Heidi Tretheway - Tyler & Stella

“I enjoyed the premiere with Tattoo Thief and my best friend Beryl, but my relationship with Tyler isn’t a topic for discussion right now. What’s important is that he’s healthy and healing after a big scare.”

“Were you fired by The Indie Voice today because you wouldn’t do a story on Tyler?” the next reporter asks, and I squint but I can’t see who’s asking. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was someone from my former paper.

“The Indie Voice published two stories I wrote about Tattoo Thief, one about Gavin’s song, ‘Wilderness,’ and one profiling the band’s practice,” I answer.

When Chief nods to the next reporter, there’s blood in the water. “You didn’t answer the question. Weren’t you fired? And can you explain why you screamed obscenities and threw coffee mugs at your former boss, Heath Rhodes?”

Gavin tilts his head slightly to hide a smile.

“I think we disagreed on the fundamentals of my role, so yes, I’m seeking other opportunities. I explained to Mr. Rhodes that my career goals were in music and feature journalism, not celebrity gossip.”

I let the subtext of that sink in among the reporters: I don’t want to be like you.

But now I’ve stirred the hornet’s nest. “Was Tyler Walsh a heavy drug or alcohol user like you, Ms. Ramsey? I have sources confirming you routinely drank heavily on reporting assignments, including an incident this morning at the bar two blocks from your former employer.”

What the fuck? There was no incident, just Violet helping a drunk girl down from her barstool and off to the land of pancakes. But now that the question has been asked, the lie is seeded as fact.

Fix false facts first. That’s the mantra I learned in class, so I take apart the question, bit by bit. “First, Tyler Walsh is not a drug abuser in any sense. Second, he rarely drinks alcohol. I’ve seen Tyler have a light beer occasionally, but it’s nothing compared to the way I abused alcohol.”

I hear Chief suck in a breath behind me. I’m going off-script, but I don’t care. This is the truth, all of it, and I’m tired of sparring.

“I drank too much and too often. I drank to get numb or relax or just plain get wasted. Tyler saw what I was doing and demanded that I stop. I’m grateful for that. And while I haven’t been perfect—getting drunk this morning after getting fired is proof of that—I’m committed to staying sober.”

Chief’s face reddens but his mild, plastic smile doesn’t twitch. Gavin pats my elbow, the quietest and most appreciated “Atta girl” I’ve ever known.

Chief points to a reporter in the front row, and I hope for a change in subject. I get my wish, but the first two words out of the reporter’s mouth are a nightmare.

“Kim Archer plans to sue Tyler Walsh to retain full custody of her baby girl, claiming he’s an unfit father due to his alleged drug overdose. How will you respond to the lawsuit?”

I step back from the microphones as if they’ve transformed into snakes. There’s nothing in that question I want to touch.

But Gavin offers his most charming smile. “If Kim Archer is so genuinely concerned about identifying the father of her daughter, why has she failed to respond to six requests for genetic testing?” he asks.

The room hushes in shock.

“Why has she chosen to wage a public war against a man who she pursued from the beginning? Why was Tyler forced to change his phone number after she repeatedly harassed him? The fact that Kim Archer has a child does not make Tyler a father. The fact that they dated, even during a certain timeframe, does not confirm his paternity. Only a DNA test can do that.”

Gavin’s eyes are fierce and fiery as he defends the man who is the closest thing he has to a brother. “So while we’re here at the hospital, we’ve prepared two blood samples for testing with an independent lab. One will confirm that Tyler is not, in fact, the father of Kim Archer’s child. The other will confirm that he has no drugs whatsoever in his system. We dare Kim to match him—on both counts.”

The echo from Gavin’s last statement ricochets off the back wall and the reporters buzz from the drama. This is what Gavin meant about spinning the story our way. I can see I have a lot to learn from a man trained in the school of hard tabloid knocks.

Chief calls on a frantically waving hand from the middle row. “But Kim has provided proof that Tyler is the father. He gave her ten thousand dollars to buy her silence.”

Gavin scoffs. “And I’ve got a ten-thousand-dollar bridge to sell you. The only thing the money proves is that Tyler is generous and naïve. He knows Kim doesn’t have much money, and he wanted her baby to have a good life. But Kim twisted that gift against him as purported proof the baby was his. And you fell for it.”

This is getting ugly and I’m loving every minute of it now that I’m no longer in the hot seat.

“Last question,” Chief warns, and jabs his finger toward a man at the back.

“Gavin, you claimed responsibility for Lulu Stirling’s drug overdose, but you haven’t answered for Tyler’s incident today. Was his seizure caused by a drug overdose, too?”

I reel back, fearful that this question will hit too close to home for Gavin. I wish I could throw myself in the path of this bullet to protect him. His face twitches and I can see it’s hit its mark.

Gavin looks down and takes a breath, his hands gripping the lectern so hard his knuckles are white.

“Yes,” he whispers, and the room is silent. “The drug Tyler overdosed on is … insulin. And in tribute to the paramedics and doctors who helped Tyler today, Tattoo Thief is making a donation to the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation to help kids and adults like Tyler better manage their diabetes. And if you join us in donating, I’ll match it.”

Holy wow, Batman. Gavin just landed the knockout punch.

Chief shoves us out the side door while the reporters yell more questions. I focus on Gavin’s broad shoulders in front of me as I follow him down a corridor and into a room where the rest of the band, Beryl, Kristina, and Violet are waiting for us. A closed-circuit television shows a live feed from the pressroom.

Beryl wraps Gavin and me in a fervent hug. “You were amazing! Just stellar!”

