Chapter 32 Tyler #3
Of course we’re seated next to Brittney and her husband. Dude is a real chatterbox, asking me about touring and guitars and all the nerdy shit. He’s not trying to hide the fact that he’s a fanboy.
I don’t mind. He seems fun.
Across from me sits Jon with his date. Her name is Solange, and she’s apparently from San Diego, where she’s studying to get her degree in marine biology. Nice and educated gal. I approve. Plus, she and Naomi hit it off.
The conversation drifts like predictable elevator music. Families. Careers. The eternal gossip about who’s trending and who’s on the outs.
I'm holding Naomi's hand under the table. Her touch is the only thing keeping me anchored amid the low murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses that fill the gym. The DJ is playing all the nineties hits and I’m overcome with all those old teenage emotions. I’ve forgotten why I chose not to feel in the first place, why I shoved those feelings down and locked them up after joining The Deviant.
I sneak a peek at my phone, wondering how long these reunions usually drag out.
"Are these things always this packed?" I ask, scanning the room.
"Mostly, yes," Brittney says.
"It’s not even an anniversary date," I supply.
"There were a lot more people when we celebrated fifteen years," Jon says, sipping on his beer. "Plenty of folks came out who are now out of town."
"Sharon never comes." Naomi nudges my shoulder with hers, pointing at a woman with short black hair sitting two tables over. "I think the only reason she showed up this year is because of a rumor in town that you’d be at the reunion."
"Once a playboy, always a playboy," Jon croaks.
"Who? Me?" I scoff, kissing Naomi's cheek. "I’m a one-woman man."
Every single person at the table claps.
The evening buzzes with light-hearted banter.
Contrary to Naomi’s earlier sentiment, the food is nothing to write home about but pleasant enough.
Even though I feel like I'm on a display like an awkward art piece everyone in the room needs to inspect, it's not as mortifying as I'd braced for. Mostly because she’s with me. She makes it worth it.
Brittney giggles at something Naomi says. Her husband joins in, then I find myself chuckling too.
Eventually, when nature calls, I excuse myself and venture out to look for a restroom.
My heartbeat quickens at the thought that Adri could be lurking around a corner, waiting for me to give me a piece of his mind and ruin my night.
The restroom's more crowded than a Friday-night concert. A pudgy ginger dude stands there, his name slipping from my mind like a forgotten lyric, and then there's Theo Kozak. Ah, Theo—the guy who sat behind me in English lit, always ready to chat my ear off.
Great. Just what I need.
"Tyler! My man!" Kozak says in this heavy-lidded slur as he spots me walking in. His hands are half soaped up when he pauses to wave at my reflection in the mirror. I'm beelining for that last stall like it's a safe haven.
"Hey," I throw over my shoulder, keeping it cool enough to not encourage conversation. Earlier, Theo hit me up about getting him tickets for Justice’s upcoming solo tour—insisted it would be for old-time’s sake. What a doofus.
I laughed it off internally. Wishful thinking on his part but definitely barking up the wrong tree.
Inside the stall, I bide my time until those two finally catch a hint and clear out of here.
I wait a few more moments to ensure they don’t come back, then wash my hands, and slip into the hallway.
There’s an old-school MC Hammer track thumping from the gym.
Laughter and shouts rise up as people jump in rhythm.
A trio burst out of the women’s restroom, all dolled up and giggling uncontrollably.
They dart past me with wild hair swinging and a shared mission in their eyes—get to the dance floor before the chorus starts.
I sidestep to let them by, amused by their urgent joy.
As they reach the end of the hallway, Naomi's silhouette steps into view from around the corner. Her figure is bright against the dim lights as she walks over.
I begin to move toward her. Just as I get closer, she pauses midway and holds out her hand. On her palm sits my phone.
For a fleeting moment, my mind wanders off somewhere until instinct kicks in and I pat down my pockets—yep, empty. Must've forgotten it on the table. "You didn't have to bring it," I say, bridging the gap between us with casual strides.
Naomi studies me with that look—the one that pierces through layers of pretense, wrapping an unspoken question tight around our interaction.
"I thought we were going to be honest with each other this time," she finally says, and it sounds like an accusation.
"You said you didn’t have anything going on. "
"What are you talking about?" My social battery is low, and I’m struggling to put together two and two.
"The text message." She shoves the phone at my chest. "Were you going to leave me again?"
"Naomi—" I grab onto the phone with one hand and reach out for her with the other. "I’m not going anywhere."
She pulls back, her eyes hard and hurt. "Then why didn’t you tell me you had a gig offer?"
"Because I didn’t take it." I shrug, slipping the phone into my pocket. "I don’t want to leave town."
She draws a deep breath and looks at the wall. Her facial features tighten like she’s trying to hold it together with everything she’s got.
"I’m not going," I insist, resting my hands on her shoulders. "I wasn’t sure it was even worth discussing."
There’s a bit of a pause filled with the distant rumble of hip hop from the gym.
"It was selfish and stupid of me," she whispers shakily. "To want you all to myself."
"It wasn’t."
"Do you know how it makes me feel?"
"I promised it’d be different."
"It makes me feel like I’m a noose around your neck, Ty," she breathes out.
"Don’t say that."
"Like I’m taking the only good thing in your life."
"You’re the only good thing in my life."
"No, I’m the runner-up, Ty. For you, music comes first. That’s why it didn’t work then. That’s why it’s all falling apart now."
My pulse is wild and loud in my ears, louder than the MC Hammer song. "Nothing is falling apart, Nomes."
I despise myself for causing her pain. "You’re everything," I plead. "You’re everything I want. I've denied myself for seventeen years. I can't continue doing that anymore."
The hallway fades into nothingness, leaving just us and this thin thread of connection that feels like it might snap at any second.
"Please don't—" I barely whisper before my words are swallowed by a sudden sharp pop and panicked cries. The music cuts out abruptly.
Our heads whip toward the gym. Another pop-pop ricochets through the air. For a split second, everything is dreamlike—my vision smudges at the edges as if I've stepped into a painting that's melting off its canvas.
And then it hits me. I know what this sound is. It’s gunfire.