Page 89 of Tilly in Technicolor
I do a few more things for Amina and Mona before our vacation, and it ends up using way more of my bandwidth than I expected. By the time I finish, my brain bank feels depleted and all I can do is curl up on the bed. I hate this feeling—like someone hooked me up to an IV and drained my energy. I’ve felt it a lot this week.
Oliver, on the other hand, looks as flushed and energized as an adrenaline junkie finishing up a skydive.
We spend the rest of the night watching a movie, holding each other tightly.
Being with Ollie makes me feel so safe. So free.
Which is why the little nagging feeling that’s burrowed at the base of my throat, that reaches up and scratches at theback of my mind when I’m not moving, not doing anything, scares the shit out of me. I have the boy of my dreams and a job that lets me stay near him… so why don’t I feel 100 percent happy?
Chapter 37You and Me and Us
OLIVER
Mona and Amina rented a small, old cottage, not far from the beach. Its pale stones perpetually hold the sun’s warmth, and white lace curtains sway with each breeze that curls through the open windows. The floors are a faded and aged wood, each stair creaking as you climb to the second floor.
It’s perfect.
Our first day in the small coastal town is spent exploring. Tilly and I walk for miles along the beach, and she stops at every tide pool along the way to marvel at the oceanic architecture created within.
“I love it here,” Tilly declares as we watch the sunset, cuddled close together in the sand.
“I love you.” The words slip out so much easier than I ever expected. Tilly’s body tenses for a moment, and then she turns her head to me, eyes wide and vulnerable, the dying sunlight reflected in her gray irises.
“Do you mean that?” she whispers.
I nod, words getting trapped in my throat, but I push through. “I’ve loved you for a while, I believe,” I say, rubbinga hand across the back of my heated neck. “The name for the feeling finally came to me.”
Tilly swallows, then licks her lips. “I love you, too,” she says. “So much.” She emphasizes the point with a kiss that sends sparks of energy bursting through my stomach.
We turn, watching the sun’s last few minutes of the day, the sky a near violent red with slashes of violet and orange across the sky.
At the last moment, I lean back, capturing Tilly’s silhouette framed by the vibrant sky, tendrils of her hair lifted and curling in the wind.
The sky wishes it could be as lovely as Tilly Twomley.
Back at the cottage a few hours later, Tilly is curled against me, sleeping peacefully, as I stare at the photo.
I don’t edit it or tweak it or label every individual color I see. Somehow, they’re all one.
I swipe open Instagram and upload the photo.
This color right here, I type, is love.
At first glance, it’s bright. Shocking, almost. It instantly gets under your skin and into your veins. Your impulse is to blink away, turn to something safer. But that’s not the point of a color like this, is it? No. You take a step closer. And, at a different angle, the color morphs. It’s soft. Inviting. Draws you closer still. And you go back and forth, feeling jarred and comforted. Like you’re safe in bed or on a free fall through the stratosphere. You feel comforted and thrilled and terrified. And that’s why it becomes your favorite. Because life is too boring without the multitudes this color holds.
On our second day at the ocean, we continue our wandering until we find a hidden inlet between steep walls of rocks withwarm sea and even warmer sand. We spread our blanket and fling off our shoes.
“I have a confession to make,” Tilly says, turning to me abruptly.
“What’s that?”
“I stole something from you.”
My eyes bulge a bit, which makes Tilly laugh. “You robbed me?”
She digs through her tote bag. “A momentary theft,” she says. “Because I… uh… always intended to give it back to you.”
She thrusts out her hand, dropping a thin silver square into my palm. It takes me a second to recognize it’s a condom from the… er… care package Cubby left me.
