Page 26 of Tilly in Technicolor
At this point, both their voices are raised, and my hands are flapping nervously at my sides. I feel like something is building in the room, an amorphous blob of tension that’s going to swallow us whole.
And Tilly’s next words tip it all over the edge.
“Then stop being a bitch!”
Chapter 14Crying in the Bathroom (Taylor’s Version)
TILLY
So, here’s the thing about a dramatic exit—aka, locking yourself in the bathroom after calling your sister a bitch—you feel a bit like a dumbass after doing it.
Like, cool, I just trapped myself in the smallest space in this hotel room, which also lacks decent cell phone service, and I have to listen to the deep rumble of everyone talking about me through the door without actually hearing what they’re saying so of course my brain makes up the meanest things possible.
Go me. Really showed Mona. Huge win.
After what feels like an eternity, I hear the door open and shut and the sound of stillness settle through the room. I wait a few more minutes, hugging my legs to my chest and resting my head on my knees from my perch on the toilet seat.
When I’m confident they’re gone for good and won’t be popping back in for some forgotten item, I uncurl myself and open the door.
I slink out of the bathroom with every intention of moodily belly flopping on the mattress to have a good cry, but I’m shocked out of my skin to see Oliver sitting at the small desk Mona wedged between our beds. Angled so I can see his eyes sharply focused on his laptop screen, earphones on and back ramrod straight as he clicks around his computer, a picture of my hands blown up on the screen.
The intensity of his focus is palpable, like there’s a protective bubble around him telling the worldDO NOT DISTURB.
I realize it kind of reminds me of… me. Or, at least, me when I’m hyperfocusing on reading or writing—when I drop out of this world and enter one that’s totally my own, happy and safe. I continue to stare at Oliver, wishing there was a window to his brain I could peer into and see if what he’s feeling right now is anything like what I do when I settle in my special dimension.
I’ve never been able to relate to anyone about this.
I don’t really have friends. I don’t mean this in a dramatic, woe-is-me way. It’s just a fact. I have acquaintances. I had people I could approach at school and make small talk with (which I tried to avoid because small talk makes my brain feel like it’s turning inside out). I didn’t eat lunch alone.
But I’m not… known.
There isn’t a person out there who knows me. Who I truly am. Who I want to be. I’ve never had that special connection where I’m understood. It always feels like there’s a curtain between me and any person I’m talking to, and I worry I’ll always feel this separation from the world. Like I’m an extra piece to a jigsaw puzzle, discarded and forgotten under the couch, while everyone else clicks with their matching corners.
My wonky edges won’t ever have the luxury of complementing someone else’s.
But when I’m writing or reading, I never feel alone. I meltinto the pages, my world morphing into the safety of a story. I feel seen and understood as my eyes dance over lines of text; like I have a chance to be loved. To live and scream and exist just as I am and be the right amount of enough for someone.
Losing myself in my thoughts, I plop onto the edge of the bed. The movement snags the current of Oliver’s attention, and he turns suddenly, eyes going wide as he realizes I’m no longer locked in the bathroom.
He jolts to standing, slamming his laptop shut before fumbling with his headphones.
Mortified that he caught me mooning over him, I stand up in an equally erratic way. Which makes the whole thing feel even more awkward because now we’re both standing here with lots of ugly carpeting between us, staring shyly at the ground.
After an eternity of silence, Oliver asks, “Are you actually planning on leaving?” He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.
It takes me a moment to understand his question, and I remember Ididdramatically declare to Mona that I’m about to become a runaway. I give Oliver a noncommittal shrug, mirroring him and pushing my hands into my dress pockets.
More silence.
“I thought you were supposed to go to the meeting,” I say, tracing a swirl on the carpeting with my toe.
“I stayed back.”
Well, that’s rather freaking obvious. “Why?”
He shrugs like I did a second before, and his response is a mumbled “I dunno,” followed by him clearing his throat.
“What was that?”
