Page 98 of Tilly in Technicolor
I blink some more. “With words?” I repeat. I feel like I’m really missing something about this pointless exercise.
Cubby groans again. “Okay, what Micah is trying to say is, you’re autistic, right?”
“Yes.” That, at least, I can answer definitively.
“Remember sessions we’ve had with Dr. Shakil? Where we all talked about the best way to express ourselves to prevent misunderstandings?”
“Yes.”
Cubby blows out a deep breath. “Remember how you and I had to go back and forth about it forages? Because we couldn’t grasp that we communicated so differently?”
I nod again, a knot forming in my throat.
Cubby had explained, with tears in her eyes, howfrustratedshe’d get that I couldn’t tell when she was cross with me. How she’d feel so hurt when I’d go about my business, seemingly oblivious to her silent sulking. It made me cry in frustration, too. How was I supposed to know something she didn’t tell me? How did she know some foreign language of facial expressions and posture and hidden meanings that I couldn’t crack?
We’d had to work through this topic for weeks and weeks, and it still comes up years later, but unraveling our differences has allowed us to be closer.
Cubby reaches out, giving me a quick hug.
“That’s the type of conversation you need to have with Tilly. It’s all well and good that you love each other and make each other happy, but that won’t mean anything if you don’t understand how the other talks.”
I swallow, and look at the ground, fingers tapping. “What if I’m not able to learn how she needs me to communicate? What if she doesn’t want to? What if what I need is too much work? What if she doesn’t want this at all? What if—”
Marcus steps in front of me. “Listen to me,” he says, squeezing my cheeks between his palms until my lips pucker like a fish. “I’m not going to sit here and let you jumble this up with what-ifs. Do you love Tilly?”
“Ywesh,” I say through my smooshed mouth.
“And do you want to be with her?”
I try nodding this time, hoping to come across at least slightly more dignified. Vain attempt.
“Do you care that you’ll be living in separate cities?”
“No,” I say, pulling away from his grip. “I’ll love her no matter where she lives.”
“Good,” Cubby says, standing and patting Marcus on the shoulder before planting her hands on her hips. “Now haul your arse to her doorstep and tell her as much.”
Chapter 42The Art of the Grovel
OLIVER
Standing in front of Tilly’s door feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. It’s terrifying and magnificent and makes my palms sweat and my heart thump hard enough I’m worried it’s going to pop out of my chest.
I can do this. I can knock on her door.
Any second now.
Oh my God,knock,you wanker! Do it already!
My internal pep talk finally gets my hand moving, and I tap softly.
The squeak of the floorboards from the room might as well be gunshots for how loudly they reverberate in my chest.
A moment later, Tilly opens the door, head jerking back a bit when her eyes land on me. She stares for a moment then says, “Hi.” She sniffles and brushes the backs of her hands across her cheeks.
“I think I’m pretty shit at talking,” I blurt out, while also confirming my suspicions.
Tilly blinks rapidly then frowns. “What? I love your accent. Who told you that? They’re wrong.”
