Page 27 of Tilly in Technicolor
“I don’t know,” he says in his crisp, beautiful voice, gaze flicking up at me for a second before landing back on the carpeting.
I narrow my eyes at him. “How do you not know?”
“I don’t know that, either,” he says, rubbing his thumb across his forehead like this is extremely distressing for him. “I’m experiencing multiple physical reactions to emotions I can’t name.”
I blink at him, my brain whirring up like a jet engine. “Did you stay back because… because of me?” The words slip out of my mouth before I can think better of them.
Oliver’s silent, his eyes fixed on my cheek and his jaw tensed before he throws his hands up. It’s a mild gesture but I’ve literally never seen him so flustered. It’s very… interesting.
History has taught me I should definitely not look for hidden meaning in anything Oliver says or does because italwaysends with me being disappointed… but, like, does that not give the vibes that he’s ever so slightly madly in love with me? Am I projecting here? Because that little declaration of unknown-feeling feelings has the ridiculously romantic lobe of my brain convinced that he’s smitten with me. Only took me three excruciatingly humiliating days to win him over with my devastating charm.
Okay. I’ve gotta be cool. Super cool.
“Do you want to go on a walk with me?” I ask, waving toward the cascade of sunlight tumbling in through the dusty window, curling my toes as nerves swirl in my stomach. Wow, that actually wasn’t too bad. A neutral activity offered in a calm—dare I say,intriguing—fashion. And since I’m pretty sure he stayed back from the meeting for me and we’re in the city of love, I’d say my chances are pretty damn good.
Oliver glances at the window, squinting then frowning at the beckoning sunshine.
“No,” he says after a moment. Then follows it up with an ever-so-polite “Thank you.”
I am going to strangle this boy. Or the whiplash from hissomewhat nice gestures followed by his extremely curt but technically polite rejections is going to kill me first. Time will tell, but I know one of us won’t make it out of this alive.
“Whatever,” I manage to say without the disappointment cracking my voice. I turn and grab my shoes and my bag, bolting out of the hotel room and clamoring down the stairs.
Out on the street, I start walking.
I walk and I walk and I walk, focusing on my steps, swallowing back the uncomfortable tears that sting my eyes and burn my nose.
Stupid, stupid,stupid.I feel so stupid! Why do I keep doing this? Why do I constantly set myself up for failure?
The thing is, I like people so much. I really do. I think people are interesting and good and unique and I have an impulse to know them all. And, with that, I want them to know me, too. I want to be liked. I want to be loved. Screw the moon, I want someone to look at me like I hung the damn sun.
But I can’t seem to find that. Not with friends at school. Not with my parents. Not with my sister.
Certainly not with Oliver.
But I also can’t help myself from trying over and over again.
I don’t know how long I walk, staring at the ground as my feet carry me farther from the site of my latest embarrassment, but, eventually, the sidewalk turns to cobblestones and a soft violin melody draws my head up.
I’m on the outskirts of a bustling square, people strolling through the area, looking around at an endless sea of easels and canvases with artists perched in the open space. I wind my way through the gentle chaos until I find a vacant bench. My leg starts bouncing as snippets of this awful day shoot across my mind. I bury my face in my hands as I try to figure out what to do.
Do I make good on my threat to leave? Do I suffer theembarrassment of not? If I did leave, where would I go? Somewhere else in Europe? Do I even have the capability to do that?
I’m supposed to be doing some enriching bullshit internship, regularly checking in with my parents to tell them how I’m becoming a perfect clone of my sister; I can’t imagine they’d be okay with me abandoning that plan to go somewhere new.
But if I go back to America does that automatically mean going home? Probably, and that idea is more terrifying than the unknown. Mom spent the first seventeen years of my life annoyed and fussy, to the point that I don’t recognize her saying my name if it isn’t accompanied by an exasperated sigh, and the last year coddling me to the point of suffocation, and treating my ADHD diagnosis like a death sentence. Can I handle being back there?
Figuring out what to do and the order to do it in often feels impossible. My flawed executive functioning skews and tilts and twirls details until I feel dizzy trying to figure out how to accomplish a task.
With a groan, I lift my head and look around me like I can conjure an answer from thin air.
Something about the scene soothes my sprinting thoughts long enough for me to realize how damn picturesque everything is. I have a perfect view of an artist sitting on a stool, head tilted as she studies the watercolor painting in front of her. She’s painting the squat buildings surrounding the square, dipping her brush in water then swirling it in paint as she captures the red awnings with big block letters advertisingCAFÉandPÂTISSERIEfluttering gently in the early summer breeze, a gorgeous, domed white church standing proudly in the background of the scene.
She moves with patience, hands careful but confident, and I get lost in watching her work, watching her re-create this small corner of the world on her canvas. As the white rectangle in front of her comes to life with bleeding colors, I start to cry. Her art is so beautiful, it makes my chest ache and my hands itch to make my own.
A daunting and terrifying thought pops into my head, but before I can push it away, I find myself shakily pulling out my phone.
I swipe through the screens until I find the bright yellow app for Babble.
