Page 23 of Tilly in Technicolor
I’ve always had this odd feeling I’ll end up alone.
It’s hard not to when you struggle connecting with people as much as I do. I look at Cubby or my mums or even Marcus, and they all seem to have this ability to…relateto others. Start conversations. Create moments of quiet connection.
I can’t do that.
I’m not sure I want to.
I don’t like feeling that exposed, like I have to share bits of myself with others.
It’s just… being known seems absolutely terrifying. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to show myself to someone like that. Like I watch my mums do or Micah and Marcus.
That’s why I like being on the internet. I can be in control of the interactions I have. I can think about what I want to say. How I can best say it. I can talk about the things I love without talking about myself. Showing myself.
It’s connection without the risk of someone actually knowing me.
I pad to my bedroom, shucking off my trousers and button-down then crawling into bed.
I’m okay,I tell myself, burrowing under my duvet and rubbing a fist against my chest. I’m happy. I have a family that loves me. I have university coming up and a colorful world to explore.
I don’t need anything besides that.
Chapter 12It’s About theYearning
TILLY
There are few things worse than getting ridiculously excited about something formonths,then watching it all crash and burn. And that’s about how this trip is feeling.
In some sick and twisted sort of déjà vu, Oliver and I find ourselves next to each other on another flight. I’m tempted to ask Mona to duct-tape me to my seat so I can’t flail about and do something else incredibly embarrassing.
Okay. No. Everything’s fine. My flight from Cleveland to London wasnotmy fresh start. This one to Paris is. I refuse to land in another new country and have my fresh start be tainted by any other disasters. I am manifesting the fuck out of good vibes and whatever.
Also, it’s Paris. How could anything go wrong in Paris? I’m about to gorge myself on baguettes and ogle hot Frenchmen who I assume wear white-and-navy-striped shirts and berets 24/7 and say gorgeous things likeouiandmerciandvoulez-vous coucher avec moi.
Le sigh.
It’s ridiculously early, and the cabin of the plane is darkand stuffy. I wish I could sleep like everyone else around me. I just… can’t. I’m not a good sleeper. Never have been, really.
I feel tired all day, but the second I go to lie down, my thoughts start jumping rope and running laps around my skull, keeping me up for hours with restless energy, only to repeat the exhaustion cycle the next day.
Oliver fell asleep about thirty minutes ago, and I keep catching myself looking at him like a weird little creep. I can’t help it though. There’s something…dynamicabout his face. He’s smiled probably twice in the entire time I’ve spent with him, but something about that crooked grin seared itself into my greedy brain, and I’ve been hungry to earn more.
Gentle turbulence rocks the plane, and Oliver’s head lolls to the side.
And lands on my shoulder.
The firm weight and warmth of the contact has me biting back an obnoxiously loud sigh. I love touch. I need touch like fish need water, and it’s not something I get very much of. My parents are caring but they certainly aren’t touchy, and I don’t really have friends or a boyfriend providing any physical affection. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been at school—feeling overwhelmed, overstimulated—and wanted nothing more than a friend to hug. Someone to hold me tight, give me a squeeze that reassures me all this zapping energy won’t crack my body apart.
Another bump of more startling turbulence tosses us both in our seats, and Oliver wakes up, rubbing his eyes then blinking at me. He shifts away from me, and I pop the silly bubble of disappointment that tries to rise in my chest.
No. Nope. Absolutely not. I refuse to…yearnover a cute boy that I hardly know and who point-blank rejected my (very aggressive) attempts at talking. Especially not when I’m about to be surrounded by good cheese and French boys.
We touch down about half an hour later, the flight passing without any massive injuries, physical or emotional. After navigating through the buzzing airport, we pack onto a crowded train and make our way to our hotel in the city.
My nose is pressed against the window the entire time. It’s mainly gray buildings and trees whooshing by the window but it’s trees and buildings and fields that I’m seeing for the very first time. Might never see again. They’re so beautiful.
After we get off at the station, the walk to our hotel has me equally gawking, my mouth dangling open as I take in the city. The buildings lean toward each other like plants bending toward the sun. It’s gray stone and straight lines and wrought-iron balconies all accompanied by the subtle smell of pee and alcohol on the streets. It’s filthy and gorgeous and I love every bit of it.
When we finally get into the lobby of the hotel—which has enough charm to make me want to lie on the ornate carpet and weep in *Parisian aesthetic*—Amina talks to the person at the desk in what I believe to be beautiful, perfect French.
