to extension cords, and Phoenix Down drag their feet out the door.
The buzz of the day hangs in the air, and the only ones left are me and Tyler. And my trusty clipboard.
"Didn't scare you off, did it?" I ask when I see him still here, stacking up the rest of the chairs in the now half-empty room.
"Almost did me in," he jokes.
"That’s why I didn’t want you to think you could just show up," I explain, grabbing one of the boxes sitting on top of the pile in the corner.
He nods toward the stack. "Need help with those?"
"Yes. That would be great. Thanks. The office is this way." I lead him down the hallway that’s much quieter now than it was earlier. I can't help but feel a weird sense of nostalgia, like we're playing a song I almost forgot I knew.
He carries two of the boxes easily, and I’m next to him with a couple of smaller ones.
"Just so you know," I say when we stop in front of the door, "I won’t be upset if you don’t show up after today."
"You tend to think the worst of me."
"Can you blame me, Ty?" I shoot back, pushing the door to the office open with my shoulder. We're both slightly out of breath as we tumble inside, and I'm also slightly out of sorts. The entire day feels like it's been building to something, and I don't know what.
Inside is dark, and I search the wall for a light switch with my free hand.
Tyler nudges the door closed with his foot because there’s already not enough space for two people to be here without bumping into each other. The room suddenly shrinks around us. Countless shelves sag under the weight of documents and props, and a wobbly desk takes up most of the floor.
"It’s like they haven’t cleaned this room since we were in high school." Tyler chuckles. "They just kept on piling up stuff."
"Well, the storage room is packed, so we're using whatever space available," I say, trying to my hardest to distance myself from him. "I don't recollect you ever being here."
"Of course, I've been here. Remember that show The Rejects played in the parking lot on Memorial Day during our senior year?"
"You sure it was this community center and not Palm Springs?" I ask, pretending I don’t remember, but the truth is, I remember it all. Every little thing about ambitious eighteen-year-old Tyler Brady.
"You’re too cool now for your ex-boyfriend." He chuckles, setting the boxes on the desk.
It seems so casual and insignificant—this comment—as if he didn't shatter my dreams years ago. Like it’s not a big deal that we dated for two years. And maybe it’s not for him since he was able to leave me behind to pursue his career. I bet everything on him. And I lost.
"It’s been a long time, Ty," I reply flatly. "You don’t really expect me to remember something that clearly didn’t matter to you."
"I do and it did," he says in that raspy voice of his that he uses to sing.
His eyes lock on mine, and I'm not sure how long we can pretend this is small talk and not the avalanche it's about to become.
"Stop underestimating me, Shrimp," he whispers with a small smile.
His tone is light, but the air between us feels dense, like the tension has its own gravity.
"You don’t have the right to call me that," I snap, suddenly unsure of what to do with my hands. If I’m in the kitchen it’s easy. I wipe and chop. Here, there’s nothing except for paper stacks and dusty props.
"I know. You’ve always hated that nickname."
"Yeah, well…" I look away and glare at the shelf overflowing with plastic containers and more boxes.
Ty does what I hoped he wouldn’t do in this tiny room. He takes a step forward, and the space between us shrinks to nearly nothing. "You don’t really mean half the things you’re saying," he rasps out.
"Do you?" I try to sound breezy as I arrange some music sheets on the desk into a neat pile. The paper's thin, crinkly, nothing like the emotional mess we’ve created.
"I do. You asked me why I’m back in Sageview Ridge.
I’m back because I haven’t been able to forgive myself for leaving you the way I did.
I miss you. I want us to fix this. Whatever it is between us.
I’ve been running away from you—from what we had—for seventeen years.
I’ve gone to so many places on this earth and you still haunt me, Naomi Medina. "
His blue eyes catch the flickering light, and I realize my hands have stopped moving. I force them to start again, more for show than anything else.
"I don’t know if I can trust you again, Ty," I choke out, overwhelmed by his confession.
"I’m not asking you to just do it blindly. I’m here, I’m prepared to stay, prepared to prove to you that history won’t repeat itself. Don’t you find it strange that all this time later, both of us are still unmarried and without kids. Maybe we’re not meant to be with anyone else."
"That’s bullshit and you know it."
"What if it’s not?"