Page 66 of Tilly in Technicolor
He tilts his head even closer to mine, zooming in on a section of the shoe and pointing out the spot behind the windmill that makes it look like sunlight is shining from my shoes.
I look at him, taking in the devastating swoop of his eyelashes, the excited slant of his mouth, the tiny bump on the bridge of his nose.
After a moment, he turns to look at me, too. His gaze skips from my eyes to my cheek, then traces to my mouth.
We pause, the world shrinking to only us and this park bench and the coolness of this summer night. I want him to kiss me. I want him to like me. I want…
I want Ollie. His quirks and his bluntness and his gorgeous brain and pretty face.
And when he looks back at me like this—undivided attention, sharp intensity—it’s easy to imagine some alternate universe where he wants me, too.
Which hurts. It’s so disastrously painful that he won’t ever want me like that. That there’s some lucky person out there who’s already the focus of his want. Someone else who makes this moment not belong to me.
A chilly breeze pushes through our bubble, lifting my hair and sharpening the pain in my chest until a shiver runs down my spine. Ollie notices. He notices everything.
“You’re cold,” he says, eyebrows furrowing as he looks around like he’s trying to see the wind. “We should head home.”
I nod, standing up with him. I wrap my arms around my middle like I can keep together my cracking heart.
Oliver starts walking and, with a deep breath, I move to follow him.
Except, after one step, so much pain erupts in my feet and darts through my body that my knees buckle and I crumple to the sidewalk, letting out ayipof pain as I slap against the concrete, limbs landing in odd angles.
Ollie whips around, eyes bulging as he looks at my boneless form.
“Are you alright?” he asks, moving back to my side to hover over me.
Not sure how to explain that if I could die right here and now, I would, I wave limply at him and let out a small grunt. “Yeah. Just have a tiny blister.”
Ollie’s eyes trace down to my feet. “Tilly, is thatblood?”
I look across my body and, sure enough, a line of blood is trickling out from the edge of my shoe and wrapping around my ankle.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to move to a more dignified position on the ground.
Oliver bends over me, sliding the back of my left clog down my heel a bit. I have to bite my lip to not scream.
“Oh my God, your feet are massacred,” he says, dropping the clog and backing away like I’m radioactive.
“Don’t be such a drama queen,” I say, finding some inner strength to drag my body up to a standing position. I take a wobbly step as more blood fills my clogs. Even my blisters start to blister.
“Look at you. I’ve seen butchered meat in better condition.”
“Wow. Always such a charmer,” I hiss out, continuing my painful shuffle down the street.
“Tilly, stop for a moment.”
“I appreciate the concern. I really do,” I say, looking at him over my shoulder, sweat prickling my skin. “But if I stop walking there is a very good chance I won’t be able to start again. And I’ll probably cry.”
“Do you have other shoes?”
I blink at him as I hobble along, then pat down my torso like I might find them in some giant hidden shoe pocket. Wherearemy other shoes? “Shit. I think I left them at the shop after I bought these and put them on.”
Ollie bites his lip as he continues to watch my feet. “What if I… What if I carry you?” he says, stopping me in my (painful) tracks.
“C-carry me?”
“On my back? Maybe? You can’t keep walking like this.”
