Page 85 of Tilly in Technicolor
Like we do every night, we wait for sounds of sleep to drift in from their room before I crawl into Oliver’s bed, cuddling against him in a cozy nest under the comforter.
We usually end up whispering till the sun comes up. Sometimes, it’s hours of jokes and teasing, punctuated by kisses and touches. Other nights, Ollie will risk it all and keep the lights low, spending hours holding color swatches up to the moles on my cheek, brow furrowed and tongue between his teeth, flipping through the wheel aggressively until I dissolve into silent giggles at his frustration.
He always ends up pressing his lips to my freckles with a growl, turning my laughs into a delighted sigh.
Tonight, we’re serious. Vulnerable. Mumbling confessions and fears of the future.
“I feel like I’m constantly failing,” I whisper, tracing my fingers along his cheekbones. “I feel like I’m not good enough. Like I’ll never be good enough.”
“Good enough at what?” Ollie asks, eyebrows furrowing.
I rub the pads of my fingers across the lines between his eyes, smoothing out his worry. “Good enough at anything,” I say. “Writing. Creating. Being a person. An adult, I guess. I feel pretty lost. All the time.”
Ollie is silent for a moment, staring at me like my skin holds the answers to questions he’s always wondered about.
“I feel lost, too,” he says at last, turning his head to kiss my palm. “Want to be lost together?”
Chapter 35French and Kisses
OLIVER
At the start of our last week of the business tour, Mona and Amina come flouncing into our room, perching primly on the edge of my bed.
“Wear something nice tonight,” Mona says. “We’re taking you two out to dinner. We have important things to tell you.”
“Mo, no offense, but we all know you and Amina are dating,” Tilly says as she shoves clothes into her suitcase by the handful.
Mona’s jaw drops and, after a momentary silence, Amina starts cackling with laughter.
“She’s got us there,” Amina says through her giggles. “But if we have to admit it, you both do, too.”
Tilly and I are anything but subtle, our gazes whipping to each other in fear. Amina cackles some more.
“We’re leaving in an hour,” Mona says, brushing invisible dust off her lap like she can brush away the awkwardness with it. “It will be… fun.”
“Try not to sound so devastated by it, darling,” Amina says,laughing again. Mona rolls her eyes then marches out of the room, Amina giggling behind her.
After a shower and shave, I pull on my nicest black trousers and a matching button-down, smoothing down my hair. Walking out of the room, I find Tilly crouched on the floor, still in her shorts and T-shirt, hair thrown into two messy buns at the top of her head. She’s scribbling on her shoes with a… Sharpie?
“My flats were scuffed,” she says by way of explanation, continuing to, uh, color the tips of her, rather worse for wear, black dress shoes.
A loud knock rattles the connecting door. “Ten-minute warning,” Mona calls through. Tilly screeches, then tosses her shoes aside, grabbing a rumpled dress out of her suitcase and scuttling to the bathroom.
Somewhere along the trip, we all realized that giving Tilly periodic reminders about time saved a lot of the frustration of her being late.
And, five minutes later, she comes out of the bathroom. Looking like a dream.
No, a dream doesn’t do Tilly Twomley justice. She’s so much more than that.
Tilly gives me a goofy twirl, showing off the open back. The full skirt of her black dress swings around her hips and she laughs. “How do I look?” she asks.
The dress is simple. Structured. So different from the usual bright and flowy dresses she wears. If I’d seen it hanging in a closet, I would never have been able to picture Tilly choosing it.
Yet, it makes her glow. It’s a frame for her energy, her charisma, everything about her that shines.
I walk across the room to her, brushing my hand across her cheek, then cupping her neck.
“Perfect,” I say. Because it’s the only word that even kind of describes it.
