Page 37 of Tilly in Technicolor
Mona closes her mouth and tilts her head, inviting me to continue.
“If, er, you want, I’d love to do more stuff like what happened on the train. Talking with you and Amina. And Oliver, or whatever. That was fun. And I liked it and I think with time I could get better at it. But I’m not interested in the meeting aspect of it. Does that make sense? Is that okay?”
Mona’s face softens. “I think,” she says, adjusting her blouse, “that makes perfect sense. And we could benefit creatively from your perspective.”
Without thinking, I rocket into her, giving her another hug. She staggers back for a moment, tense, then relaxes. Minimally.
“And in return for my sweat equity, I’ll accept fifty percent ownership of the company.”
Mona laughs through her nose then pulls back. “Wishful thinking, Til.”
I beam at my sister then shrug. “It’s what I do.”
Chapter 18Runaway Brain Train
TILLY
“Hullo.” Oliver’s voice is soft, but it startles the ever living fuck out of me and I screech.
Oliver, Amina, and Mona had dropped their bags at the hotel then headed straight to their meeting. After finding the closest café and gorging myself on espresso and enough slices of tiramisu that I should have just ordered the whole damn cake, I dragged myself back to the hotel and I’ve been in hyperfocus mode for… three hours, if the time on my phone is correct. It could have been three minutes for how lost I got in my head.
Oliver is quiet as I resurface to the real world, something gentle about the way he sets his bag down then sits on the end of his bed. It’s a stark difference to how my mom reacts.
My hyperfocus usually makes Mom flip out.
She always barges into my room, telling me to be aware of my surroundings, freaking out at me for forgotten school assignments or chores. Yelling when I’d get caught up in my head, losing hours and hours as my brain got stuck on a useless task like online shopping for a bathing suit or doing a deepdive on some very niche conspiracy theories involving Pete Davidson.
Mom acts like I’m choosing to disappear, when, really, I’m physically unable to rip myself away from the task. Sometimes, hyperfocus lets me create something beautiful or something I’m excited about, like my writing this afternoon. Other times, it holds me hostage until it’s 3 a.m. and frustrated tears are streaking down my cheeks.
“How’d the meeting go?” I ask, rubbing my fists against my eyes.
Oliver and I haven’t talked much since our fight yesterday, and he shoots me a surprised glance at my question that morphs into a shy smile that devastates me a tiny bit.
“Pretty well, I believe,” he says, schooling his features and rubbing his palms back and forth across the black fabric of his pants.
“That’s all you’re going to give me?” I say, shutting my laptop and leaning toward him. “The three of you have been coming back from these meetings like whoever ran them shoved bamboo shoots under your fingernails, but all you’re going to say ispretty well?”
I say the last words in a mimic of his accent, and I don’t miss the way his lips twitch up at the corners, that smile ready to burst out and ruin me all over again.
“Fine,” he says, shifting toward me. “It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. They loved the idea so much they were already brainstorming table displays to go with jewelry and outfits they have.”
A noise somewhere between a mating whale and a pterodactyl screech bursts out of my throat, and I jump up, running toward the door joining my room to Mona’s.
It’s shut, but I burst through it.
“Mona!”
Mona screams when the door bangs against the wall, and I hear her body hit the floor on the side of the bed.
“Tilly! You’re supposed to knock, damn it!” she says from the other side of the bed.
“The door is supposed to stay open,” I say in singsong. I hear the rustling of clothes and the sound of a zipper before Mona finally pops up.
I let out a low wolf whistle. “Damn, Mo. You got a hot date or something?”
“What? No! What a weird thing to say,” Mona says, cheeks crimson. She drags her hands over the short, structured halter dress she’s put on, looking like she belongs in a 1950s pinup calendar. She glances over my shoulder, and I look, too, seeing Oliver hovering in the doorway.
“I heard the meeting went well,” I say, running then belly flopping onto Mona’s mattress. I can almost hear her eye roll.
