Page 53 of Tilly in Technicolor
“And this is Connor,” Cubby says, draping her arm around the shoulders of the broodiest member of the group. “My boyfriend. He’s on guitar and sometimes joins me in vocals.”
Connor barely looks up, offering a grunt in acknowledgment, then shrugs off Cubby’s arm, leaning against the wall and scrolling through his phone. What a charmer.
I give an awkward wave to the table. “How long have you been on tour?” I ask.
“What, six weeks now?” Darcy answers, looking to Harry for confirmation.
He shrugs, then subjects me to that smile again. “Sounds about right. Been such a blur.”
“Where all did you go?”
“Feels like everywhere,” Harry says, propping his elbow on the table as he takes a sip of his beer. “Couple shitholes in London. Few more in Brussels. Some stops in France. Wound our way down to Lisbon even. Cubby’s mums joined us for that one.”
“Mãe managed to round up all her friends from uni for it,” Cubby says to Ollie. “They might as well have hired us to play a reunion for the turnout she got.”
“Really great for our image,” Connor mumbles.
Cubby glances at him, a hurt cracking her cool facade. “I thought you said you didn’t mind that they came,” she whispers. Connor rolls his eyes then goes back to his phone, Cubby still looking at him in that wounded way.
It feels like I’m eavesdropping, and I start bouncing my leg, hoping Darcy or Harry will continue talking. But they stare down at their drinks.
Even Ollie senses the tension, his body shifting and back stiffening, fidgeting in his seat like he’s trying to identify the source of the change.
Cubby clears her throat, giving me a quick smile. “The tour’s been great. Such a blast. Just two weeks left, though. We’re already mapping out another.”
Harry and Darcy nod enthusiastically.
“This time around Ireland. Isn’t that right, babe?” Cubby says, cuddling closer to Connor.
“We’ll see if we survive this one first, yeah?” Connor says. “Scoot out, will ya? I’ve gotta piss.”
Darcy and Cubby slide out of the booth, letting Connor out. Instead of heading toward the bathrooms, he walks tothe other end of the bar, sidling up to a pretty girl around our age.
We all pretend not to notice.
Well, all of us except for Oliver, who’s staring straight across the space at Connor with a look that could kill.
“And what do you do, Tilly?” Darcy says, her voice bright to combat the dark cloud hanging over the table.
I do what I always do to try to defuse the tension, alleviate the pulsing emotions of others that press on my chest like they’re my own: I make a joke about myself.
“After initially dabbling in starting small kitchen fires and spilling every drink I ever touched, I’ve found my true calling as a hand model,” I say, batting my eyelashes. “Might try feet next. Heard there’s a big foot fetish market on the internet willing to pay tons for my smelly socks.”
Darcy and Harry blink at me for a moment before snorting with laughter. Even Cubby lets out a soft chuckle.
“Tilly’s a writer,” Ollie says, finally pulling his eyes from Connor. My cheeks burst into flames.
“Are you?” Darcy says, leaning forward. “What kind of writing?”
“Death certificates for boys with big mouths,” I say, shooting Oliver my most menacing glare. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye then takes a sip of his beer.
“It’s nothing, really,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear as I turn back to Darcy. Talking about writing—this vague, elusive thing I want so badly my bones ache—feels like jumping off rocks into a lake: thrilling and terrifying with a really good chance you’re going to expose your most intimate bits and bobs in the process.
“She’s quite good,” Oliver says. “Clever.”
Who knew two syllables could make my heart swell like ahot-air balloon, lifting me right off the ground and setting me gently in the clouds.
“I’m hooked already,” Cubby says, and I’m glad to see some of the spark back in her eyes. “Go on.”
