Page 31 of Tilly in Technicolor
“Right. That.”
“No. Cubby’s a musician. She’s actually touring with her band right now. We’ve been texting about meeting up if our cities align.”
“That’s amazing. I hope I get to meet her,” Tilly says.
This catches me off guard. It’d never occurred to me that Tilly might want to meet my sister. I didn’t think Tilly had interest in anything to do with me.
“You had a lot to say about the color black,” Tilly says after a moment of silence. Actually, she more yells it at me, but I’m starting to come to expect her changes in volume. “In your post, I mean. I had no idea there were so many shades of it. I’ve always just thought black was… well, black.”
My head jerks back. “Black is one of the most complex colors out there. It’s my favorite.”
Favoriteis an understatement. I’m obsessed with it. Black is soft and comfortable and chewy and makes the very center of my brain goahhhhin relief every time I look at it.
“It’s a common misconception to think there’s only one type of black. There’re countless,” I continue. “I mean, obviously, black is scientifically defined as the total absence of color, but in art black is developed from pigmentation. Think about it; a painter has to mix endless colors together, adding and adding until they get what’s supposed to be nothingness. It’s like the entire act of producing the color contradicts what it’s defined as. I personally think it’s a bit contrarian when people correct you for saying it’s a color. Like, come on mate, let’s not split hairs here. I believe a huge part of the problem is a lack of clarity in definitions. When getting down to the heart of it, yes, there’s only one trueshadeof black, which would be pure black. Fine. But there are multiplehuesof black, and I think that phrasing trips people up.
“You can also get into the various differences between chroma and saturation but Munsellobviouslywould provide a much clearer definition. When it comes to the way colors feel, I tend to take it from a colorfulness perspective. It’s less scientific, I know, but color, at the end of the day, is a visualexperience, so why not discuss it in those terms, no? And for a color deemed so simple, it’s incredibly complex. Varied. It’s newsprint and night sky. It’s the backdrop to outer space and the dots on a ladybug. It’s… It’s…” I glance at Tilly unscrambling all the words clamoring to get out of me.
“It’s the spikes of your eyelashes,” I say, gesturing at her, my gaze flicking to hers before roaming around her face. “The depths of your dilated pupils when you get excited. Your worn-down Converse and that dress with the pockets you seem so fond of. It’s…”
Tilly sucks in a soft breath, the noise pausing my runaway thoughts. All of which, I’m now realizing, have put themselves in the context of her.
It’s at this point I also notice my happy hand stim is moving enthusiastically at my side. I flex my hands then rub one across the back of my heated neck, frowning as I stare at the ground.
Shit. I didn’t mean to infodump like that. That’s not something I usually do unless it’s my family or Marcus.
“I think I only understood about a third of what you said,” Tilly whispers. I glance at her, and she tilts her head to the side. “But I love it. I had no idea colors were so complex. I thought they just… were.”
An overwhelming surge of some unknown feeling pushes at my chest and up my throat. I cough. “Sorry. My delivery might have seemed a bit much. Color theory is, quite simply, the most fascinating thing in the world.”
Tilly nods, leaning toward me. “The way you talk about it has me believing that.”
I’m smiling again as Tilly and I look at each other. And that’s when I realize that we’re making something close to eye contact, and I’m not crawling out of my skin about it.
In fact, all of this has felt alarminglycomfortableand I don’t know what to make of that.
Tilly opens her mouth to say something, and my eyes get caught on the movement. I watch her lips part and her tongue swipe across them. But, for once, Tilly doesn’t make a sound. She bites down on her lip, the white edges of her teeth in sharp contrast with the full, tawny pink of her hesitant smile.
An image blazes across my mind, one so disastrous but devastatingly tempting it’s hard to believe it came from my own psyche: my mouth pressed against hers. The inky black strands of her hair falling between my fingers as I run my hands through it. The pad of my thumb brushing across those maddening freckles as I cup her jaw.
The idea of it is so overwhelmingly enticing, I feel myself lean forward. Tilly mirrors the movement. Our eyes are wide and, if I’m reading her correctly, mildly terrified at the thick bands of tension cinching us closer together.
Is this happening? What even isthis? Holy Christ above, why has this girl scrambled my mind? Could the feel of her lips against mineactuallybe as good as my brain has just convinced itself it will be?
We both lean a millimeter closer.
And then…
“Ready, Oliver?” Amina says, rapping on the doorjamb as she waltzes into our room. I jolt to standing, breaths short and painful to gulp down past my suddenly dry throat.
“Car should be here in a minute,” Amina adds, tapping away on her phone. “Mo is already downstairs.”
“Great. Perfect. Yeah. Wonderful. Great.”
My extremely smooth and totally normal string of adjectives snags Amina’s full attention. She glances up at me with furrowed brows. She’s silent for a moment, staring, and it feels like my cheeks will char to a crisp from all the heat that’s rushing to them. I can’t help being mildly curious about what color they are.
Amina then glances at Tilly, who’s still sitting on the edge of the bed looking like a startled owl. Amina blinks once. Twice. Then turns back to me, now with one eyebrow arched, high and questioning, as she takes me in.
“Alright there, Ollie?” she asks, a small smile twitching the corner of her lips. “You’re looking a bit peaky.”