I shake my head and point to her boyfriend. “Oh, no. I was warming up amateur hour compared to Gavin. He killed it.”

“What about getting fired? Was that true? Did you really get fired over Tyler?”

“Yep. This morning kind of sucked, until Violet rescued me.” I gesture to her to come closer to our little group, but she hangs back.

“This is a story I have to hear,” Jayce says, then spots the brunette I saw in the pressroom as she slips in the door. “Mom!”

Jayce wraps his ridiculously fat biceps around the woman and lifts her off her feet as she laughs.

“Put me down, Jayce! I don’t have Tyler here to protect me.” Jayce releases her and she pats his cheek. “I can’t believe I have to keep saying this, but look at you! You’ve grown.”

Jayce flexes his arms with pride. “Dave’s a slave-driver on the weights. You should see Tyler.”

“I’m dying to. I just got here and when I told the front desk I was here for Tyler Walsh, they sent me to the media circus instead of his room. I think they thought I was a reporter.”

“I don’t blame them. You look good, Mom,” Gavin says, giving her a gentler hug than Jayce.

“Thanks for what you said about being part of our family,” she says. “Even though it’s been years since you moved, I still miss you guys making noise in my garage and destroying my refrigerator.”

Gavin turns the woman toward me. “I think Stella would like to say hello.”

I swallow. I would, but I don’t know where to start. “Hello, uh, Mrs. Walsh.” I hold out my hand to shake, but she wraps me in a warm embrace.

“You can call me Cheryl or Mom—that’s what the guys call me. I’m so glad to meet you face to face, after all that Tyler’s told me. Would you walk me to his room?”

Cheryl waves at the band and follows me upstairs, asking gentle questions about how I’m feeling after the press conference and if I’ve eaten.

I answer wrong and her eyes crinkle with concern.

I pull back the curtain around Tyler’s bed and he’s still sleeping. Cheryl wraps his hand in hers and strokes his hair. I shrink back toward the gap in the curtain to give them privacy.

“Stella, you can stay. He’d want you here, too.”

Tyler stirs at the sound of his mother’s voice. His eyes blink open slowly, his head turning to look at each of us. “Mah. Ella.” A smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

“Tyler, you stinker, what kind of trouble have you gotten into now?” Cheryl asks.

Tyler shrugs and points to his mouth.

“Lucky Stella. She’ll get no arguments from you for a week,” Cheryl laughs. “Stella just did a press conference with Gavin. They stuck up for you. You would have been proud.”

“Ah am,” Tyler says, reaching his free hand out for me. I take it and squeeze, letting tears of happiness fall down my cheeks as the weight of the day lifts from my shoulders.

* * *

I argue desperately to stay by Tyler’s bedside through the night, but Cheryl and Tyler overrule me. It’s long past midnight when we leave the hospital, and Gavin directs his driver to escort Cheryl and me to Tyler’s loft.

There are no reporters outside and I’m grateful. Cheryl follows me upstairs, a small overnight bag bouncing on her hip.

I ask her to wait in the living area while I get Tyler’s room ready for her but she ignores me, kicking off her heels and leaving her suit jacket on the couch before following me upstairs to survey the bloody wreckage of Tyler’s bed.

Oh, boy. My empty stomach lurches but I steel myself against the sight of the blood and strip the sheets and mattress pad.

Cheryl pads downstairs and I hear her talking on her phone, and she returns with an armload of clean linens.

We make the bed together, and I worry what she must think of me, freeloading by living at her son’s loft or worse, sleeping with him. I nudge his bedside table drawer closed—the one with the condoms—and hope she didn’t see them.

Who am I kidding? Of course she saw. I trip over my words explaining that my bedroom is downstairs.

Cheryl cuts me off. “Stella, it’s OK. I had Tyler when I was nineteen. You think I don’t know how much trouble you kids can get into?”

I balk. I am so not ready to have a sex talk with my not-quite-boyfriend’s mother.

“The point is, you love him. And he loves you. You two will make good decisions most of the time. But I don’t expect you to live your lives without trouble. Get into it. Get over it. Move on.”

Cheryl’s phone rings and she shimmies downstairs to answer it. “Back in a minute!” she calls up to me as I stuff pillows in new cases.

She returns holding two fragrant sacks. “Money can’t buy happiness, but it can buy Chinese food, which is practically the same thing. Get down here, Stella, you’re starving.”

She’s right, and I join her on the couch as we share several cartons of fried, sauced, carbohydrate-laden goodness.

It’s hard to imagine that this vivacious woman is old enough to be Tyler’s mother, but as she jokes and tells me stories of his childhood and then stories of her own dating woes, she becomes more human and more relatable.

When we’re done, I collapse on my air mattress and Cheryl climbs the stairs to Tyler’s bed. Sleep pulls me under.

“Good news or bad news? What do you think? Are you a betting woman, Stella?” Tyler strides to the kitchen holding an envelope in the air just out of my grasp, taunting me.

“The last time I bet you, I’m pretty sure you let me win.”

Tyler scrunches his mouth to hide a smile. “I did no such thing. You beat me fair and square with that lyric from Blood Brothers.”

“So are we going to bet again? Or are you going to just open the stupid thing?”

Tyler nods, his finger digging for the corner of the envelope’s flap. He rips it and the sound echoes in our quiet loft.

Tyler reads the results in silence.

“Negative—for the drug test,” he says, and I snort. That’s more than Kim Archer can say. Last weekend, five days after she went public with news of Tyler’s alleged baby, she was busted while going through airport security with an ounce of weed hidden in her baby girl’s diaper bag.