I kiss Tyler’s forehead and forget the room, Jayce, and Violet. I forget the minutes ticking down to the press conference and the dozens of instructions Chief issued.
There is nowhere else I’d rather be. No one else I want more.
THIRTY-TWO
I don’t see Jayce and Violet leave. Lost in my bubble with Tyler, I’m startled by a voice behind me.
“Stella. It’s time.”
Gavin. I squeeze Tyler’s hand one final time and brush my lips against his knuckles, then rest his hand on his chest. I follow Gavin down two flights of stairs to where Dave is waiting for us in a hallway.
“Chief’s getting the press settled in there,” Dave explains, pointing to a door. “Jayce said your pictures are good and he’s with Violet uploading them to a portal right now.”
“Any final words of wisdom?” I ask.
I’m trying to find a lighter note, but Dave looks grim. “Just the facts, Stella.”
Tyler says facts are real, but stories are not necessarily the truth. More than ever, it’s time to prove this by telling the true story of facts that drove such ugly speculation.
The door opens slightly and Chief ushers us in. I’m blinded by flashes and grateful that Gavin takes my arm to lead me to the side of the lectern where a half-dozen microphones are arranged.
Chief sets the ground rules: we’ll give short statements, then take questions by invitation only. He tells the media that exclusive photos of Tyler in the hospital will be available immediately after the conference. I hear a buzz from the press and start counting. There must be thirty or forty photographers and writers here.
Gavin speaks next, reminding the media that Tyler was the person who brought Tattoo Thief together in the first place, who developed the network that got the band their big break in New York, and who anchors the music on bass.
“I owe Tyler so much, not the least of which is a real sense of family. He and his mom, Cheryl, took me in when I was on my own, and I will always call them family.”
Gavin nods at a tall brunette in a neat suit sitting at the far side of the small auditorium. She’s not taking notes.
“We are thankful that after Tyler’s health scare, which we’ll tell you more about in a moment, that he’s stable, resting right now, and likely to be released from the hospital tomorrow. He’s healthy and this incident doesn’t affect Tattoo Thief’s next album or our tour plans.”
Gavin adds a few more details and promises to take questions at the end.
“Now I have the opportunity to introduce you to a new member of Tattoo Thief’s family, a friend we’ve become very close to recently. She’s also been my girlfriend Beryl’s best friend for many years.” Gavin gestures me to come closer to the microphones.
“I’m Stella Ramsey,” I start, and my voice wavers. Nerves threaten to strangle me but I gulp air and push the fear aside. Now is not the time to panic. If I can handle Tyler choking on his own blood, I can handle this.
“When I arrived at Tyler’s apartment this afternoon, Tyler didn’t seem like himself. He was sluggish, like he’d gone without sleep for too long.” I word this carefully as Chief instructed me, avoiding any suggestion that I thought he was drunk.
“I heard him coughing and found him choking on blood. The doctor told me later that he’d bitten partway through his tongue.”
I hear a gasp from the crowd and a stronger buzz of whispers. “You can imagine my fear for him. I rolled him on his side to prevent choking. I called 911 and let in the ambulance crew.”
I swallow and glance at Gavin, who nods to encourage me. “A seizure caused this. A diabetic seizure that was the result of low blood sugar. Tyler has Type 1 diabetes.”
I step back from the microphones and Gavin and Chief immediately flank me. The reporters are all talking at once, and Chief holds up his hand for silence before he calls on the first questioner.
“Has Tyler had other seizures? Has he ever had one while performing?”
Gavin fields these questions simply. “No.”
Chief points to another reporter.
“Why were you in Tyler’s apartment?”
“I’m his—roommate,” I say, and the word feels bitter in my mouth. “Tyler invited me to stay with him while I moved between apartments.”
“You looked like more than roommates at the Spider-Man premiere,” the next reporter follows up. “Are you and Tyler Walsh dating? Is it exclusive?”
Something inside me shifts and my reporting instincts take over for my nerves. I remember the bridging statements I learned in my PR class, and the reporter’s playbook of retorts. No time like the present to test my skills.
“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?”