Page 67 of Tilly in Technicolor
I stare at him with wide eyes. That would mean touching him. And him touching me. Wrapping my arms and legs around the guy I’m pining stupid hard for. All of which puts me at extreme risk for doing something absolutely mortifying like… sniffing his hair or… orsighingin his ear. Or, I don’t know, groping him and his black button-down.
But, as another slice of pain shoots through my gnarled feet, there isn’t really another option. Or, more accurately, there isn’t a universe where I would turn down getting closer to Oliver Clark.
“Okay,” I say at last, drooping a bit. I plop back down to the ground. I gingerly slide off one of my ridiculous clogs. The drag of the wood and the whoosh of air on my open wounds feels like a knife and I whimper, tears pricking at my eyes as I squeeze them shut.
Breathing in that aggressive, rhythmic way women giving birth do, I pull off the other. A wave of nausea hits me from the pain and my skin gets clammy and gross. This couldn’t get worse.
And then, I feel the soft weight of a cool palm on my cheek.
My eyes fly open.
And land on Oliver crouched in front of me. He flinches (rather dramatically) at what I imagine is my wild, googly-eyedexpression. Ollie’s eyes are similarly wide as they slide to look at where his hand rests on my skin, like he doesn’t know how it got there. Like he doesn’t know how to move it.
“Hi,” I blurt out. Really loudly. Like a dumbass. But, truly, what am I supposed to say? Oliver is touching me and I think my system is short-circuiting.
“Hi,” he says back, still frowning at his hand on my cheek.
With what seems like effort, he pulls his hand away, eyes still locked on my skin. After a long moment, he stands, reaching out to help me up. I gingerly stand, and Oliver turns, bending at the knees considerably so our heights are more even.
“Hop on,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder.
In a perfect world, I beautifully float onto his back, arms and legs wrapping gracefully around him.
In reality, I’m sweaty and nervous and end up collapsing on him like an overeager linebacker after whacking him in the chest with my wooden clogs gripped in one fist.
He doesn’t seem to notice.
Oliver hitches me up higher, looping his arms under my thighs, and I, quite simply, melt.
He starts walking, and every step presses my chest closer into him, and I hold my arms around him a little tighter. I wonder if he can feel the way my heart is clanging around in there.
“Alright?” Ollie asks, his voice the soft opposite to the sonic boom of my racing thoughts.
“Yeah,” I say back. Because, yes, my feet hurt and are still bleeding and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to wear shoes again, but Ollie just touched my cheek and is now holding me in his arms and seems genuinely concerned about my well-being and I’ve never felt so wonderfully alright in my life.
“Only a few more blocks,” he says, as if I’m not silently begging for this walk to never end.
All too soon, we’re back at the hotel. Oliver stops in frontof the steps of the entrance. He turns, depositing me on the second step so I don’t have to reach too far down. I might be back on solid ground, but I don’t think my head and my heart will ever come down from the clouds after that walk.
Oliver moves past me up the stairs, fishing around in his pockets for his keys. I sling my backpack around to my side, looking for the same. This hotel is old and still uses traditional locks and large brass keys for the rooms and access to the lobby.
My searching has turned a bit frantic by the time Ollie swings open the front door. “Everything okay?” he asks as I rip my backpack fully off and start dumping stuff on the ground.
“I think I’ve lost my room key,” I say, dread dripping down my throat and settling in my stomach as a familiar panicky spiral swirls around my brain. Damn it. Why do I always lose everything?
“Where did you lose it?” Oliver asks. Which is objectively the most useless question ever.
“If I knew where I lost it, I wouldn’t have left it there, would I?” I snap, turning the side pockets inside out.
Oliver is still for a moment, watching me spiral, and, for some reason, it makes it all the worse. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to be messy and careless and forgetful and—
“Tilly,” he says, his voice soft and touch secure as he reaches out and circles my wrist, pausing my frantic fingers. “It’s okay,” he continues. “It’s just a key. I’m sure they have extras. We can go ask the desk.”
I close my eyes for a second, trying to get the courage to look at him, knowing full well the expression of annoyance that’ll be etched on his features. It’s what’s always on someone’s face when I screw up.
But, when I finally glance at him, he looks… patient. And calm. And not that he’s worried about the missing key but worried about… me.
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
