Page 11 of Tilly in Technicolor
If words could sprint, mine would have just won an Olympic medal. I almost blow out my back with how hard I wince.
“I beg your pardon?” Oliver says, eyebrows arched.
I take a deep breath, squeezing my hands into tight fists at my sides.Calm,I tell myself.You can do this.
“I was… I wanted to know if I could have your number. Phone number. Or like… WhatsApp number or whatever…” Dead silence. “Since we’re in like… Europe. Or whatever.”
More silence.
Holyshitthis is a lot of silence.
This silence is, quite possibly, worse than the complexity of airplane noise.
Oliver’s eyes go wide and his lips part, but in this painful, slow-motion type of way that forces me to watch him process what I said. He’s looking at me like… well, like he can’t quite believe I spoke those words out loud.
And, as the silence continues to destroy me, I do the only thing I can.
I whip around, accidentally whacking Oliver with my overstuffed backpack, and bolt.
Dead. Ass. Run.
I barrel down the aisle, hurdling over the puke puddle like an athlete, knocking people out of the way, rolling over toes with my ridiculous suitcase, not even caring about the brutal chaos I leave in my wake.
Screw being bold. Screw being brazen. That shit is for the birds, and I will absolutelynevertake another risk again.
Even when I’m off the plane, I continue sprinting through the airport, my suitcase and backpack banging around behind me. But I can’t slow down. If I slow down, people might see my embarrassed tears. If I stop to catch my breath, Oliver might accidentally catch up, that horrified look still on his pretty face. If I don’t get out of here as quickly as humanly possible, I might see him at customs or while I’m waiting for Mona.
And the last thing I ever want is to see Oliver again.
Chapter 8Give Me Caffeine or Give Me Death
TILLY
I managed to get through customs and find Mona without any further disasters (incredible, I know). I was so jet-lagged from the flight that I barely took in the fact that I was in London freaking England when she picked me up, and I crashed immediately on her couch.
“Morning, sunshine,” Mona greets me as I blink awake to the sound of her espresso grinder running at full force.
“Morning, Mo-Mo,” I say through a yawn, propping myself up on my elbows.
I look around, finally registering her posh and modern (read, angular and sparse) apartment. Everything is a different shade of white or gray with minimalistic furniture, and the walls hold a few hanging mirrors and sharp metal artwork. Mona is the only streak of color in the barren place, strutting around the apartment in a deep red blouse and matching trousers.
I roll off the couch, scurrying across the artfully agedwooden floors to the large window. I stand, throwing back the curtains with a flourish to welcome in the beautiful, vibrant…
Depressingly gray skies?
I frown, then shake myself. This isLondongray, and is therefore superior to all other shades of gray.
Pressing my face against the glass, I take it all in. A row of beige stone buildings line the street. An older woman walks a fluffy white dog while chatting on her cell phone and… oh… holy shit… be still my heart, is that a literal red freaking phone booth on the corner? I’m about to swoon.
“Mom’s upset you didn’t call her when you landed,” Mona says, coming up behind me and disrupting my very special moment with the red phone booth.
I roll my eyes. Of course she’s mad at me. She’s always finding some reason to have a hissy fit over something I do.
“I’ll call her in a minute,” I say, turning to Mona. She’s holding a tiny espresso cup slightly away from her body. I grin and reach for it.
“Yeah, right,” she says, furrowing her perfectly manicured thick brows. Damn her for figuring out her brow shape and actually maintaining it. “I’m scared to see you caffeinated,” she adds, taking a sip of her espresso. “You can have herbal tea.”
I frown. “You should be more afraid of an uncaffeinated me,” I say in my most menacing voice. Mona isn’t impressed as she takes another dainty sip.
