Page 34 of Tilly in Technicolor
If the silence before was bad, this is even worse. I’m standing here, feeling like an absolute wanker. I tiptoe to my suitcase, the zipper sounding like a gunshot as I grab my own pajamas. I go into the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
God, Tilly’s exasperating. And dramatic. I mean, what’s the big deal? What I read was already on Babble. And it wasgood.But she had to go and throw a fit. And why, why,whydo I care so much?
It’s not just me,I reason as I shove my limbs into a black T-shirt and pajama pants. Tilly gets undereveryone’sskin. Mona’s exasperation is proof of that. Which is a relief. It’s perfectly normal that pieces of her play on a loop in my mind.It doesn’t meananythingthat I can’t get her out of my head,I tell myself as I brush my teeth so hard it would make my dentist cringe.
And it’ll pass. Any day now I’ll be desensitized to… whatever it is about Tilly that consumes my thoughts like a wretched fever.
I shut off the lights and exit the bathroom, heading to my own bed. The soft sound of Tilly’s breath hums quietly through the air as I nestle under the covers and flick off the bedside lamp.
I’m sure by tomorrow, even, things like her breathing, or the soft sighs she makes in her sleep, or the electric punch of her laugh won’t faze me at all.
Unfortunately, tonight, they keep me wide awake.
Chapter 17Going for Gold
TILLY
Agorgeous train ride to Rome isn’t the easiest place to be broody and angsty, but I give it my all. I even forwent my designated train outfit (bubble gum–pink dress with a full skirt and a belted waist, all-around perfect) for my most somber look (pale gray maxi dress, white embroidered flowers, billowy top, still dope as hell) to match my mood.
As the train zips along, I press my forehead against the window and stare out at the blur of landscape. If this were a movie, moody instrumental music would swell around me as I contemplate life, some grand realization hitting me, solving all my problems. Or, even better, some handsome Italian stranger would take the seat across from me. We’d share shy glances. A few smiles. Before long, we’d be talking and laughing, and some alt-indie song would come on instead. Then, boom, the movie would cut to a montage of us being gorgeous and happy all around Rome (probably on a Vespa) and we’d live happily ever after.
This, tragically, isn’t some rom-com movie. I’m not themain character. And instead I’m sitting across from Oliver who, granted, is very handsome, but he also sucks and I’m not talking to him right now, let alone smiling at him.
The only person trying to talk to me is my mom, who’s playing a fun game where she sees how many passive-aggressive texts she needs to send before I answer.
Are you being good for Mona?
Did you take your meds this morning?
If you go to any museums, make sure NOT to touch anything. No Tornado Tilly
Another message dings through and I stare at my phone like it’s a dog tensed to bite me, Mom lighting up the screen.
Our scheduled weekly check-in call isn’t for another few days—a fact I cannot forget because my mom sends me reminder notifications every single day—and I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. The whole thing feels like a setup for failure. I’ll never be able to give a report that satisfies my parents’ impossible expectations.
With a sigh, I open the message.
Haven’t heard much from you!
How’s the trip? Missing you xo
My fingers hover over the screen as I try to think of what to say. Honestly, I don’t miss being home at all. As rocky as things have been, every day of this trip makes me feel like I can breathe a little deeper. Hold my chin a little higher. Be myself a bit more.
Europe is amazing, I answer back.
Are you enjoying working with Mona?
A small, ironic laugh is pulled from me. Mona doesn’t trust me to do much beside stand there with my hands on display while Ollie snaps photos.
It’s fine
The entire conversation feels cold. Forced.
And I hate that.
I want to beexcitedto talk to my mom. Share real pieces of myself with her.
I’ve actually been writing a lot on Babble, I send in a follow-up text. It’s felt really good to get back into it.
